Page 117 of What Boys Learn

I looked at Sister Lucretia with all the confidence I could muster. “Talking about my alcohol use would have been a violation of confidentiality.”

“He assured me you weren’t a regular patient. He simply said that if he had any doubts this fall, he might not be able to send a recommendation letter, and that would be the appropriate signal.”

“But he already sent a recommendation letter.”

“For the summer job. It was of a ‘probationary’ nature.”

Probationary. Another small question answered. I always wondered how Curtis could think so little of me at times and still recommend me for an important job. The answer was: he didn’t. He got me a temp assignment—perfect for keeping me busy, less likely to object to Benjamin’s absence, which he knew from the start I’d resist—while at the same time setting up conditions that would make a permanent position unlikely.

“I’m not an alcoholic,” I said. “I swear. And I could really use the fall job. Given that it comes with housing, that would mean a lot to me, and even more to my son. His name is Benjamin.”

“You’ve mentioned him.” Sister Lucretia clasped her hands at her waist, the picture of sympathy and devotion.

“I’ve already explained about the girl-to-boy ratio and the weekly Mass. He doesn’t mind. But if I could promise him a newhome, that would be . . .”

“Ms. Rosso. There, there.”

My sob took us both by surprise. My eyes had flooded with tears I’d never felt coming. I’d only mentioned the house as a ploy, hoping she’d offer to take me to see it. Somehow I’d spot something there—an envelope, a scrap of paper, something to lead me to wherever Curtis really was.

But the house wasn’t only a tactic. It was also a house. Attached to a job. How long I’d wanted both those things more than anything; but even when I had neither, I’d still had Benjamin. And now? He was in the hands of a dangerous man.

Sister Lucretia approached the couch but didn’t sit down. “He means a lot to you, your son.”

“Everything.” A snotty laugh covered up the hitch in my throat. “He needs a home. And he needs for me to have a stable job. We need each other.”

“Of course.” Sympathetic tears seemed to be forming behind her thick lenses. But then she said in a no-nonsense voice, “The house is a two-bedroom with two baths. You can certainly tell your son that, but I wouldn’t promise him anything. Sort yourself out. Get your recommendations in order. Stay on the wagon. That’s all I can advise.”

“Thank you.”

More gently she said, “We’ll let you know in August. It’s not even completely empty yet.” She rubbed her hands in a worried gesture that annoyed me. “Poor Dr. Campbell has been so incredibly busy. We can’t blame him.”

“Of course we can’t.” I forced myself to smile. “But you said he’s only left a few things behind? I’d be happy to drive them up to his father’s place in Wisconsin. I just need the house key and his father’s address. I’m sure he gave you a forwarding address?”

“That’s a wonderful idea. I don’t have the address, unfortunately. But I do have Dr. Campbell’s phone number.”

Sister Lucretia went to her desk, opened the top drawer, and extracted a silver key that she held in her palm, visible for one long second until she folded her fingers over it. “Unfortunately, I can’t give you access to his belongings, few as they are, before we’ve talked to him.”

“No, of course not! Why don’t you try him then? No time like the present.”

I watched as Sister Lucretia dialed, waited, then left a short message.

“It went directly to voicemail,” she said.

So, he wasn’t just screening my calls. He was ignoring everyone’s. At best, he was being irresponsible, and I was being paranoid, and years from now I’d look back on this week and laugh.

At worst? I couldn’t think of “at worst.”

But I did have a plan. And it didn’t rely on a stupid fucking key.

43

BENJAMIN

This time, he tells me, I should know what to do. No photos, and it doesn’t matter if she wants a selfie with the sailboat. Sometimes it’s best for cameras and phones to simply disappear. She is not, under any circumstances, to send a photo from her phone.

Like he told me before, no “Dr.,” no “Curtis” or “Matt” either. I’m not “Benjamin.”

At this point, I’m just wishing we could get on the boat, him and me. I don’t feel like we need company, even if the girl we saw looking at the help wanted board in the marina is cute. I don’t have a choice. He forces me to go up and talk to her while he busies himself filling two water jugs at a spigot forty feet away.