Perfect Match (10 page)

He is thinking of Nina, now, as he sits at the scarred table in the investi gation room of the police station with Patrick and Monica LaFlamme. He is r emembering, specifically, the way Nina categorically denied any suggestion that Patrick might have been the one to hurt Nathaniel-yet just a few days later, had seemingly accused Caleb without a second thought.

Caleb shivers. Once, Patrick had said that they keep the interrogation rooms ten degrees cooler than the rest of the station, to make suspects physicall y uncomfortable. “Am I under arrest?” he asks.

“We're just talking.” Patrick doesn't meet Caleb's eye. “Old friends.” Old friends, oh yes. Like Hitler and Churchill.

Caleb doesn't want to be sitting here, defending himself. He wants to talk to his boy. He wants to know if Nina finished reading him the pirate book. He wants to know if Nathaniel wet his bed again.

“We might as well get started.” Patrick turns on a tape recorder. Caleb suddenly realizes his best source of information is sitting three fee t away. “You saw Nathaniel,” he murmurs. “How is he?” Patrick glances up, surprised. He's used to being the one who asks the questi ons.

“Was he okay, when you were there? Did he look like he'd been crying?”

“He was ... he was all right, given the circumstances,” Patrick says. “Now-”

“Sometimes, if he's not eating, you can distract him by talking about somethi ng he likes. Soccer, or frogs, like that. And while you talk you just keep pu tting food on his fork. Tell Nina.”

“Let's talk about Nathaniel.”

“What do you think I'm doing? Has he said anything yet? Verbally, I mean. Not with his hands?”

“Why?” Patrick asks guardedly. “Are you worried he might have more to tel l us?”

“Worried? I wouldn't care if the only word he could say was my name. I wouldn 't care if it meant I'd be locked up for life. I just want to hear it for mys elf.”

“His accusation?”

“No,” Caleb says. “His voice.”

I have run out of places to go. The bank, the post office, an ice cream for N athaniel. A local park, the pet store. Since leaving the church, I have dragg ed us from building to building, running errands that don't need to be done, all so that I won't have to go back to my own home.

“Let's visit Patrick,” I announce, swinging into the parking lot of the Biddef ord police station at the last minute. He'll hate me for this-checking up on his investigation-but above all, he'll understand. In the backseat of the car, Nathaniel slumps to the side, letting me know what he thinks of this idea.

“Five minutes,” I promise.

The American flag cracks sharply in the cold wind as Nathaniel and I walk u p the path toward the front door. Justice for all. When we are about twenty feet away, the door opens. Patrick steps out first, shielding his eyes aga inst the sun. Directly behind him are Monica LaFlamme and Caleb. Nathaniel sucks in his breath, then wrenches free of me. At the same momen t, Caleb sees him and goes down on one knee. His arms catch Nathaniel tigh t, hold him close. Nathaniel looks up at me with a wide smile, and in that awful moment I realize he thinks I have planned this for h im, a wonderful surprise.

Patrick and I stand a distance away, bookends, bracketing this story as it ha ppens.

He comes to his senses first. “Nathaniel,” Patrick says quietly, firmly, and he goes to pull my son away. But Nathaniel is having none of that. He wraps his arms around Caleb's neck, he tries to burrow inside his coat. Over our son's head, Caleb's eyes meet mine. He stands up, taking Nathanie l with him.

I force myself to look away. To think of the hundreds of children I've metthe ones who are bruised and filthy and starving and neglected-who scream as they are removed from their homes, and beg to stay with an abusive mothe r or father.

“Buddy,” Caleb says quietly, forcing Nathaniel to look at him. "You know I'

d like nothing better than to spend some time with you right now. But ... I have something to do."

Nathaniel shakes his head, his face crumpling.

“I'm gonna see you just as soon as I can.” Caleb walks toward me, bouncing Nathaniel in his arms; peels him off his own body and settles him into my embrace. By now, Nathaniel is crying so hard that the silent sobs choke h im. His rib cage shudders under my palm like a dragon coming to life. As Caleb heads toward his truck, Nathaniel lifts his gaze. His eyes are slitt ed and nearly black. He raises his fist and hits me on the shoulder. Then he does it again, and again, a tantrum waged against me.

“Nathaniel!” Patrick says sharply.

But it doesn't hurt. Not nearly as much as the rest.

