dates, either, no âSummer Vacation, 1979,â nothing like that. And no one was holding up a newspaper, the way hostages do so that you know they are alive on a certain date. I could only guess from the fading and my assumption that Tim was one of those boys, that Maggie was the little girl, that the contents of the album were around twenty-five years old, give or take a year or two in either direction.
After looking at the end and seeing that no one had aged, I paged through rather quickly, but near the end of the album, I found a lumpy page. It wasnât a real photo album, the photographs held on by those little black corners my father had used in ours. This was a loose-leaf book with plastic sleeves and a sheet of black paper in the middle of the photos. The lumpy page had two black sheets so that whatever was between them didnât show through from either side. I slipped in two fingers and pulled it out, a newspaper article. It had oxidized to a yellowish-brown color and the paper was very dry. I unfolded it very carefully, noting that it had been folded and unfolded many times. Thecreases were torn right through in several places. The name of the newspaper wasnât there, but the date was. The article had been published twenty-nine years ago. I began to read.
FATAL ACCIDENT AT BREYERâS LANDING
A local Piermont boy, Joseph Patrick OâFallon, 12, died yesterday in a dive into the swimming hole at Breyerâs Landing. His brothers, Timothy and Dennis, were with him, as well as two cousins, Liam and Francis Connor. The boys, aged 12 to 15, said that although they warned Joseph not to jump from the highest point, he did. When he didnât come back to the surface, the two oldest boys, Timothy and Liam, went in after him but were unable to find him. Francis Connor, 12, ran home to tell his mother, who called the paramedics. The body was recovered later that day.
âThe neighborhood boys had been told repeatedly not to use the swimming hole at Breyerâs Landing because it is unsafe and there is no supervision,â Detective Anthony Rizzo of the Orangeburg Police Department said, âbut it was sort of a rite of passage for the local kids, jumping off that rocky ledge into the ice-cold water. I did it myself when I was growing up.â
Josephâs father, Detective Colm OâFallon of the New York City Police Department, said heâd warned the boys too, but to no avail. âIf thereâs a challenge,â he said, âboys are going to try to meet it. My wife and I hope that this tragedy might make other boys think twice.â
I took Maggie OâFallonâs note out of her brotherâs briefcase.
âI know what happened at Breyerâs Landing. I was there.â
If sheâd been there, why wouldnât he have known that? Why was she telling him that now, all these years later? And why hadnât the article mentioned her name along with those of her brothers and cousins?
I read the article again to make sure. Then I checked inside each plastic sleeve to see if there was anything else, but there wasnât. I started at the beginning and paged through the album more slowly this time. The boys, three OâFallons and two Connors, and one little girl, eternally young, nothing recorded after all those charming, goofy, normal kid smiles were wiped off their faces by a tragic accident.
OâFallonâs father had been a New York City detective, too. Grief traveling the marrow of the bones, generation after generation.
I pulled out OâFallonâs driverâs license and looked at his face again and then I began to think about Michael Brody, about what cops saw, about how they never told.
I went upstairs to the office and picked up the file from the post-traumatic-stress group where Iâd met OâFallon. I checked my watch. It was nearly ten. I picked up the phone and dialed the first number.
CHAPTER 7
When I woke up, I called
After looking at the end and seeing that no one had aged, I paged through rather quickly, but near the end of the album, I found a lumpy page. It wasnât a real photo album, the photographs held on by those little black corners my father had used in ours. This was a loose-leaf book with plastic sleeves and a sheet of black paper in the middle of the photos. The lumpy page had two black sheets so that whatever was between them didnât show through from either side. I slipped in two fingers and pulled it out, a newspaper article. It had oxidized to a yellowish-brown color and the paper was very dry. I unfolded it very carefully, noting that it had been folded and unfolded many times. Thecreases were torn right through in several places. The name of the newspaper wasnât there, but the date was. The article had been published twenty-nine years ago. I began to read.
FATAL ACCIDENT AT BREYERâS LANDING
A local Piermont boy, Joseph Patrick OâFallon, 12, died yesterday in a dive into the swimming hole at Breyerâs Landing. His brothers, Timothy and Dennis, were with him, as well as two cousins, Liam and Francis Connor. The boys, aged 12 to 15, said that although they warned Joseph not to jump from the highest point, he did. When he didnât come back to the surface, the two oldest boys, Timothy and Liam, went in after him but were unable to find him. Francis Connor, 12, ran home to tell his mother, who called the paramedics. The body was recovered later that day.
âThe neighborhood boys had been told repeatedly not to use the swimming hole at Breyerâs Landing because it is unsafe and there is no supervision,â Detective Anthony Rizzo of the Orangeburg Police Department said, âbut it was sort of a rite of passage for the local kids, jumping off that rocky ledge into the ice-cold water. I did it myself when I was growing up.â
Josephâs father, Detective Colm OâFallon of the New York City Police Department, said heâd warned the boys too, but to no avail. âIf thereâs a challenge,â he said, âboys are going to try to meet it. My wife and I hope that this tragedy might make other boys think twice.â
I took Maggie OâFallonâs note out of her brotherâs briefcase.
âI know what happened at Breyerâs Landing. I was there.â
If sheâd been there, why wouldnât he have known that? Why was she telling him that now, all these years later? And why hadnât the article mentioned her name along with those of her brothers and cousins?
I read the article again to make sure. Then I checked inside each plastic sleeve to see if there was anything else, but there wasnât. I started at the beginning and paged through the album more slowly this time. The boys, three OâFallons and two Connors, and one little girl, eternally young, nothing recorded after all those charming, goofy, normal kid smiles were wiped off their faces by a tragic accident.
OâFallonâs father had been a New York City detective, too. Grief traveling the marrow of the bones, generation after generation.
I pulled out OâFallonâs driverâs license and looked at his face again and then I began to think about Michael Brody, about what cops saw, about how they never told.
I went upstairs to the office and picked up the file from the post-traumatic-stress group where Iâd met OâFallon. I checked my watch. It was nearly ten. I picked up the phone and dialed the first number.
CHAPTER 7
When I woke up, I called
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