After that he’d continued gently, pacing back and forth while I sat rigidly in the witness box, a bright morning sun pouring in from the high windows, flashing rhythmically in the lenses of his glasses as he moved through blinding shafts of light.
Mr. Parsons: Now, you are a student at Chatham School, are you not, Henry?
Witness: Yes, sir.
Mr. Parsons: And you took English with Mr. Leland Reed, I believe, and art with the defendant, Miss Elizabeth Channing?
Witness: Yes.
Mr. Parsons: And would you say that Mr. Reed took a special interest in you?
Witness: Yes, he did.
Mr. Parsons: And Miss Charming too?
Witness: Yes.
Mr. Parsons: How would you describe the interest Miss Channing took in you, Henry?
Witness: Well, mostly she was interested in my drawing. She told me that she thought I had talent, and that I should get a sketchbook and draw in my spare time.
Sitting in the witness box, listening to my own voice, I remembered all the times I’d tucked that same sketchbook beneath my arm and set out from my house on Myrtle Street, a lone figure marching solemnly into the village or strolling down the beach, fired by the idea of an artistic life, of roaming the world as Miss Channing’s father had, a creature with no fixed abode.
Mr. Parsons: And did you do a great deal of drawing at this time?
Witness: Yes, I did.
Mr. Parsons: But that was not your only activity at this time, was it, Henry?
Witness: Activity?
Mr. Parsons: Well, you also became involved in another project during that year at Chatham School, didn’t you? With Mr. Reed, I mean.
Witness: Yes, I did.
Mr. Parsons: And what activity was that?
Witness: I helped him build his boat.
Even as I’d said it, I recalled how often I’d gone down to the boathouse Mr. Reed had rented near the harbor, the two of us drifting down the coastal road in his old car, Mr. Reed talking quietly, I listening silently, my fingers drumming incessantly on the sketchbook in my lap, increasingly extravagant visions playing in my mind, the vagabond life I so desperately wanted, trains hurling through mountain tunnels, night boats to Tangier.
But it hadn’t been my boyish fantasies, nor even my relationship with Mr. Reed, that Mr. Parsons had been intent upon exploring the day he’d questioned me in court, and I remember how my body had tensed as he began to close in upon what I knew to be his sole intended prey:
Mr. Parsons: So during this last year you spent at Chatham School, you came to know Miss Channing well?
Witness: Yes, I did.
Mr. Parsons: And sometimes you visited her at her cottage on Black Pond, isn’t that so?
Witness: On Black Pond, yes, sir.
Mr. Parsons: In the company of Sarah Doyle, is that right?
Witness: Yes.
I saw all those many occasions pass through my mind as the questions continued, my answers following, Mr. Parsons now beginning to lead the silent courtroom spectators into a steadily more sinister tale, my own mind working to avoid that part of it Mr. Parsons had not yet discovered, trying not to see again what I’d seen that fateful day, a woman seated on a porch, snapping beans from the large blue bowl that rested on her lap, dropping their severed ends into a bucket at her feet, then rising slowly as I came toward her from the distance, peering at me intently, a single freckled hand lifting to shield her eyes from the bright summer sun.
Concealing all of that, my answers had continued to take the form of Mr. Parsons’ questions, adding nothing, going along with him, responding to questions that sounded innocent enough but which I knew to be lethally aimed at the only villain in the room.
Mr. Parsons: Did you have occasion to meet with Miss Channing in her classroom at Chatham School on Friday afternoon, December 21, 1926?
Witness: Yes.
Mr. Parsons: Could you tell the court the substance of that meeting?
It had happened during the last week of school before the Christmas break, I told the court, nearly a month after the time I’d come up the coastal road and noticed Miss Channing and Mr. Reed talking together at the edge of the bluff. I had left her class later that same afternoon, feeling rather low because she’d not seemed terribly enthusiastic about some of the drawings I’d shown her, wide seas and dense forests, suggesting that I try my hand at what she called “a smaller canvas,” a vase of flowers or a bowl of fruit.
During most of the next day I’d brooded over her suggestion. Then an idea had occurred to me, a way of regaining some measure of the esteem I so craved at that time. With that goal in mind, I’d returned to Miss Channing’s classroom at the end of the following day.
Mr. Parsons: Miss Channing was alone when you came to her classroom?
Witness: Yes, she was.
Up until that moment in my testimony I’d answered Mr. Parsons’ questions directly and with little elaboration. Then, rather suddenly, I began to supply unnecessary details. I’d gone to Miss Channing’s room with a particular purpose in mind, I told him, my eyes fixed directly on Mr. Parsons, my voice low, almost a whisper, as if I’d convinced myself that whatever I said from then on would be kept strictly secret between Mr. Parsons and me, that there was no jury present, no benches filled with spectators, no reporters to record the things I said and send them out into the larger world.
Miss Channing had been preparing for the next day’s classes, I told the court. I’d come through the door silently, so that she’d been slightly startled when she saw me.