“You have to expect some regression,” Dr. Robichaud says quietly, as we both watch Nathaniel lie listlessly on his stomach on the carpet of the playroom . “His family is coming apart; in his mind, he's responsible for it.”

“He ran to his father,” I say. “You should have seen it.” “Nina, you know be tter than most people that doesn't prove Caleb's innocent. Kids in that situ ation believe they've got a special bond with the parent. Nathaniel running to him-that's textbook behavior.”

Or maybe, I let myself think, Caleb did nothing wrong. But I push the doub t away, because I am on Nathaniel's side now. “So what do I do?”

“Absolutely nothing. You keep being the mother you always have been. The m ore Nathaniel understands that parts of his life are going to remain the s ame, the more quickly he'll overcome the changes.”

I bite my lip. It is in Nathaniel's best interests to admit to my own faults, but that's never easy to do. “That may not be the best idea. I work a sixty-ho ur week. I wasn't exactly the hands-on parent. Caleb was.” Too late, I realize these were not the right words to use. “I mean . . . well, you know what I me an.”

Nathaniel has rolled onto his side. Unlike the other times we've been in Dr. Robichaud's office, nothing has engaged his attention today. The crayons sit untouched, the blocks are neatly stacked in the corner, the puppet theater is a ghost town.

The psychiatrist takes off her glasses and wipes them on her sweater. “You know, as a woman of science, I've always believed that we have the power to shape our own lives. But there's a big part of me that also thinks things happen for a reason, Nina.” Dr. Robichaud glances toward Nathaniel, who has gotten to his feet now, and is finally moving toward the table. "Maybe he'

s not the only one who's starting over."

Nathaniel wants to disappear. It can't be that hard; it happens every day to all sorts of things. The rain puddle outside the school is gone by the time the sun is in the middle of the sky. His blue toothbrush vanishes and is re placed by a red one. The cat next door goes out one night and never comes ba ck. When he thinks about all this, it makes him cry. So he tries to dream of good things-X-Men and Christmas and maraschino cherries-but he can't even m ake pictures of them in his head. He tries to imagine his birthday party, ne xt May, and all he can see is black.

He wishes he could close his eyes and fall asleep forever, just stay in that place where dreams feel so real. Suddenly he has a thought: Maybe this is t he nightmare. Maybe he'll wake up and everything will be the way it is suppo sed to be.

From the corner of his eye Nathaniel sees that fat stupid book with all the han ds in it. If it wasn't for that book, if he'd never learned how to talk with his fingers, if he'd stayed quiet, this wouldn't have happened. Draw n upright, he walks to the table where it rests.

It's a loose-leaf, the kind of binder with three big teeth. Nathaniel knows how to open one; they have them at home. When the jaw is wide he takes out t he first page, the one with a happy smiling man using his hand to say hello. The next page shows a dog, and a cat, and the signs for them. Nathaniel thr ows both on the floor.

He starts ripping out big chunks of paper, scattering them all around his fe et like snow. He stomps on the pages with pictures of food. He tears in half the ones that show a family. He watches himself do this on the magic wall, a mirror on this side but glass out there. And then he looks down, and sees something.

This picture, it's the one he's been looking for all along.

He grabs the piece of paper so hard it wrinkles in his fist. He runs to the d oor that leads into Dr. Robichaud's office, where his mother is waiting. He d oes it just the way the black-and-white man on the page does. Pinching togeth er his thumb and his forefinger, Nathaniel drags them across his neck, as if he is cutting his own throat.

He wants to kill himself.

“No, Nathaniel,” I say, shaking my head. “No, baby, no.” Tears are running down his cheeks, and he holds fast to my shirt. When I reach for him he fig hts me, smooths a paper over my knee. He jabs his finger at one of the sket ches.

“Slowly,” Dr. Robichaud instructs, and Nathaniel turns to her. He draws a li ne across his windpipe again. He taps together his forefingers. Then he poin ts to himself.

I look down at the paper, at the one sign I do not recognize. Like the other groupings in the ASL book, this one has a heading, religious symbols. And the motion of Nathaniel's hands has not been suicidal. He has been tracing an im aginary clerical collar; this is the sign for Priest. Hurt. Ale.

Tumblers click in my mind: Nathaniel mesmerized by the word father-altho ugh he has always called Caleb daddy. The children's book Father Szyszyn ski brought, which disappeared before we even had a chance to read it at bedtime, and still has not turned up. The fight Nathaniel put u p this morning when I told him we were going to church.

