Perfect Match (29 page)

“Well.” The man smiles. “You found me.”

Every time Nathaniel tries to see his mother, she's sleeping. Even when it's light outside; even when it's time for Franklin on Nickelodeon. Leave her a lone, his father says. It's what she wants. But Nathaniel doesn't think that 's what his mother wants at all. He thinks about how sometimes in the middle of the night he wakes up dreaming of spiders under his skin and screams tha t don't go away, and the only thing that keeps him from running out of the r oom is how dark it is and how far it seems from his bed to the door.

“We have to do something,” Nathaniel tells his father, after it has been three days, and his mother is still asleep.

But his father's face squeezes up at the top, like it does when Nathaniel is yelling too loud while he's having his hair washed and the sound bounces ar ound the bathroom. “There's nothing we can do,” he tells Nathaniel. It's not true. Nathaniel knows this. So when his father goes outside to put t he trash cans at the end of the driveway (Two minutes, Nathaniel. . . you can sit here and be good for two minutes, can't you?) Nathaniel waits until he c an no longer hear the scratch-drag on the gravel and then bolts upstairs to h is bedroom. He overturns his garbage can to use as a stool and takes what he needs from his dresser. He twists the knob to his parents' room quietly, tipt oes inside as if the floor is made of cotton.

It takes two tries to turn on the reading lamp near his mother's side of the bed, and then Nathaniel crawls on top of the covers. His mother isn't there a t all, just the great swollen shape under the blankets that doesn't even move when he calls her name. He pokes at it, frowns. Then he pulls away the sheet .

The Thing That Isn't His Mother moans and squints in the sudden light. Her hair is wild and matted, like the brown sheep at the petting zoo. Her eye s look like they've fallen too deep in her face, and grooves run the length of her mouth. She smells of sadness. She blinks once at Nathaniel, a s if he might be something she remembers but can't quite fish to the front of her mind. Then she pulls the blankets over her head again and rolls away from him.

“Mommy?” Nathaniel whispers, because this place cries for quiet. “Mommy , I know what you need.”

Nathaniel has been thinking about it, and he remembers what it felt like to be stuck in a dark, dark place and not be able to explain it. And he also re members what she did, back then, for him. So he takes the sign-language bind er he got from Dr. Robichaud and slips it under the blankets, into his mothe r's hands.

He holds his breath while her hands trace the edges and rifle through the p ages. There is a sound Nathaniel has never heard before-like the world open ing up at the start of an earthquake, or maybe a heart breaking-and the bin der slips from beneath the sheets, cracking open onto the floor. Suddenly t he comforter rises like the hinged jaw of a white whale and he finds himsel f swallowed whole.

Then he is in the spot where he put the sign-language book, smack in the mi ddle of her arms. She holds him so tight there is no room for words between them, spoken or signed. And it doesn't matter one bit, because Nathaniel u nderstands exactly what his mother is telling him.

Christ, I think, wincing. Turn off the lights.

But Fisher starts laying out papers and briefs on the blankets, as if it is every day that he conducts meetings with a client too exhausted to leave her bedroom. Then again, what do I know? Maybe he does.

“Go away,” I moan.

“Bottom line: He had a bone marrow transplant,” Fisher says briskly. “You s hot the wrong priest. So we need to figure out how to use that to our best advantage and get you off.” Before he remembers to check himself, his eyes meet mine, and he cannot hide it: the shock and, yes, distaste of seeing me like this. Unwashed, undressed, uncaring.

Yes, look, Fisher, I think. Now you don't have to pretend I'm crazy. I roll onto my side, and some of the papers flutter off the edge of the bed.

“You don't have to play this game with me, Nina,” Fisher sighs. “You hired me so that you won't go to jail, and goddammit, you're not going to jail.“ He pauses, as if he is about to tell me something important, but what he says doesn't matter at all. ”I've already filed the paperwork req uesting a jury, but you know, we can waive it at the last minute.“ His eyes t ake in my nightgown, my tangled hair. ”It might be easier to convince one per son that . . . that you were insane.”

I pull the covers over my head.

“We got the report back from O'Brien. You did a nice job, Nina. I'll leave it f or you to look over ...”

In the dark under here, I begin to hum, so that I can't hear him.

“Well.”

I stick my fingers in my ears.

“I don't think there's anything else.” I feel a commotion to my left as he gat hers his files. “I'll be in touch after Christmas.” He begins to walk away fro m me, his expensive shoes striking the carpet like rumors.

I have killed a man; I have killed a man. This has become a part of me, like the color of my eyes or the birthmark on my right shoulder blade. I have ki lled a man, and nothing I do can take that away.

I pull the covers down from my face just as he reaches the door. “Fisher,” I s ay, the first word I've spoken in days.

He turns, smiles.

“I'm taking the stand.”

That smile vanishes. “No you're not.”

“I am.”

He approaches the bed again. “If you take the stand, Brown is going to rip yo u to shreds. If you take the stand, even I can't help you.” I stare at him, unblinking, for a lifetime. “So?” I say.

