AFTER A BRIEF DETOUR TO THE ICEHOUSE FOR A CHUNK TO PUT ON his head, Charles was escorted to the classroom by Fielding. He could see the look of relief on Aidan’s face from across the room. Charles kept himself awake in the stuffy room by running the rag full of ice back and forth on his neck when he felt in danger of dozing off. It wasn’t until the bell rang to end class that Aidan could talk with Charles.
“What the hell happened to you?” Aidan asked before they even left the classroom. “That Cantrell feller said you split your nut wide open on a boulder fallin’ down a ravine.”
“That story seems to have gotten a bit more grand with the retellin’. Did he mention how Florence Nightingale herself was tendin’ to my wounds?”
“It ain’t funny. He said they was thinkin’ about takin’ you to a hospital on the mainland.”
“The only medical help I got was a glass of water and a rag, and that came from Cantrell. What a goddamn fabricator. I oughta kick his arse.”
“I couldn’t make heads or tails of what the teacher was sayin’ ’til you walked in. Jaysus.” Aidan let out a long breath as they sat under their tree in the yard.
It dawned on Charles how worried Aidan had been and that it had been more than a year since anyone had worried about where he was. This feeling was so unfamiliar and overwhelming that he couldn’t say anything for a while.
When the moment passed, Aidan said, “So what did happen to you?”
“I told Fielding I tripped on a root and hit my head on a rock.”
“But . . .?”
“Well, the rock part is true. But there weren’t no root. Listen, I know you ain’t gonna tell any of these other mugs, but I was tryin’ to train Quincy, and he knocked me straight down onto that rock.”
“Quincy! You sure you didn’t come up with that idea after you hit your head?”
“Fielding’ll pay a dollar if you can teach him a trick.”
“Based on that egg on your head, seems like it’s worth more than a dollar.”
“I’ll give you that. I pulled a weed yesterday that looked smarter than that dog.”
Several boys passed by Aidan and Charles, heading around to the back of the building. Charles watched them until they disappeared. “You gonna go work some cow shit into your garden?”
Aidan picked up a leaf and twirled it by the stem. “Nah. Cows take the best shits after supper. I’ll go then.” They leaned back against the tree, saying nothing, side by side, content.
Aidan tried to cram just a few more weeds into his overflowing sack as he knelt in his flower bed after supper. He wondered if some of the plants in his sack should have stayed in the garden. He was operating under the general principle that the thriving plants were weeds and the dying ones were not, but there seemed to be exceptions to the rule.
“Determined to take out every dacent-lookin’ livin’ thing, are ya?” said a voice with a familiar brogue.
Aidan twisted to see Dec leaning on a shovel behind him. “It’s too easy to grow the things that want to grow here,” Aidan said as he stood.
“An’ haven’t you just summed up the whole idea of gardening.” Dec took inventory of Aidan’s patch of dirt. “To be sure, it’s a wasteland. I’ve a few marigolds to spare if you’ve a mind to tart it up a bit.”
“I’ll take anything.” Aidan slapped at a mosquito on his forearm. “These buggers are eating me alive. Don’t they bother you?”
“Ah, there’s another thing I can give you from my garden. A bit of Declan Moore’s Mosquito Dissuader Plant, commonly known as peppermint. Ya rub the leaves on your skin.”
“Cow manure and peppermint—it’s a wonder they let you into the dormitory at night,” said Aidan.
“Now that’s the beauty of gardenin’ this time of the evenin’—swim’s right after. We’ll all be smellin’ like harbor water when we turn in.”
Aidan laughed nervously. “I’m more of a bathtub bloke, to tell true. Think I’ll stick to gettin’ clean indoors.”
“Nah, nobody uses them tubs except for their first day an’ then when it’s cold—and I do mean cold. Last swim’s sometime in October. Watch ya don’t freeze your stones off.”
“But . . . but . . . ain’tcha got a choice in the matter? What if I don’t want to go to evening swim?”
“If it’s choice you’re wanting, you came to the wrong island.” Dec’s chuckle had a bitter edge. “Hope you like chapel, boyo.”
Just then, the Bulfinch bell began to ring. Fielding called out for all the boys to line up and count off. Dec clapped Aidan on the back and said, “And if you’re fearing the water, then it’s John Balentine you’ll be seeing down by the wharf.”