And I remember one more thing: a few weeks ago, one Sunday when we'd muste red the effort to go to Mass. That night, when Nathaniel was getting undre ssed, I noticed he was wearing underwear that wasn't his. Cheap little Spi derman briefs, instead of the $7.99 miniature boxers I bought at GapKids s o that Nathaniel could match his dad. Where are yours? I had asked. And his answer: At church,

I assumed he'd had an accident at Sunday school and had received this spare pair from his teacher, who rummaged through the Goodwill bin. I made a menta l note to thank Miss Fiore for taking care of it. But I had a wash to do and a child to bathe and a pair of motions to write, and I never did get a chan ce to speak to the teacher.

Now, I take my son's shaking hands, and I kiss the fingertips. Now, I have all the time in the world. “Nathaniel,” I say, “I'm listening.” An hour later, in my own home, Monica carries her mug to the sink. “Is it all right with you if I tell your husband?”

“Of course. I would have told him myself, but...” My voice trails off.

“That's my job,” she finishes, saving me from speaking the truth: Now that I have forgiven Caleb, I do not know if he will forgive me.

I busy myself with the dishes-rinsing our mugs, squeezing dry the tea bags an d putting them into the trash. I have specifically tried to focus on Nathanie l since leaving Dr. Robichaud's office-not only because it is the right thing to do, but because I am a terrible coward at heart. What will Caleb say, do?

Monica's hand touches my forearm. “You were protecting Nathaniel.” I look directly at her. No wonder there is a need for social workers; the rela tionships between people knot so easily, there needs to be a person skilled at working free the threads. Sometimes, though, the only way to extricate a tang le is to cut it out and start fresh.

She reads my mind. “Nina. In your shoes, he would have reached the same c onclusions.”

A knock on the door captures our attention. Patrick lets himself in, nods to Monica. “I'm just on my way out,” she explains. “If you want to reach me late r, I'll be in my office.”

This is directed to both Patrick and me. Patrick will need her, presumably, to be kept abreast of the case. I will need her, presumably, for moral suppo rt. As soon as the door closes behind Monica, Patrick steps forward. “Nathan iel?”

“He's in his room. He's okay.” A sob hops the length of my throat. “Oh, my God, Patrick. I should have known. What did I do? What did I do?”

“You did what you had to,” he says simply.

I nod, trying to believe him. But Patrick knows it isn't working. “Hey.” H e leads me to one of the stools in the kitchen, sits me down. “Remember wh en we were kids, and we used to play Clue?”

I wipe my nose with my sleeve. “No.”

“That's because I always trounced you. You'd pick Mr. Mustard every time, no matter what the evidence said.”

“I must have let you win.”

“Good. Because if you've done it before, Nina, it's not going to be that har d to do it again.” He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Give over. I know thi s game, Nina, and I'm good at it. If you let me do what I have to, without m essing yourself up in the process, we can't lose.” Suddenly he takes a step away from me, stuffs his hands into his pockets. “And you've got other thing s to work on, now.”

“Other things?”

Patrick turns, meets my eye. “Caleb?”

It's like that old contest: Who will blink first? This time, I can't bear it ; I am the one to look away. “Then go lock him up, Patrick. It's Father Szys zynski. I know it, and you know it. How many priests have been convicted of doing just this-shit!” I wince, my own mistake hammering back. “I talked to Father Szyszynski about Nathaniel during confession.”

“You what? What were you thinking?”

“That he was my priest.” Then I glance up. "Wait. He thinks it's Caleb. That'

s what I thought, then. That's good, right? He doesn't know that he's the sus pect."

“What's important is whether Nathaniel knows it.”

“Isn't that crystal clear?”

“Unfortunately, it's not. Apparently, there's more than one way to interpret the word father. And by the same logic, there's a whole country full of priests out there.” He looks at me soberly. “You're the prosecutor. Y ou know this case can't afford another mistake.”

“God, Patrick, he's only five. He signed priest. Szyszynski is the only prie st he even knows, the only priest who has any contact with him on a regular basis. Go ahead and ask Nathaniel if that's who he meant.”

“That's not going to stand up in court, Nina.”

Suddenly I realize that Patrick has not come only for Nathaniel; he has also come for me. To remind me that while I'm being a mother, I still have to th ink like a prosecutor now. We cannot name the accuser for Nathaniel; he has to do it himself. Otherwise, there is no chance of a conviction. My mouth is dry. “He isn't ready to talk yet.”