He nodded and clapped me on the shoulder, and then hurried on across the Lawn toward the chapel. I stood for a moment, pondering his words. Why would he tell me that? I knew Ren had been upset with me, but I’d put that down to frayed nerves at the end of a horrible day. Was Porter trying to give me some sort of support in advance of trouble? Were other people talking about me, affixing blame? I brooded over this until, with a start, I realized that almost all the students had entered the chapel, and I hurried in to get a seat before the service started.
My advisory group sat in a pew near the back, and my advisees had all preceded me into the chapel, so they scooted over to let me in at the aisle seat next to Stephen Watterson just as the organ music started. Slowly and with dignity, the crucifer, acolyte, and Bible bearer, all followed by Chaplain Joyner, processed down the aisle to the strains of “O God, Our Help in Ages Past.”
The service, as I had feared, addressed Terence’s death. My face grew hot as I sat through the readings—a passage from Isaiah about how the ransomed of the Lord shall return and sorrow and sighing shall flee away, followed by a reading from Paul’s letter to the Romans. At Paul’s reference to how we face death all day long and are as sheep to be slaughtered, I looked at the altar and thought of Ben Sipple, pulling the altar cloth off in a rage. I wasn’t sure he would be able to make it the rest of the year and wondered where he would go, to his mother in Miami or his father in Boston. Or maybe just a different boarding school. Another lost soul, I thought.
When Chaplain Joyner ascended to the modest pulpit and began speaking about Terence Jarrar, about his life at Blackburne and the horrible pain we felt at his being taken away, I shut my eyes. His words echoed some of the platitudes served up after Fritz’s disappearance. Mr. Hollis, the chaplain when I was a student, had been a rather meek and unassuming man who had often seemed perplexed at finding himself chaplain to nearly four hundred boys, but he had been a good guy. At the first chapel service after Fritz had disappeared, Hollis had done his best to comfort us. His best efforts had been lost on me at the time—I had sat in the pew, despising Hollis and seething as if he had caused Fritz to vanish. I had wanted him to stop talking in his easy, prayerful voice, to be struck dumb, to have a stroke. Now, I found myself sitting again in Saint Matthew’s, the school having experienced another shocking loss, and I could see, at a remove, how my own pain and bitterness and anger had seeped out of me like radioactive waste, contaminating everything around me. I had suffered, true, but I had wrapped myself in my own suffering, displaying it like a flag worn by a patriot. I had cut everyone off and chosen to suffer alone. I looked now at the rows of blazered boys around me, their faces blank or sad or stunned, but they were together, joined by a bond made evident by their grief but stronger for it. And with a kind of shock, I realized that I was one of them, too.
A low, wet gasp caused me to glance at Stephen Watterson next to me. He was crying, his face red and shoulders hunched forward as he tried to hold in his grief. On his other side, Paul Simmons stared at the far wall, oblivious to his classmate. Stephen looked as if he were trying to silently give birth, his mouth open and his nose and forehead contorted, eyes screwed shut to deny his tears. For a second I just stared at him, unable to do anything. Then Stephen took in another quiet, shuddering breath and opened his eyes, looking directly at me. The pain and the loss and the sheer need in his look were so bald that I flinched. He looked as if he had just witnessed an atrocity. Dimly I realized that, in fact, he had. I fumbled in my jacket pocket and found a single tissue, which I handed to Stephen. He took it and tried to mop up his face. I hesitated—I didn’t know how to do this, how to be the adult. Part of me wanted to run out of the chapel and hide in the dark. But then, with just a bit of awkwardness, I reached out and put my arm over his shoulders so he could lean into me. He did, uttering a few more strangled gasps. Chaplain Joyner continued to speak from the pulpit, handling his words as if they would be offended by being spoken too loudly.
“I don’t understand,” Stephen said. He was still leaning against me and wiping his eyes, but he seemed to be under more control.
“I know,” I murmured.
“It sucks,” he said, sniffling. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I lost a classmate, too. When I was here. It still sucks.”
“Yeah,” he said, and then we both wept silently as Chaplain Joyner began reading the Prayers of the People and the congregation responded, “Hear our prayer,” the words rolling over us like a white summer fog.
I WALKED STEPHEN BACK from chapel to his room before study period. His roommate, Rusty Scarwood, didn’t ask anything when we walked through the door. Stephen’s eyes were still red and swollen, and that said enough. But when I left the room, Rusty reached out to put a hand on Stephen’s back, a gesture so simple and heartfelt, I fought the urge to start crying again.
After study period, I wandered the dorm to check in with my boys. Many were listening to music, though at low volume, and they greeted me easily enough. Nevertheless, I could see a new wariness in their eyes, an uncertainty that had not been there before. I found several students in the commons watching a rerun of Jurassic Park on TV. They eyed me as I came in, and I nearly left, feeling I might be intruding. But Hal Starr and Mack Arnold spotted me and waved me over to their seats at the back of the room, where we immediately began a half-whispered conversation about our favorite movies, arguing agreeably about the old Star Wars films versus the prequels. After the T. rex in Jurassic Park made its appearance and devoured the lawyer on the toilet to a chorus of cheers from the boys, I turned to Hal and Mack. “You guys doing okay?” I asked.
Both of them nodded, their faces a faint blue from the light on the TV screen. “Yeah, we’re okay,” Hal said, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “Thanks, Mr. Glass.” He smiled at me, more a genuine smile than a polite one.
At that moment, my cell phone vibrated. I thought it might be Sam Hodges or Ren Middleton, so I gave Hal and Mack a thumbs-up and walked out of the commons, pushing through the glass doors and out into the cool evening air. In fact, I took a deep breath like a diver surfacing before I looked at my cell. The number had a local area code, but I didn’t recognize it. I answered. “Hello?”
“Mr. Glass?” the caller said. It was a deep voice, male. “This is Lester Briggs. I . . .” He hesitated. “I used to work in the sheriff’s office. We met your senior year of high school?”
“Deputy Briggs,” I said. “Uh, yeah, sure. Yes, I remember you. Uh-huh.”
“I’m sorry it’s late. Am I calling you at a bad time?”
I glanced back through the commons window. Hal and Mack were watching the movie, leaning back in their chairs. “No, it’s fine,” I said. “I, ah . . . How did you get my number?”
“Jimmy Smalls gave it to me. The deputy you spoke with during . . .” He paused again, and then continued. “During the incident yesterday. I’m terribly sorry for you all.”