After count off, there was some delay up in the front of the line. Aidan looked around as boys started up quiet conversations and realized that Salt was behind him. They were separated only by one boy, who was currently occupied with digging earwax out of his ear.
“Say, can I switch with ya?” Aidan asked the digger.
“Sure, we’re same height anyway.” The boy swapped places with him and resumed his work.
“Salt,” said Aidan, looking down.
“Arthur Weston. How’s Day Two treatin’ ya?”
“Yeah, well, you know, it’s all right. But I got a question for ya. About somethin’ Dec said.”
“Shoot.”
“Well, just now he said somethin’ about having no choice, and that he hoped I liked chapel, but then it was time for count off, and I didn’t have time to ask him what he meant.” Truthfully, he might not have asked Dec even if he’d had the time. He sensed an anger lying just beneath Dec’s comments that he didn’t want to provoke.
“Hmm, and it’s only Tuesday. He usually doesn’t get all feisty until Wednesday. Tomorrow’s chapel day, you see, and that tends to gets his nose outta joint.”
“You go to church on Wednesdays instead of Sundays here?”
“Wednesdays and Sundays. Twice on Sundays, actually.” Salt smiled the smile of the first one to deliver bad news.
Jaysus, Aidan thought to himself, wait ’til Charles hears that. “So Dec don’t like services?”
“Not these services. You see, being of the Irish persuasion, the poor bastard was raised Catholic, and he don’t like going to regular church. I says to him when he first got here, ‘It ain’t like they’re makin’ you go to the Jew church where they wear them girlie shawls and speak that gibberish,’ but then he says to me, ‘What if they made you go to Catholic church and it was all Latin and flingin’ incense about and eatin’ them wafers?’ and I had to admit he had a point.”
Aidan thought about St. Joseph’s and the stained glass windows, and right then he wished he’d gone to Mass more often, or at least once right before he left for the island. “So they make you go, even if you ain’t Protestant?” Now Dec’s reaction to the idea of choice here at the school made sense, total and complete sense, to Aidan, who would now have to go through the same experience—except no one here other than Charles knew he was Catholic. With a sense of growing agitation, he realized that he would have to pretend that he was familiar with Protestant services, something he and Charles had failed to cover when syncing up their stories the night before they left.
“’Course they make you go. I told Dec, ‘You think you feel bad, what about that poor bastard Ben Hausmann,’ but some people just don’t want to be cheered up. The Irish is a moody race, I tell ya.”
“There’s a Jew here?”
“Yeah, and when he showed up, he had a big powwow with Bradley. Some of the boys was listening through the door, and Hausmann put it to Bradley that Jews don’t believe in Jesus! I mean, that’s about as basic as it gets!”
“So how can that be a religion if they don’t have Jesus?”
“Exactly,” Salt said with satisfaction just as the line started moving down toward the wharf.
As he walked, Aidan thought about Dec and Ben Hausmann and himself and maybe other boys here, all sitting and listening to what would be considered false religion, maybe even heresy, back in their old neighborhoods. How his mother would feel if she knew what he would be doing three times a week. Did Dec’s mother know? Was she alive? How could Ben’s family let him be here—did they even know that he would be forced to attend Christian services and pray to Jesus?
When the line of boys rounded the bend, the water came into full view, giving Aidan’s stomach a lurch. He turned back to Salt as he walked. “Dec said I would be seeing Balentine when we got to the wharf. Which one is he?”
“Balentine, eh? You skittish in the water?”
“Maybe.”
“Tiny should have some sympathy for that. I’ll introduce ya.”
But as it turned out, Salt’s services were not needed, because Bradley himself was at the wharf to intercede. Once the signal to break formation was given, most of the boys stripped naked and charged into the water within thirty seconds, leaving a handful on the beach with Bradley, including Charles, Aidan, and a tall, gangly boy with a blush of acne across his forehead.
“Arthur Weston,” intoned Bradley, “I’d like you to meet John Balentine, Third Class. He will be your swim instructor for as long as necessary. As I mentioned before, Master Balentine had similar concerns about the water when he first arrived here, so he will be most able to assist you.” Bradley clasped Aidan’s shoulder with one hand and Balentine’s with the other, forming a human bridge between the two as if to cement their new relationship. Looking pleased, he led Charles away, though Charles clearly would have preferred to stay.