Mr. Parsons: Startled? Why was she startled?
Witness: Probably because she’d been expecting someone else.
Mr. Parsons: Who?
Witness: Mr. Reed, I suppose.
Mr. Parsons: What happened after that?
Witness: She spoke to me.
Mr. Parsons: What did she say?
“Henry?” she said.
I stood at the door, facing her. From the way she looked at me, I could tell that she hadn’t expected to see me there.
“What is it, Henry?” she asked.
I wanted to answer her directly, tell her frankly why I’d come to see her at that hour, but the look in her face silenced me.
Mr. Parsons: What look was that, Henry?
Witness: Well Miss Channing had a way of looking at you that made you … made you.
Mr. Parsons: Made you what?
Witness: I don’t know. She was different, that’s all. Different from the other teachers.
Mr. Parsons: In what way was she different?
Witness: Well, she taught her classes in a different way than the other teachers did. I mean, she told us stories about the places she’d been to, about things that had happened in these places.
Mr. Parsons: These “things that had happened,” were they pleasant things?
Witness: Not always.
Mr. Parsons: In fact, many of them were often very cruel things, weren’t they? Stories about violence? About death?
Witness: Sometimes.
Mr. Parsons: She told the class about a certain Saint Lucia, isn’t that right? A woman who’d gouged out her own eyes?
Witness: Yes. She told us about the church in Venice, where her body is.
Mr. Parsons: Another one of her stories involved the murder of children, didn’t it?
Witness: Yes. The little princes. That’s what she called them.
Mr. Parsons had continued with similar questions, unearthing other of Miss Channing’s stories, tales of children who’d been buried alive, women who’d been drowned, before returning at last to the afternoon I’d gone to her room.
Mr. Parsons: All right. Now, tell me, Henry, did you finally tell Miss Channing why you’d come to her classroom?
Witness: Yes, I did.
Mr. Parsons: What did you tell her?
“I want to draw you,” I told her.
“Draw me?” she asked. “Why?”
“I tried to do it on
ce before,” I said, concealing my true purpose in wanting a portrait of her. “But it didn’t come out very well.” I lifted the sketch pad I’d tucked beneath my arm. “I thought I’d try again if you wouldn’t mind.”
“You want me to pose for you, Henry?”
I nodded. “Just until you … go to Mr. Reed.”
I could see that the expression I’d used, the way I’d said “go to Mr. Reed,” had sounded suggestive to her, but I added nothing else.
Mr. Parsons: And so you could tell, even at that early time, that Miss Channing was already aware that you were suspicious of her relationship with Mr. Reed?
Witness: I think so, yes.
Mr. Parsons: And how did she react to the fact that she might be coming under suspicion?
Witness: Like she didn’t care.
Mr. Parsons: What gave you that impression?
Witness: What she said, and the way she said it.
She lifted her head in a gesture that made her look very nearly prideful, and said, “As a matter of fact, Mr. Reed will be here in just a few minutes.”
“I could draw you until he comes,” I told her. “Even if it’s only for a few minutes.” I took a short, uneasy step toward her, the afternoon light flooding over me from the courtyard window. “Just for practice.”
“Where do you want me?” she asked.
I nodded toward the wooden table that served as her desk. “Just sitting at your desk would be fine,” I said.
Mr. Parsons: And so Miss Channing posed for you that afternoon?
Witness: It wasn’t exactly a pose. She just sat at her desk, working, while I drew.
Mr. Parsons: How long did she do that?
Witness: For about an hour, I guess. Until Mr. Reed came for her. By then it was getting dark.
Mr. Parsons: As a matter of fact, it was already dark enough for you to turn on the light in the room, isn’t that right, Henry?
Witness: Well, I could see her, but I needed more light, yes.
Mr. Parsons: What I’m trying to make clear is that it was very late in the afternoon by the time Mr. Reed came to Miss Channing’s room.
Witness: Yes, it was.
Mr. Parsons: Could it reasonably be said that all the other teachers had left Chatham School by then?
Witness: Yes.
Mr. Parsons: And where were the other students?
Witness: In the dormitory, most of them. On the second floor. It was almost time for dinner.
Mr. Parsons: And so, when Mr. Reed arrived at Miss Channing’s room, he probably expected to find her alone, is that right?
Witness: Yes.
Mr. Parsons: And when Miss Channing saw Mr. Reed come into her room, did you notice any reaction from her?
Witness: Yes, I did.
Mr. Parsons: What was that reaction?
Miss Channing’s eyes suddenly brightened, I told the court, and she smiled. “I thought you’d forgotten me,” she said, her eyes gazing toward the front of the room.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Mr. Reed standing at the door, leaning on his cane.
“Am I interrupting something, Elizabeth?” he asked as he stepped farther into the room, his eyes drifting over to me, then back to Miss Channing.
“No,” she answered. “Henry just wanted to practice his drawing.” She rose and began to gather up her things. “We’ll have to continue this some other time,” she said to me.
