that Rudy never really adjusted to living in Harmon’s house, as he still calls it. And Harmon had never gotten over the hurt at having his generosity rebuked.
I take a breath to tell Harmon how much that generosity—his constant generosity, to me and Rudy both—means to me but before I can he says, “He’ll always come first, won’t he?”
“You’re the adult,” I snap, forgetting to keep my voice low. “Why should I have to protect you?”
A sudden silence in the chapel tells me that everyone has heard this last salvo. Harmon’s lips have gone white, his jaw clenched. “Your son is an adult now too,” he says with icy dignity as he gets to his feet. “What exactly are you protecting him from?”
Chapter Seven
As I watch Harmon walk out of the chapel I see that everyone else is watching him too. Jill Frankel leans toward Martha James and whispers something that makes Martha turn red and shake her head. Samantha Grimes texts something that is clearly meant for her group because they all look down at the same time and smirk. Brad Sorensen shakes his head and goes back to grading a stack of papers. I hear Dorothy Shoemaker, the gym teacher, say, “Why does he get to leave?” followed by Janelle Williams, the French teacher, answering, “He’s already talked to the police.”
So have I, I think. Why shouldn’t I just get up and go? But the thought of marching down that aisle under the scrutiny of all my colleagues and students is paralyzing. I’ll wait long enough for everyone to go back to whatever they’re doing—grading papers, playing Candy Crush, or reading The Scarlet Letter, which, I notice with some gratification, many of my students are doing. They’re cramming for my final, which is scheduled for two days from now. But will we even be holding finals?
I left the house without my usual massive book bag; I’ve got nothing to read, grade, or write in. I can’t even resort to my phone for entertainment—or to call Morris Alcott. But Harmon will do that. Even after our fight he won’t let Rudy face the police himself. I clasp my hands and close my eyes, and try to do what the chapel was meant for: quiet contemplation. Surely I can spend half an hour with my own thoughts. Surely I can give that to Lila.
But when I picture Lila’s face I see her standing on the Point with Rudy. I see her trying earnestly to draw Rudy out. I see her telling him she can’t stay with him if he isn’t willing to share himself. And I see Rudy withdrawing deeper and deeper into himself, as he does when any deep emotion threatens to breach the ice walls he’s built around his heart. Then I see Lila reaching out to him and Rudy flailing out—and Lila losing her balance, falling to the rocks below—
I snap open my eyes to banish the picture—and find Martha James staring at me. She’s just come out of the back room from her interview and her face is white and drawn. She’s looking at me as if she has just noticed for the first time that I have two heads. Martha James has always been friendly with me. In fact, I’ve often suspected she wanted more of a friendship. She invited me to join her book club, go to readings in Portland and on hikes with the outing group. But now when I smile at her she looks away and hurries up the aisle. She stops to pick up her heavy book bag and to whisper something to Jill Frankel, who immediately looks at me. As Martha leaves, dragging the bulky wheeled bag she uses to tote the enormous load of papers and thick Norton anthologies she assigns in her classes, Jill gets up and makes her way up the aisle. I think she’s going to stop and say something to me but she keeps on going, studiously avoiding eye contact, and goes into the back room.
That’s all Martha had been saying: They want to speak to you next.
But then, why that look at me?
I sit now with my eyes trained on the door to the back room. Ten, fifteen minutes pass and Jill comes out. She doesn’t look at me, but it seems to me she’s trying very hard not to look at me. She taps Rachel Lazar on the shoulder and whispers to her.
It takes some time for Rachel to collect herself. Scarves have