Page 68 of Coram House

Then she’s gone, limping down the dark, creaking floorboards. And I’m alone in the hall, listening to the low murmur of Father Aubry’s voice through the door.

I wander back down the hall a little, not wanting him to think I’m eavesdropping, and inspect the photo of the smiling nuns at the soup kitchen. The black habits made the photos oddly timeless. Apart from the oversize eighties glasses, you could plop these same nuns in the sepia photo of the baptism and they wouldn’t look out of place.

The study door opens. “Ms. Kelley,” Father Aubry says, coming into the hallway. “So good to see you. Ah—I see you’ve had a little wander through our history.”

Immediately, I think of Xander.Historical flavor.

“We run the longest continuously operating soup kitchen in the state, you know,” he says.

Gold star for you, I think, then feel ungenerous. He didn’t murder any kids, at least that I know of.

“And this one,” I say, pointing to the antique photo of the children gathered around the font. “A baptism?”

He pushes his glasses up his nose and leans closer. He smells musty. Like a damp towel. “Ah, yes,” he says. “They used to baptize the orphans at Coram House when they arrived.”

He makes a face when he says the name like it tastes bad. “There weren’t always records, you see, on who had been baptized before they arrived. Some of the children came from out of state. So they baptized everyone, just to be safe.”

So Tommy would have been baptized.

“Records,” I say, looking from him back to the photograph. “The church keeps records of baptisms?”

“Of course,” he says.

My mouth goes dry, but I try to sound casual. “And would you still have those records? From the 1960s?”

He nods. “Most likely. Those would have been kept here at the church. Why don’t you come in and sit? It’s warmer by the fire.”

He leads me into the office and we settle into the armchairs facing the fireplace. Moaning wind pours down the chimney—like some poor creature is trapped up there. I tell him about the photocopied news article, about finding Tommy’s last initial, about my search for a boy lost to history and how much I’d love his help. He nods and then phones down to Rosa, asks her to take a look at the baptismal ledgers. I’d prefer to do it myself, but don’t push him.

I try to focus on why I’m here. It’s maddening to think that just a week earlier I might have been sitting across from Sister Cecile in a different drafty room. Alive. If only I’d known. If only I’d asked the right questions.

“Thank you for meeting me today,” I say. “You must be busy, especially after the funeral.”

He looks pained. “That was terrible. But grief takes many forms.”

“Did you know Sister Cecile well?”

He looks wary, but I keep my expression bland. I wonder if he’s heard yet about Fred Rooney’s arrest.

“She led a quiet life, but remained a devout member of our congregation. She helped at the soup kitchen every week, you know. The community gardens. But kept mostly to herself.”

“Was it usual for the sisters to change their name?” I ask. “For example, Sister Cecile, I assume she was born Jeannette Leroy?”

He leans back in his chair. “Oh, yes. It was quite common, especiallythen. It’s symbolic, you see. A new name to symbolize their commitment to our Lord Savior. Their new life.”

“And the fact that she went back to her birth name? Was that the custom too?”

Father Aubry sips from a glass of water. “Generally,” he says, “sisters do not revert to their birth name upon retirement. But, ah, this was a somewhat special case.”

“Oh?” I ask, all innocence.

He puts down the glass. I notice a dried film on the rim in the shape of lips.

“It’s a rather delicate matter, of course. But given the case, the church thought Sister Cecile might be more comfortable living out her retirement at another locale.”

So they tried to hide her somewhere else. Unsurprising. “That makes sense,” I say.

“Yes,” he replies absently. “But she—ah, well—she had lived here for nearly thirty years. And felt very strongly that God was calling her to remain. She wished to retire and live a life of quiet service, so I believe the name change was decided upon to avoid any unpleasantness.”

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