Page 33 of Coram House

He leans forward, as if to brush some invisible dust off me, but Parker catches his wrist and gently places it back by his side. I wonder what the guy’s story is. He looks haggard and red-eyed, but his clothes are expensive. The sneakers a name-brand limited edition and the coat shows a flash of designer plaid.

Another officer comes hurrying down the corridor, holding a paper cup. “Sorry—Jesus, I swear I only left for a minute and he was dead as arock.” Coffee sloshes over the rim. “Shit.” He shakes his hand, so brown droplets fly everywhere.

“No harm,” Parker says. He looks at me, eyebrows raised in question. I nod. I’m fine.

The drunk man studies me, cocking his head to one side like a dog. “Yer—you’re pretty.”

“All right, Mr. Nilsson.” The other officer takes his arm. “I think that’s enough.”

Parker grabs the guy’s other arm and together they lead him back into the interview room. There’s a cot in one corner with a garbage can beside it. A makeshift drunk tank. Drunk guy looks back over his shoulder. “Can I buy you dinner?” he whispers to me, though it’s loud enough to carry down the hall. Parker gives me an apologetic look and kicks the door shut.

Officer Washington shakes her head. “They picked him up this morning out on the ice. Half frozen. Probably homeless.”

“I doubt it,” I say.

She blinks and looks at me.

“Did you see his sneakers? Those were Travis Scott Air Jordans. They go for a thousand bucks.”

“Didn’t take you for a sneaker head,” she says, clearly amused.

“Not me. My husband.”

I tamp down the urge to finish with:He died. Like I owe everyone the whole story every time I mention him. Maybe that’s why I usually don’t. But Officer Washington doesn’t ask for more. She bundles me out of the police station and into a car—a different car, so I get to sit in front this time. On the way, she keeps up a bright, one-sided conversation about who makes the pizza with the thinnest crust, the freshest bread, the best coffee. It should make me hungry but doesn’t.

As soon as I get out of the car, exhaustion settles over me, so intense I can barely make it up the stairs. In the kitchen, I kick off my borrowed shoes and head straight for the shower. Billows of steam fill the bathroom, so thick and hot I feel lightheaded. When I’m the color of cooked lobster, I drop the towel and climb into bed naked.

A siren wails, getting louder until red lights blaze through the curtains, then pass by. A faint smell of smoke hangs in the air. I think of Karen Lafayette’s deposition.There was a little girl who burned up. Sister Cecile told her to fetch a ball from the fire and her snowsuit went up in flames.I shake my head, as if that will make the picture fall out.

I wonder if I’ll hear these voices, these stories, replaying in my head forever. See the bloody tangle of hair floating in the water. Feel warm dead skin. Maybe it’s not Coram House that’s haunted. Maybe it’s me.

I only meant to warm up in bed for a few minutes, but soon I’m sinking into sleep. At first, I fight it, but staying awake is like clawing my way out of a sand pit. The sides cave in again and again until I wonder why I’m bothering when it’s so much easier to just let go.

April 8, 1988—US District Courthouse

Michael Leblanc

Alan Stedsan:Thank you for agreeing to join us. I know all of this must be very difficult to talk about.

Michael Leblanc:It’s not actually. Or it was. But not anymore. Not for me.

AS:Well, I’m glad to hear that. My hope is this will bring others peace as well. Telling their stories.

ML:I’m not sure that’s the right word. Stories.

AS:Truths, then. Their truths.

ML:Yes.

AS:All right, let’s get started, then. You were at Coram House from 1959 to 1966, and left when you were thirteen. Is that correct?

ML:That’s right.

AS:And was Father Foster in residence during that time?

ML:Yes. The sisters took care of the children, all the day-to-day care. But he oversaw the orphanage as a whole.

AS:He was in charge?

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