Aidan and Tiny walked to the far side of the wharf, where there were no boys in the water.
“Gotta be honest with ya,” said Tiny, looking over at Boston on the horizon, “it’s a mixed blessing to be put with me.”
“Whaddya mean?” Not an inspiring start, thought Aidan nervously.
“Well, it’s grand that they ain’t makin’ you plow into the water like all the others, but all of them are seein’ you here with me. It’s like advertisin’ the problem you got. Some like to see who’s weak, if you know what I mean.” They sat down on the pebbly sand, feet just inches away from the water’s edge.
“Like Caleb Hart?” Aidan looked at Tiny for reaction.
Balentine looked at Aidan and gave a wry grin. “Second day and you already heard about Hart, huh? He mess with you yet?”
“Nah. Just heard about him.”
“He usually waits ’til you settle in.” Tiny went back to looking at the Boston skyline.
Aidan wondered if he could talk to Bradley about declining swim lessons. Wasn’t this supposed to make him feel better, not worse?
Tiny sighed. “Well, down to business. For most of the boys, this here is the best part of their day, maybe next to eatin’ or strokin’ themselves at night. They can horse around, be loud, cool off. Joy to the world. They don’t even notice that they’re gettin’ clean. But for us, it ain’t never gonna be like that. It’s just another thing we gotta do. Just another chore to get through.”
Aidan felt himself sinking into despair, dragged down by the anchor of Tiny’s gloomy demeanor. He waited for instructions on how they would begin this chore, but Tiny just stared out across the water.
“So . . . how are we gonna start?” Aidan asked tentatively.
Tiny looked over at him with a faint expression of surprise, as if he hadn’t expected Aidan to still be there. “Right. Well. I’ll show ya. First you gotta get rid of them clothes.” Tiny began undressing, folding his clothes into a neat pile on the beach.
When Aidan got down to his trousers, he hesitated. He looked over to the other side of the wharf, where he saw more naked bums than he had ever seen in one place. Not one of the boys seemed to mind this exposure. Aidan couldn’t see Charles, but he wondered if he was as uninhibited as, say, the boys jumping off the wharf, testicles protectively cupped in their hands only at the last possible moment before hitting the water. Aidan looked to the beach: only Fielding and the industrial teacher, Mr. Croft, were supervising the swarm of boys. For once, the matron was nowhere to be found.
Aidan finished undressing and stood with one hand in front of his genitals, unable to relax his arm down to his side just yet.
Tiny went over to the end of the wharf, reached underneath, and pulled out a thick, shoulder-high stick.
“What,” joked Aidan, “you’re gonna push me in the water with that stick?”
Tiny looked at the stick as if he were considering this alternate use. After a moment, he said, “It’s got these marks on it, see?” Aidan walked over to see the stick. The marks cut into the wood started about knee height and continued up the stick every two inches or so. “First day, up to the first mark, second day, second mark, and on like that.” Tiny reached under the wharf again and brought out a small wooden bucket. “’Til you can get all the parts of you that stink into the water, you use this bucket to rinse off.”
Aidan looked at the highest mark on this stick, which was about level with his jaw. No feckin’ way, he thought, I am ever going to be in this harbor up to my throat.
Tiny waded out to his knees and plunged the stick into the water so that the first mark was just visible. Some boys from the other side of the wharf were gathering and chuckling. One of them pointed and said something Aidan did not catch, which caused the others to all laugh together. Tiny began to look irritated.
“If you ain’t up to this mark and rinsed off by the time swim is done, you and me are staying out here ’til you are. And if you don’t like four of them pointin’ and laughin’ now, wait ’til a hundred of them are all lined up and got nothin’ to look at except us.”
Aidan walked slowly into the water. To his ankles was all right. This was how deep his bath water had been the day before. The next step was more difficult. The water lapped up against his shins, making him flinch. Sweat broke out on his brow. He heard Tiny let out a sigh.
In an instant, all his agitation combusted into anger. This was the sympathetic teacher for those who were afraid of water? This was the surefire method of curing his problem? To have this gloomy arsehole tapping his toe, looking like he lost a bet and got stuck with this job? Aidan’s rage spilled over and found its target.
