Page 38 of Coram House

“I’m interviewing the children—anyone who was connected with Coram House—for the book I’m writing. I’d like to tell your story if you’re willing.”

It’s not much of a pitch, but I feel more nervous than I expected. I’ve never been good at confrontation.

“That why you came all the way out here? To see if I’m willing.”

He emphasizes the last word—willing—in a way that makes it sound dirty. I have to stop myself from taking a step back.

“Yes.”

He rubs his chin in a pantomime of thinking it over, but his thumb catches on the edge of the gauze and he winces. “What’s in it for me?”

This, at least, I’m ready for. “I can’t pay interview subjects, if that’s what you mean. It would make life easier, but it’s not how it works.”

“And who decides how it works?”

“If I pay people for their story, it might change the story they tell. Or at least look that way.”

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to think about it, then. I’m a busy man, you see.” He holds out his arms, showing the expanse of his domain.

I don’t know what I was thinking coming here. Of course he wasn’t going to talk to me.

“I understand.”

I hold out a business card. He takes it, but holds on a beat too long before letting go. I catch of whiff of something sharp. He’s been drinking. “Call me if you’d like to talk,” I say.

“Don’t worry. I know where to find you.”

I take a few steps back toward my car, but desperation to get something, anything, from him claws inside my chest. “Mr. Rooney—could I ask you a question?”

“You want a freebie?” He looks amused, but motions for me to go on.

“When you were at Coram House, did you ever know a boy named Tommy?”

His expression shifts into a look of interest—like a cat that’s been playing with its food and the mouse just did something unexpected. “Maybe,” he says. “What’s it to you?”

“He would have overlapped with you. I’m not exactly sure when, but sometime after 1965. I’m not sure of his exact age, but probably five or six years younger than you.”

“You’re not ‘exactly sure’ of much, are you?” His tone is mocking. “Especially for someone that’s probably dug to the bottom of Alan’s files by now. Did you come to ask me if he ran away? Then you’re stupider than I thought.”

My heart speeds up. He’s getting angry and people say things they don’t mean—or that they don’t mean to say—when they’re angry.

“A number of the other children talk about Sister Cecile,” I say.

“No surprise there.”

His tone is nonchalant, but there’s a flicker of something in his face.

“How she locked children in the attic. Hit them. That it’s her faultTommy drowned. That there was another child in the boat that day. Maybe someone too young and scared to come forward.”

Rooney’s face darkens. “Right. ’Cause everything Sarah Dale says is the gospel.”

“You were a minor, Mr. Rooney. Whatever happened—wouldn’t it be better to tell your side of the story?”

There’s a long pause, like he’s thinking this over. “You mean like how she said ‘Hold him under, Fred’ and I did?”

He laughs, his expression pitying. My stomach sinks.

“Look at the face on you. That’s what you want me to say isn’t it?”

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