The Night Visitors(15)

It’s another fifteen miles to St. Alban’s. When we pass through the black iron gates Oren sits up straighter, craning his neck to read the sign, then glares at me. “I thought you said you wouldn’t take us to the convent,” he says.

“You won’t have to stay here long. Sister Martine is going to find you a safe place to go,” I say. “She has the best resources,” I add in a lower voice to Alice, but she’s looking out the window, her face closed.

“They’ve also got the best sledding hill,” I say in a high, artificial voice that makes me cringe. “See?”

We’ve made the turn and can now see the convent, an imposing brick building that looks like a hospital—or a juvenile detention institution. Which it was: during the nineteenth century and well into the twentieth it was St. Alban’s Home for Wayward Girls and Fallen Women, where girls pregnant out of wedlock or deemed “promiscuous” were sent. Sister Martine will still take in pregnant teenagers, but now St. Alban’s is also a shelter for victims of domestic violence and their families and a temporary residence for at-risk youth.

I roll down the window to let in the shouts of children sledding down the long hill to the river, hoping that the sound will banish the austerity of the building. Oren is watching the children with equal parts wariness and longing. Then he looks toward the convent and seems to freeze. “I don’t want to go in there.”

“You don’t have to,” I say quickly. “You can go sledding. Your mom and I will just have a quick talk with Sister Martine.”

Alice looks toward me. “I don’t want to leave Oren by himself,” she says.

I sigh. The whole point of coming here was for Sister Martine to meet Alice and Oren. She will be more likely to help if she sees them. Especially Oren. No one could resist those large brown eyes, the quick, smart spark of him. A spark that has gone out at the sight of the convent and the thought of being separated from his mother.

“How about this,” I say. “You two go sledding and I’ll go in and have a talk with Sister Martine. Then we’ll both come out to talk to you.”

Oren’s eyes flick from me to Alice, waiting for what she says, but Alice looks back at him and asks, “How does that sound, buddy?”

“Only if you go on the sled with me.”

Alice groans. “Okay, but just the one time. I’ll get soaked.”

“Twice,” Oren demands.

I see the hint of a smile on Alice’s face as she concedes. What a relief it must be to be tussling over minor rights and favors after what they’ve been through.

“That’s settled then,” I say, feeling like a weight’s been lifted from my shoulders. But then I look back at the massive building and feel every brick of it settle squarely on my chest. For a moment I’d forgotten that I still had to go inside.

OREN’S EXCITED TO show Alice the sled he’s picked out. To my surprise he didn’t pick one of the bright plastic sleds I bought a couple of years ago for Atefeh’s kids. He’d gone to the back of the barn and dug out Caleb’s old Flexible Flyer—an antique even when Caleb used it; it had been mine first. It still has the nick in the wooden crosspiece from when Caleb and I crashed into an apple tree sledding at Hanson’s Orchard. I still have the scar on my right forearm, which I’d thrown over Caleb’s face to protect him from the impact.

You could have gotten the boy killed, my mother had scolded when we came back. The sled had vanished into the back of the barn. I’m surprised Oren was able to find it and a little alarmed that he’d gone exploring so far back in the barn. There are dangerous things in there—mowing scythes, old tractor parts, ice picks, pulleys, and hooks. What had I been thinking, to let him go in alone? I really am losing it, I think as I wiggle the crosspiece to see that it still moves the rails. They creak but still work. They are remarkably free of rust.

“Cool,” Oren says when I show him how to steer with the rope attached to the crosspiece. Alice is looking at the sled more dubiously.

“Have fun,” I say. “And be careful. That sled goes pretty fast.”

Oren is already running toward the hill, dragging the sled behind him. It bumps over the snow-covered lawn, and for a moment I see the shadow of another boy riding on the sled, me pulling it, laughing at Caleb’s cries to go faster. I blink and brace myself against the car at the sudden wash of vertigo.

“Are you all right?” Alice asks.

“Just tired,” I say. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. You go and have fun. I’ll talk to Sister Martine and we’ll come out to see you in a bit. Maybe by then Oren won’t mind coming inside to warm up.”

Alice shakes her head and looks toward the convent. “Once he’s decided a place is bad there’s no getting him to change his mind.”

“I understand,” I say. I watch Alice follow Oren. I do understand. I too once promised myself that I would never set foot inside St. Alban’s again.

IT’S NOT THAT St. Alban’s is a bad place; only that it’s a place people come to when nowhere else will have them. The very stones have absorbed the fear and sadness of the last resort, though the building itself is quite beautiful. I step through the wide oak doors and into the shadowed vestibule, where the marble floor is splashed with blue, red, and green lozenges of light. The air smells of incense and lemon wax. Someone is playing a piano somewhere.