Page 72 of Coram House

Two hours and two cups of tea later, I get the sense that Karen could keep going forever. I wish I could let her, but there’s a snowy road to travel before dark. And I feel the tapping of someone at the window, waiting to be let in.

“Karen,” I say when she pauses to sip her tea. “I want to ask you about a boy named Tommy.”

Karen sighs. “That poor boy,” she murmurs. Then her expression changes, sadness replaced by something grim and hard. “Poor all of us.”

“Did you know him?”

“We all knew each other at least a little. Tommy was, well, he didn’t have many friends. He used to pee his bed—and we didn’t bathe very often—so he smelled. And he was always carrying his sheets down to the laundry. Those were the worst punishments, you know. Not the hitting. Shame.”

I remember one of the other depositions calling him the bedwetter. It had cracked my heart—for a little boy to be remembered only for that.

“I saw him that day,” Karen says. There’s something eager in her voice. “With Sister Cecile.”

My mouth goes dry. “The day he died?”

“Early that morning. It was his turn for swim lessons. Sister Cecile was telling him to put on his swim trunks, to come down to the beach. And he said no.” Karen laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “It stuck in my head for years because you didn’t say no to Sister Cecile. You just—didn’t.”

“But he did go in the end.”

Karen nods. “Yes. He did go in the end. Stupid kid. To think he ever had a choice.”

There’s venom in her voice. She swipes at her eyes with the heel of her hand, though I don’t see any tears.

“The next day they told us he ran away. Even then, I remember thinking it was odd. He wasn’t the type—always afraid of everything. And then, when I found out what Sarah saw. Well, it all made sense.”

Something in the story feels off. “Karen,” I say, “why do you think he refused to go in the boat that day? From what you’re saying, that seems out of character too. Wasn’t he afraid of Sister Cecile?”

“Oh, he was terrified for sure, but I guess the water was even scarier than Sister Cecile.”

Now I’m even more confused. “The water?”

She leans forward. “Bill used to tell these stories. There was this one about a monster in the lake that gave the kids nightmares.”

“Bill Campbell?” I ask, trying to imagine it.

She snorts. “I know. Doesn’t seem like he’d have the imagination. I don’t remember it all, but something about how the monster would come up underneath and pull you into the dark water, never let go. Once Sister Cecile found out, she let him have it, though. Devil’s tales. So no more stories after that.”

Wind howls outside the window. I shiver at the cold draft on my neck. “So Tommy—you think that’s why he refused to go in the water?”

Karen nods. “Like I said, he was a fragile kid. That type didn’t last long there.” Her voice is as matter-of-fact as a shrug.

“Sarah Dale saw three people in the boat that day,” I say, choosing my words carefully. But it turns out to be unnecessary.

Karen snorts. “If Sister Cecile was there, you can be sure Fred was too. He was like her shadow. Listen, I didn’t see what happened that day. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But I do remember what Fred was like the day after. After they announced Tommy had run off, he seemed different. Angry. Well, angrier than usual. He walked right up to Bill and knocked him down. A real gut punch. For no reason at all.”

Based on my experience with Fred Rooney, I can’t say this surprises me. “Karen, were they friends back then—Bill and Fred?”

She shakes her head. “No one was friends with Fred. Besides, Fred was always such a loose cannon, and Bill, well—he’s the opposite. Everything he does is always for a reason. Whatever you call that.”

Calculating, I think. That’s what you call it. The picture she’s painting doesn’t fit with the jovial man who gave me a tour of Coram House. But maybe that’s just how he wanted me to see him.

“Karen, can we go back to the case for a second? Do you think Bill wanted it settled out of court?”

She looks at me blankly for a moment and then her face cracks down the middle. A big, boisterous laugh bursts out. “I-I’m sorry. I just—the look on your face. Oh, honey, didn’t anyone tell you?”

I stare at her, trying to catch up. “Tell me what?”

She leans forward, as if she’s going to tell me a secret, but her voice is almost a shout. “Bill Campbell paid people off to make the case go away. Even back then, he had a plan. He was starting a business with his wife’s money and always needed to be bigger and better than everyone else.”

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