I nodded and started to close the sketchbook, but by that time Mr. Reed had come down the aisle, his eyes on my drawing.
“Not bad,” he said, “but the eyes need something.” He looked at Miss Channing. “It would be hard to capture your eyes.”
She smiled at him softly. “I’m ready,” she said as she walked toward the front of the room. Mr. Reed stepped back and opened the door for her, then watched as she passed through it. “Coming, Henry?” he asked, glancing back into the room. I closed my sketchbook and walked out into the courtyard, where Miss Channing stood beside the tree, a few books hugged to her chest.
“Well, good night, Henry,” she said as Mr. Reed joined her, the two of them now moving through the courtyard and into the school, I trailing behind at a short distance.
Mr. Parsons: So you were more or less following Miss Channing and Mr. Reed, is that right?
Witness: Yes. But I stopped at the front door of the school. They went on to the parking lot. Toward Mr. Reed’s car. Then they drove away.
Mr. Parsons: Do you know where they went?
Witness: I later found out where they went.
Mr. Parsons: How did you find that out, Henry?
Witness: Mr. Reed told me. The next day. On the way to Boston.
Mr. Parsons: So by this time you and Mr. Reed had developed the sort of relationship that allowed him to confide such things in you?
Witness: Yes, we had.
Mr. Parsons: Could you describe the nature of that relationship?
It was in answer to that question that I told my only he upon the witness stand, one whose enduring cruelty I had not considered until I told it. “Mr. Reed was like a father to me,” I told Mr. Parsons, then glanced over to see my own father staring at me, a mournful question in his eyes. Then what was I to you, my son?
CHAPTER 15
Despite the answer I gave to Mr. Parsons that day, Mr. Reed was never really like a father to me. Nor like a brother nor even a friend. Instead, we seemed to move forward on parallel conspiracies, the two of us lost in separate but related fantasies, his focused on Miss Channing, mine upon a liberated life, both of us oblivious of what might happen should our romantic dreams converge.
It had developed rapidly, my relationship with Mr. Reed, so that only a few weeks after we’d begun to work on the boat together, it had already assumed the ironclad form that would mark it from then on, Mr. Reed still vaguely in the role of teacher, I in the role of student, but with an unexpected collusion that went beyond all that, as if we were privy to things others did not know, depositories of truths the world was too cowardly to admit.
To the other teachers and students of Chatham School during those last few months, we must have seemed a curious pair, Mr. Reed walking slowly with his cane, I trailing along beside him with a sketchbook beneath my arm, the two of us sometimes making our way up the lighthouse stairs, to stand at its circular iron railing, Mr. Reed pointing the tip of his cane out to sea, as if indicating some far, perhaps impossible place he yearned to sail for. “Past Monomoy Point, it’s open sea,” he told me once. “There’d be nothing to stop you after that.”
We drove to Boston together the day before he was set to leave for Maine with Mrs. Reed and his daughter. He’d wanted to buy a breastplate for the boat, along with some rigging. “The really elegant things are in Boston,” he explained. “Things that are made not just to be used, but to be … admired.”
We took the old route that curved along the coast, through Harwichport and Dennis, past Hyannis, and farther, until we reached the canal. It was no more than a muddy ditch in those days, Sagamore Bridge not yet built, so that we rumbled across the wooden trellis that had been flung over the water years before, a rattling construct of steel and timber, functional but inelegant, as Mr. Reed described it, the way much of life appeared to be.
Once over the bridge, the Cape receding behind me, I looked back. “You know what Miss Channing said when she saw the Cape for the first time?” I asked.
Mr. Reed shook his head.
“That it looked tormented,” I told him. “Like a martyr.”
“Yes, she would say something like that,” he said with a quiet, oddly appreciative smile. He grew silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the wider road that led to Boston. “I guess you noticed Miss Channing and me leaving school together yesterday afternoon.”
I pretended to make nothing of it. “You always leave together.”
He nodded. “I usually take her straight home,” he said. “But yesterday we went to the old cemetery on Brewster Road.” He waited for a
question. When none came, he continued. “We wanted to talk awhile. To be alone.” He stared at the road, the strand of dark hair that had fallen across his brow now trembling slightly with the movement of the car. “So we went to the cemetery. Just to get away from … other people.” He smiled. “I promised Miss Channing that I’d have her home before dark.”
The landscape swept by on either side. I had not been off the Cape in well over a year, and I felt an unmistakable exhilaration in the forward thrust of the car, the unfolding of the landscape, the vast, uncharted world that seemed to he just beyond my grasp.
“I don’t know why I picked that cemetery,” Mr. Reed went on as if he were circling around something he was not sure he wanted to reveal. “Something about it, I suppose. Probably the quiet, the solitude.”
“Did Miss Channing like it?” I asked.
“Yes, she did. There’s a little grove near the center of it. Some evergreen trees, with a little cement pool.” He forced a small laugh. “I did most of the talking. You know, about my life.”