Turning Angel

Jan Chancellor watches Holden expectantly. She’s a good headmistress, although she dislikes direct confrontations, which can’t be avoided in a job like hers. Her face looks pale beneath her sleek, black bob, and her nerves seem stretched to the breaking point. They must be, to bring her to this point of insistence.

“I move that we enter executive session,” she says, meaning that no minutes will be taken from this point forward.

“Second,” I agree.

Jan gives me a quick look of gratitude. “As you all know, this is merely the latest in a long line of disruptive incidents. There’s a clear pattern here, and I’m worried that something irreparable is going to happen. If it does-and if it can be demonstrated that we were aware of this pattern-then St. Stephen’s and every member of the board will be exposed to massive lawsuits.”

Holden sighs wearily from the door. “Jan, this was a serious incident, no doubt. And sorting it out is going to be a pain in the ass. But Kate Townsend’s death is going to be a major shock to every student and family at this school. I can call a special meeting later in the week to deal with Marko, but Kate is the priority right now.”

“Will you call that meeting?” Jan presses. “Because this problem’s not going to go away.”

“I will. Now I’m going to see Je

The secretary nods, glad for being given something to do. While the remainder of the board members continue to express disbelief, my cell phone rings. The caller ID shows my home as the origin of the call, which makes me unsure whether to answer. My daughter, A

“A

“No,” says an older female voice. “It’s Mia.”

Mia Burke is my daughter’s babysitter, a classmate of Kate Townsend’s.

“I’m sorry to interrupt the board meeting, but I’m kind of freaked out.”

“It’s all right, Mia. What’s the matter?”

“I’m not sure. But three people have called and told me something happened to Kate Townsend. They’re saying she drowned.”

I hesitate before confirming the rumor, but if the truth hasn’t already spread across town, it will in a matter of minutes. Our secretary learning the truth from an ER nurse was part of the first wave of rumor, one of many that will sweep across town tonight, turning back upon themselves and swelling until the facts are lost in a tide of hyperbole. “You heard right, Mia. Kate was found dead in St. Catherine’s Creek.”

“Oh God.”

“I know it’s upsetting, and I’m sure you want to be with your friends right now, but I need you to stay with A

“Oh, I’d never leave A

I silently thank Jan Chancellor for recommending one of the few levelheaded girls in the school to me as a babysitter. “Thanks, Mia. How’s A

“She fell asleep watching a documentary about bird migration on the Discovery Cha

“Good.”

“Hey,” Mia says in an awkward voice. “Thanks for telling me the truth about Kate.”

“Thanks for not flipping out and leaving the house. I’ll see you in a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay. Bye.”

I hang up and look through the door at the boardroom. Drew Elliott is talking on his cell phone at the table, but the rest of the board members are filing out the main door. As I watch them go, an image from our promotional TV commercial featuring Kate rises into my mind. She’s walking onto the te

As I reach for the office doorknob, I freeze. Drew is staring at the table with tears pouring down his face. I hesitate, giving him time to collect himself. What does it take to make an M.D. cry? My father has watched his patients die for forty years, and now they’re dropping like cornstalks to a scythe. I know he grieves, but I can’t remember him crying. The one exception was my wife, but that’s another story. Maybe Drew thinks he’s alone here, that I slipped out with all the others. Since he shows no sign of stopping, I walk out and lay my hand on his thickly muscled shoulder.

“You okay, man?”

He doesn’t reply, but I feel him shudder.

“Drew? Hey.”

He dries his eyes with a swipe of his sleeve, then stands. “Guess we’d better let Theresa lock up.”

“Yeah. I’ll walk out with you.”

Side by side, we walk through the front atrium of St. Stephen’s, just as we did thousands of times when we attended this school in the sixties and seventies. A large trophy cabinet stands against the wall to my left. Inside it, behind a wooden Louisville Slugger with thirteen names signed on it in Magic Marker, hangs a large photograph of Drew Elliott during the defining moment of this institution. Just fourteen years old, he is standing at the plate under the lights of Smith-Wills Stadium in Jackson, hitting what would be the wi

“Long time ago,” he says. “Eternity.”

I’m standing on second base in the photo, waiting to sprint for the tying run. “Not so long.”

He gives me a lost look, and then we pass through the entrance and pause under the overhang, prepping for a quick dash through the rain to our cars.

“Kate babysat for you guys, didn’t she?” I comment, trying to get him to focus on the mundane.

“Yeah. The past two summers. Not anymore, though. She graduates-wassupposed to graduate-in six weeks. She was too busy for babysitting.”

“She seemed like a great kid.”

Drew nods. “She was. Even these days, when so many students are overachievers, she stood out from the crowd.”

I could point out that it’s often the best and brightest who are taken while the rest of us are left to carry on, but Drew knows that. He’s watched more people die than I ever will.

His Volvo is parked about thirty yards away, behind my Saab. I pat him on the back as I did in high school, then assume a tight end’s stance. “Run for it?”

Instead of playing along with me, he looks me full in the face and speaks in a voice I haven’t heard from him in years. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

The emotion in his eyes is palpable. “Of course.”

“Let’s get in one of the cars.”

“Sure.”

He presses a button on his key chain, and his Volvo’s lights blink. As if triggered by a silent starter pistol, we race through the chilly rain and scramble onto the leather seats of the S80. He slams his door and cranks the engine, then shakes his head with a strange violence.

“I can’t fucking believe it, Pe

“We spoke a few times. She asked about my books. But we never got beyond the surface. Mia talked about her a lot.”

His eyes search out mine in the shadows. “You and I haven’t got beneath the surface much either these past five years. It’s more my fault than yours, I know. I keep a lot inside.”

“We all do,” I say awkwardly, wondering where this is going.