Page 42 of A River Red With Blood
“Which one of them did it, do you think?”Jeannie asked.
“The boy didn’t say.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
She was sharp, Jeannie.They both were, country sharp, and wasted on their menfolk in Sadlier’s view.
“Levesque, maybe,” he conceded.
“Will he own up?”
“No.”
“So what will Mr S do?”
“What can he do?”Lizzie intervened.“He can’t punish someone without proof, not even a little shit like Levesque.”
Sadlier thought Santopietro might have a word with Levesque anyway, and without openly accusing him, let him know a line had been crossed that must not be crossed again.The women left Sadlier to eat in peace, or what would have to pass for it, and only when he had finished and was putting his silverware and plate in the dishwasher did they talk again.
“They’re planning another search for Mallory Norton,” said Lizzie.
Sadlier looked up.
“Who, the police?”
“No.Bennett Small is organizing it.”
Bennett Small owned The Plains’ sole convenience store, which also functioned as a make-do diner and social hub, thanks to four tables and some mismatched chairs.At election time, Small’s was also where folks in The Plains went to cast their vote, although elections no longer represented opportunities to be sociable with one’s neighbors, and Sadlier feared they never would again.
“When are they going?”
“Sunday, sometime after nine.”
“I can spare a few hours,” said Sadlier.
“Then we’ll see you there.”
They were looking for a body, of course, and had been for a while.But if the Norton girl was out there, she deserved to be brought back and given a proper burial.She was one of their own.As for the parents, Sadlier wasn’t a believer in closure, and only someone who didn’t understand the reality of suffering and loss would ever be foolish enough to use the word.But a burial would allow them to mourn the girl, and give them somewhere to visit while they kept on mourning her, as they would for the remainder of their days.
Sadlier went to his toolshed and pulled together the equipment to replace the lock on the door of the ablution block.Afterward, he’d try to catch a minute with Mr Santopietro and hear what he had to say about the morning’s events.Depending on the outcome of that conversation, Sadlier might have to ruminate further on his future.He loved The Plains—it was the only home he’d ever known—but he wasn’t confident he could spend many more winters there.He had a small sum of money saved, and the house was now in his name.Property in The Plains was hard to dispose of, so he didn’t hold out much hope for a windfall, but he knew of people who’d fit out family homes for use as camps by hunters and folks from away.So he might not even have to sell up to make money, just settle for a semiregular income depending on the season.If he found himself a place in Skowhegan, where there were bars, stores, restaurants, and neighbors you could holler to from your front porch—hell, even women who might be lonely enough to settle for one of the scrapings from the bottom of life’s barrel—he’d be close enough to maintain the property.He could even hold on to his job at Spero, if he wanted to—
But he didn’t want to.He’d reached that conclusion as he watched Anthony Marshall being helped into the examination room by a nurse.First Stewie Daigle during COVID, then Scott Theriault, and now Anthony Marshall.Okay, the last of them hadn’t died, but if he’d been trapped in that block in winter instead of fall, he might well have done.Sadlier wished to have no more part of it.Spero was a sad, bad place, and if he remained there it would destroy him—not quickly, but slowly, like a cancer, leaving him a husk.So he’d listen to what Mr Santopietro had to say about Leonard Levesque, and if Sadlier wasn’t happy with what he heard, he might point out that a decent kid like Scott Theriault shouldn’t have ended up drowned in the wilderness and the school should have done better by him, just as it should be doing better by all these kids.If he wasn’t fired on the spot, he’d lay the groundwork for his exit and hand in his notice come summer, if not before.
With his toolbox in one hand and a new lock in the other,Sadlier returned to the ablution block.He’d disabled the old lock entirely before leaving for the medical center, and Elgot had left instructions that the boys were to use the toilets in the main school building until it was repaired, so Sadlier knew it was unlikely that anyone had been in the ablution block since.He placed a padded mat on the ground by the door—his knees were not what they once were—and went to work, so that shortly thereafter the facilities had a new lock that didn’t jam.To be sure, Sadlier tried the knob a couple of times from both sides.Once he was satisfied, he filled a bucket with water and bleach to clean the area under the sink where Anthony Marshall was discovered, because the boy had smelled sour when Sadlier picked him up.
Sadlier kept the door open so he had more light to see by and commenced mopping, only to hear what sounded like pebbles scatter across the tiles.He stopped what he was doing and squatted to take a closer look.The pebbles were small and dark, not even the size of a fingernail, and all of a similar size.He gathered a few, held them in the palm of his hand, and stared.
Not pebbles.Beans.
Coffee beans.
Chapter 40
That Friday afternoon, Macy returned to her apartment while I met Angel and Louis in Portland, where we killed a pleasant hour wandering along Congress Street.Among other places, we browsed Moody Lords, one of the better used-record stores in town.It stood more or less across the street from the old site of Recordland, which had been the best record store in town before it closed in 1991.I used to haunt it in my late teens, so much so that Ruthie Baker, the owner and manager, must have wondered whether she might somehow have adopted me by accident.At Moody Lords I bought a used vinyl copy ofNew York Tendaberry, an album I already had but which I’d made the mistake of loaning to my daughter and now would never see again.But I didn’t mind spending the money.I was content to support any number of record stores, used or otherwise, and by purchasing the album again, I managed to recapture a modicum of the pleasure of buying it the first time round.If picking up copies of albums I already owned became an addiction, it was a surefire way to go broke, but it would be an entertainingtrip.
“Why don’t you just ask Sam to give back the record?”Louis asked, not unreasonably.“If she’s holding out, we could always threaten her on your behalf.”
“I’m happy to see her displaying an interest in Laura Nyro,” I said.“It shows good taste.Of course, Sam doesn’t actually own a record player.”
