James took Sylvie’s hand and squeezed. You see, the squeeze said. Convincing him to take the coaching job was a good thing. And Sylvie had felt that same swooping, desperate optimism. Yes, this was a good thing. Maybe even the answer.
Even if James couldn’t penetrate Scott, he’d known how to talk to everyone else. James was good at things like that – he had a way of making his opinions sound like inscrutable facts. Global warming is a myth, a regular earthly cycle. Capital markets are best left unregulated and free. Unions are always unwieldy and corrupt. He made declarations about more personal things, too – like that Sylvie had to go out to dinner with him when they first met, no questions asked, as though something horrible might happen to her if she didn’t. And the day after Charles got engaged to Joanna, when Sylvie remarked, offhandedly, that she was surprised Charles hadn’t chosen to marry someone more like Bronwyn, the girl he’d dated in high school, James’s eyebrows melded together, his chin tucked into his neck, and little puckers of skin at each corner of his downturned mouth. ‘Oh no,’ he’d said. ‘Charles and Bronwyn weren’t right for each other at all.’ Sylvie couldn’t recall James saying one word to Bronwyn when Charles was dating her, but her long-held assumptions felt uprooted all the same. Perhaps James was right – perhaps the two of them hadn’t been right for one another. James had a way of appearing very wise, while at the same time making everyone else feel very childish.
Sylvie could see James making a grand, sweeping statement about Scott now. All he’d have to do was unequivocally and righteously say that Scott wasn’t responsible for the boy’s death, and just like that, he would eliminate the foolish necessity of consulting a lawyer. He would reverse everyone’s suspicions.
The side door to the kitchen opened and shut, startling Sylvie from her chair. Scott loped through the mud room and into the kitchen, talking on his cell phone. He opened the fridge and stuck his head inside, not even looking in her direction.
She stared, feeling visible and obtrusive in her own home. When had she last seen him? When had they last spoken? He looked sloppy, unshowered, his mess of dark hair thick around his face. His tattoos peeked from under his clothes, the ones on his wrists, the one creeping up his neck, another peeking out the t-shirt sleeve on his bicep. There was a tattoo on his calf of a black man and Sylvie didn’t dare ask who the man was or why Scott had chosen to put him there. Before Swithin gave Scott the assistant coaching job, they’d balked at his tattoos, ordering he cover them up. It was difficult to imagine Scott at Swithin as an adult figure, a quasi-authority. Certain teachers, all prim and neat in their burgundy blazers and tortoiseshell glasses, probably gave him wide berth in the hallways. Conversations probably halted when Scott entered a room.
Scott barked a few more words into his phone and hung up without saying goodbye. Sylvie cleared her throat, and he looked over. His eyes were dark, unresponsive. She had no idea what to say. Every icebreaker seemed clumsy, inappropriate.
Scott shut the fridge, shuffled to the coffee maker, and lifted the carafe. ‘The coffee’s cold,’ Sylvie said quickly, rushing over to him. ‘Here. I’ll make some more.’
Scott held the carafe in midair. ‘I’ll just microwave it.’
‘No, you should have fresh coffee. It’s terrible microwaved. Skunky.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘It’s no trouble.’ She already had the grinder out and was dumping the cold grounds into the trash.
Scott stepped away, folding his arms over his chest; even though he was fairly thin, he filled up a room. Sylvie spooned the fresh grounds into the filter and cleared her throat. ‘So. What’s new with you?’
He didn’t answer, opening and closing cabinet drawers, looking for something to eat.
The coffee maker began to burble and hiss. Sylvie licked her lips, staring at a slight water blemish on the stainless-steel toaster. Her heart drummed fast. ‘Wrestling team going well?’
Scott snickered. Sylvie was glad she wasn’t holding a coffee cup; if she had, it would be rattling in her hand, the liquid sloshing over the side. He knew that she knew. He knew what was being said. And now he was enjoying watching as Sylvie scrambled to figure out a way to talk to him about it. How could he chuckle? A boy had died. Was he that remorseless?
She turned to him then, vinegar suddenly in her veins. ‘They said you have to meet with some of the teachers.’ There. That was her way in.
He assessed her, leaning against the counter. One eyebrow arched. ‘Yep. That’s what they say.’
‘Do you know when your meeting is?’
‘Next week, I think.’ He inspected his nails.
‘Ah.’ It was as though they were having a conversation about the weather. If she should put regular or premium gas in her car. Sylvie ran her finger on a chipped spot on the countertop, wishing she could crack something against it. ‘And…do you know who the meeting is with?’
‘Nope.’
She stared at the slowly filling coffee pot and took a breath. ‘Well. Maybe you could dress up to the meeting. Wear a jacket.’
Scott made a noise at the back of his throat. ‘A jacket?’
‘Or at least a shirt and tie.’ Just don’t wear those ridiculous pants that show your underwear. Just don’t wear the sweatshirt that says that word I can’t even think, that N-word, on it. Just comb your hair.
Scott said nothing. He turned and took the lid off the old earthenware cookie jar, the very same one that held homemade sugar cookies when Sylvie was a girl. Scott reached for a chocolate chip cookie, took a big bite, and then held the uneaten part outstretched reflectively. ‘Mmmm,’ he decided. Crumbs fell to the floor.
He finished his cookie, laced his hands together and turned them inside out, giving each knuckle a crack. ‘I thought you were, like, a powerful force at that school. You can make it go away.’
She blinked at him, trembling inside. Is that what you think? she wanted to say. But now Scott had walked into the mud room – presumably, the conversation was over. A few moments later, he returned with his sneakers, loud orange and white high-tops. She watched as he sat down at the table, propped up one foot on his knee, and began to lace the shoes up, casual as he could be. It was like she was a woman and he was another being entirely, one whose actions she couldn’t begin to predict. One of those sea creatures that lived in the sunless depths of the ocean. A carnivorous plant that ate gnats.
‘Going somewhere?’ she asked.
‘To the city. Just for the morning.’
‘How come?’
He gave her a pained look. ‘I’m helping out at Kevin’s shop. Someone can’t come in until one. I said I’d cover.’
‘Kevin was at the funeral, right?’ Scott had come with three friends, two girls and a guy, all of them black.
‘Uh huh.’ Scott threaded the other shoe but left the laces untied and dangling.
‘What kind of shop does he own?’
‘Shoes.’
‘Oh!’ She knew she sounded relieved, but shoes were so…innocuous. ‘Well. Tell him “Hi” for me.’
He sniffed. ‘You didn’t even speak to him that day.’
Sylvie shrank. At that, she strode out of the room, found her handbag near the laundry, and walked to the driveway to her own car – she still parked outside, not yet wanting to disrupt the half of the garage that housed James’s jigsaw, lathe, and woodworking rasps. She slammed the door hard. It felt good. Once belted in, she shut her