“Listen, Balentine, or Tiny, or whatever they call you, I don’t know who pissed in your tankard, but you are a shit swim teacher. Maybe you oughta try pretending that you don’t hate this, or me, or this harbor. If you have any recollection about how it feels to go through this, you might want to dredge up them memories and try to help me, ’cause now it’s you that’s makin’ this take so long because you are no goddamned help!”
Up close, Aidan could now look directly into Tiny’s close-set eyes, but Tiny had trouble meeting his gaze. Looking away from the wharf, Tiny said softly, “It’s me.”
“What’s you? It’s you that’s the arsehole? I couldn’t agree more.”
“It’s me that they’re laughing at.” Tiny’s voice was almost a whisper. “Most of ’em forgot. I go into the water every night, make sure I ain’t the last one in, horse around, laugh, nobody notices I don’t go in past my waist. I get wet all over, I look like I been out deeper. But then at supper tonight Bradley tells me I got a new job. You’re my new job. And now they remember. You want me to remember how it feels to go through this? How I puked on the boat ride over and it wasn’t five minutes after we landed before the whole island knew? How two Third Classers carried me near the water my first week and pretended to throw me in and I pissed myself? Trust me. I’m rememberin’ it now.”
“I’m sorry.” Aidan cast around for something else to say. “I really think they’re laughin’ at me, to be honest.” They both looked toward the wharf, but the boys had gotten bored and had drifted away. “See, we ain’t that interestin’.”
Just then, Charles rounded the end of the wharf and came wading into the water toward them. “Well if I didn’t see it with my own peepers, I would not believe it.”
“What?” Aidan said, but as he looked down, he realized with amazement and a bit of horror that his knees were fully covered by harbor water. In his anger, he must have strode toward Tiny without realizing it.
“How’d ya do it?” asked Charles.
Aidan replied, “I had a good teacher.”
Tiny smiled.
Just after Bradley settled into his desk chair after walking up from the wharf, there was a knock at his office door. “Enter,” he said with some irritation. The boys’ evening swim was when Bradley liked to catch up on the remaining paperwork of the day. With the window open, he could hear the boys enjoying themselves in the water as the day of farm work was rinsed from their bodies. There were board members who were concerned that such frequent bathing would be harmful to the boys’ health, but Bradley had seen no evidence of this. To the contrary, in fact—it seemed to keep the lice at bay, and few could argue that the smell of one hundred boys in the summer was not improved by this practice. He had come to think of the evening swim as a sort of natural daily baptism, and he imagined the boys’ souls coming out of the water a little cleaner than when they went in. Last October, his first autumn on the island, he’d found himself saddened when the water became too cold for this evening ritual, and on the day in April this year when it had begun again, he had felt a great satisfaction.
This time of evening, however, was also the favored time for the teachers to approach him with the issues of the day, since all female staff were required to be within the confines of Bulfinch to prevent them from exposure to the nakedness down by the water. It was rare that Bradley could get through even one piece of correspondence without a knock at his door, and it seemed that this evening would be no exception.
But it was Mrs. Bradley who entered this time.
“Mrs. Bradley,” he said. “A pleasant surprise!”
“Good evening, Mr. Bradley.” She stood before his desk with ramrod posture. When they first arrived on this island, they had agreed for propriety’s sake that they would address each other as Mr. and Mrs. Bradley except within the confines of their bedroom. At first this was awkward, especially when they were alone, but by now it was reflexive.
“How can I be of assistance to the matron?” he asked.
“I would like to see the Weston boys’ file, as we discussed yesterday.”
“Ah, yes, the Masters Weston.” He retrieved the file from his desk drawer. “I’ve pressed Balentine into service for resolving Arthur’s fear of the water. They’re at it now.” He glanced at the file briefly before handing it to her. “Just what is it that you are looking for in this file?”
“I shall know when I find it,” she said as she took the file and sat across the desk from him to peruse it.
Bradley mentally reviewed the contents of the file, which were so sparse that he could recall everything known about the Weston brothers: their West End address, no living kin, their recently deceased mother a regular churchgoer and a teetotaler. He couldn’t imagine what Mary would find that would not be to her liking.
She looked up. “Where is the Affirmation of Character Letter?” For applicants who were orphans, the school typically requested a letter from a neighbor or friend of the family attesting to the boy’s Christian values and upstanding behavior.
The letter. He had never heard back from Stryker after their meeting. “Stryker didn’t have one when he came here. I requested that he obtain one and put it in the post,” he said, bracing for his wife’s response.
