Silent Harbour

Chapter 11: Bearer of Bad News

It had been a few days since lunch with Henri, yet my mind is still reeling from our conversation. I took him to the same diner that I stumbled upon last week when I was investigating Peter's mystery A.B. meeting. It turns out that Henri was no stranger to the establishment–the first clue being how warmly the hostess greeted him upon our arrival and the second being his order of the Hometown Hero without so much as a glance at the menu.

Henri fixes his gaze on the table as we sit silently, waiting for the food to arrive.

I speak up. "I'm sorry for ambushing you this morning. It wasn't my place to pry, but you know how it must have looked?"

He hesitates, wringing his fingers. "I'm sure you want me to explain. What I was doing at Pete's...er–Mr. Rochester's... He wasn't like the others–the other teachers, I mean. He had a sort of intuition, I guess you could say, about people. Ya Know? Like he knew what you were thinking...feeling even. I'm sure you've heard, I've had my share of trouble at school...gave some teachers a hard time, and I'm not proud of it."

He looked at me as if he expected a scolding. When none came, he continued, "Mr. Rochester was a great teacher and just an upstanding guy all around. None of us had anything bad to say about him, ya know? He took his job seriously too–we actually learned stuff in his class. Real stuff. Practical stuff. Things about the real world, why it was important that we could write–so if we had something important to say, something worth speaking up or writing about, people would listen–would take us seriously. His class was my highest mark last semester. But it wasn't always like that. When I was in his tenth grade class, I was a bit of a brat. Real closed off–disinterested. Didn't hand in my first assignment. That sort of thing.

He noticed. But he always gave me the benefit of the doubt–assumed I must have a good reason I wasn't doing my work. He offered me an extension on the assignment and tutoring after class, insisted it was nothing to be ashamed about–that all the cool kids hung out in his class after school to work on assignments, homework, or just to talk–whatever we needed. I didn't think much of it but dropped by because I couldn't afford to fail the class. The last thing I needed was a phone call home or another warning letter from Principal Wright. Kinda felt like I could finally trust an adult in my life."

Anger, or perhaps annoyance, flashes in his eyes. "I grew up in the system," he pauses, "foster care. Before I was adopted."

I nod sympathetically. "It must have been difficult growing up with such uncertainty, such instability," I offer.

He averts my gaze, then lowers his voice. "Most people couldn't ever even imagine. But Mr. R could. He understood in a way. I mean–he wasn't–he didn't grow up in the system, but he knew a lot about what it's like."

I study him for a moment. "Did Peter ever share anything with you about his upbringing–what his childhood was like?"

Henri glances up at me suspiciously. "I—No–we never talked about that. But then again, it's like an unspoken rule among foster kids. Unless it's offered up voluntarily, don't ask."

I sigh in resignation and am about to reply when the food arrives. I've only ordered a coffee and a scone–I'm still feeling queasy from last night and my head is still throbbing. The waitress, a friendly older woman named Susie, places a tray in front of Henri that includes his burger and fries with a side of onion rings.

"Enjoy your food, my dears," she says pleasantly. "Let me know if there's anything more I can get you. Anything at all."

I smile appreciatively, "Thank you Susie, will do."