“But he hasn’t yet. So we only have Stryker’s word?”
“And the word of the boys’ minister.”
“Whom you have never met.”
“My dear, why would Stryker lie? He is a minister, for goodness’ sake.”
“Why would he not provide an Affirmation Letter? He provided one for that other boy.”
“Burr. Yes. He must have forgotten this time. I shall write him this evening and remind him, if it pleases you, but is it really necessary at this point? The boys are here. If we don’t have an Affirmation Letter a month from now, we aren’t going to ask them to leave.” Bradley came around from his side of the desk and sat next to Mary. “In my nine years of working with boys of this age, I have seen all sorts, and I can tell you that Charles and Arthur are good boys.” He grasped Mary’s small hands and held them, looking into her eyes.
“And in my ten years of working with boys of his age, I have seen my share of lying, and I can tell you that Charles is hiding something.” She pulled her hands away.
“But what could that be?” Bradley implored. “Their mother isn’t really dead? Their father didn’t really abandon them? They secretly have a fortune? You can see as plainly as I that they are poor and undereducated boys, and I don’t believe they would be here if they had any other choice. Let us accept this and put our efforts toward molding them into fine, self-sufficient young men.”
The matron took a deep breath. “All right. I will defer to your judgment on these boys, Mr. Bradley.” Bradley could hear what silently followed that sentence. You haven’t changed my mind. I will still be watching them. But at least the conversation was closed for the time being.
“How has little Henry been today? I haven’t seen him since after breakfast.” Henry was always a subject on which they could agree.
Mary smiled for the first time since she’d entered the room. “He has the new nurse wrapped around his little finger, I’m afraid. She’d spoil him rotten if I didn’t intervene now and again.”
“Well, thank goodness you are there to put a stop to that,” Bradley said softly as he reached for Mary’s hands, and this time, she did not pull away.
After a moment, Bradley stood and tugged his vest down. “And now I’m afraid I must get back to this correspondence. But I will be in to see Henry before he goes down for the night.”
When Bradley reached the other side of his desk, Mary was standing but had made no move to leave. “Is there something else?” he asked.
“Yes. Well, perhaps not. I’m not sure.”
“Mrs. Bradley, I must note in my journal this unusual day on which you were not sure of something.” Bradley smiled.
His smile was not returned. “I have heard some disturbing conversations concerning Miss Turner.”
Bradley’s smile faded. They had only just hired Miss Turner three months ago. Her references were impeccable, and her enthusiasm for educating rivaled that of the Bradleys’. Mrs. Bradley, however, had objected to her hire on the grounds that she was too attractive. With her glossy chestnut hair, blue-green eyes, and petite form, she was indeed far prettier than any of the other teachers. And while all the teachers were unmarried, only twenty-year-old Miss Turner was in her prime.
“What is the nature of your objection?” Bradley had asked his wife when Miss Turner had applied.
“I have dozens of objections, and they are all in First and Second Class.”
“Mrs. Bradley, they are mere boys!”
“You think of them as boys, but some of them can have the thoughts of men.”
In the end, Bradley had dismissed his wife’s concern as irrelevant and had insisted that since not every teacher was willing to live year-round on an island, they could not afford to turn away such a qualified applicant based on her looks. The only concession Mrs. Bradley was able to obtain was that Miss Turner would teach the youngest class.
“How is her instruction?” Bradley hoped for an academic issue.
“Superior. Sixth Class has not received such excellent grades since you became superintendent, and they have the fewest demerits of any class.”
“So the concern is . . . of a personal nature?” Bradley asked with a sinking feeling.
The matron hesitated. “It may be premature to bring this issue to you. What I have heard is essentially just chatter from the other teachers.” She paused as they both remembered Miss Turner’s first weeks here, how the other teachers had taken an instant dislike to her based on her youth and beauty, how they had made her feel less than welcome. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” she concluded.
“Not at all, Mrs. Bradley. As you know, I like to keep my ear to the ground on all issues pertaining to my staff. I trust you will come to me if you hear substantiation of this chatter?”
“You can rest assured, Mr. Bradley, that I will.”
Once the matron had left, Bradley let out a little sigh, relieved that he did not have to hear the details of the teachers’ chatter. It was better not to know some things, he felt, until there was a need to know.