“Someone wants to talk to you,” Caleb announces, and he drops the portable p hone on the bed. When I don't bother to reach for it, Caleb seems to think t wice. “It's Patrick,” he adds.

Once, on a trip to the beach, I let Nathaniel bury me in the sand. It took so long that the hills enclosing my legs-the spot where he'd started-had dr ied and hardened. The weight of the beach pressed down on my chest, and I r emember feeling claustrophobic as his small hands built a dune around me. W hen I finally did move, I was a Titan, rising from the earth with enough le ashed power to topple gods.

Now, I watch my hand crawl across the covers toward the phone, and I cannot stop it. As it turns out, there is one thing strong enough to seduce me aw ay from my careful paralysis and self-pity-the possibility of action. And e ven though I have looked the consequences right in their yellow-wolf eyes, it turns out I am still addicted. Hello, my name is Nina, and I need to kno w where he is.

“Patrick?” I press the receiver to my ear.

“I found him. Nina, he's in Louisiana. A town called Belle Chasse. He's a pri est.”

All my breath leaves my lungs in a rush. “You arrested him.” There is a hesitation. “No.”

As I sit up, the covers fall away. “Did you . . .”I cannot finish. There is a part of me hoping so hard that he will tell me something horrible, something I desperately want to hear. And there is another part of me hoping that what ever I have turned into has not poisoned him too.

“I talked to the guy. But I couldn't let him know I was onto him, or that I was even from Maine. You remember going through this at the beginning, with Nathaniel-tip off a molester and he's going to run, and we'll never get a co nfession. Gwynne's even more cagey, because he knows his half-brother was ki lled due to an allegation of child sexual abuse that he committed himself.” Patrick hesitates. “So instead I said I was getting married and looking for a church for the ceremony. It was the first thing that came to mind.” Tears spring to my eyes. He was within Patrick's grasp, and still nothing ha s happened. “Arrest him. For God's sake, Patrick, get off this phone and run back there-”

“Nina, stop. I'm not a cop in Louisiana. The crime didn't happen here. I ne ed an arrest warrant in Maine before I can get a fugitive charge lodged aga inst Gwynne in Louisiana, and even then, he might fight extradition.” He he sitates. “And what do you imagine my boss will say when he finds out I'm us ing my shield to dig up information about a case that I haven't even been a ssigned to?”

“But Patrick . . . you found him.”

“I know. And he's going to be punished.” There is a silence. "Just not today.

"

He asks me if I am all right, and I lie to him. How can I be all right?

I am back where I started. Except now, after I am tried for the murder of an i nnocent man, Nathaniel will be embroiled in another trial. While I sit in jail , he'll have to face his abuser, drag back the nightmare. Nathaniel will suffe r; he will hurt.

Patrick says good-bye, and I hang up the phone. I stare at the receiver in my hand for a minute, rub the edge of the smooth plastic.

The first time, I had much more to lose.

“What are you doing?”

My head pops through the turtleneck to find Caleb standing in the bedroom.

“What does it look like I'm doing?” I button my jeans. Stuff my feet into m y clogs.

“Patrick got you out of bed,” he says, and there is a note in his voice that str ikes off-chord.

“Patrick gave me information that got me out of bed,” I correct. I try to mo ve around Caleb, but he blocks my exit. “Please. I have to go somewhere.”

“Nina, you're not going anywhere. The bracelet.”

I look at my husband's face. There are lines on his brow I cannot remember s eeing; with no small shock I realize I have put them there.

I owe him this.

So I put my hand on his arm, lead him to the bed, have him sit beside me on the edge. “Patrick found the name of the bone marrow donor. He's the pries t that came to visit St. Anne's this October. The one with the cat. His nam e is Arthur Gwynne, and he works at a church in Belle Chasse, Louisiana.” Caleb's face goes pale. “Why . . . why are you telling me this?” Because the first time, I acted alone, when I should have at least told you my plans. Because when they ask you in court, you will not have to testify. “Bec ause,” I say, “it's not finished yet.”

He reels back. “Nina. No.” I get up, but he catches my wrist, pulls me up cl ose to his face. My arm, twisted, hurts. “What are you gonna do? Break your house arrest to go kill another priest? One life sentence isn't enough for y ou? ”

“They have the death penalty in Louisiana,” I shoot back. My response is a guillotine, severing us. Caleb releases me so quickly I stumble and fall onto the floor. “Is that what you want?” he asks quietly. “ Are you that selfish?”

“Selfish?” By now I am crying, hard. “I'm doing this for our son.”

“You're doing this for yourself, Nina. If you were thinking of Nathaniel, ev en a little, you'd concentrate on being his mother. You'd get out of bed and get on with your life and let the legal system deal with Gwynne.”

“The legal system. You want me to wait for the courts to get around to char ging this bastard? While he rapes ten, twenty other children? And then wait some more while the governors of our states fight over who gets the honor of holding his trial? And then wait again while Nathaniel testifies against the son of a bitch? And watch Gwynne get a sentence that ends before our s on even stops having nightmares about what was done to him?” I draw in a lo ng, shaky breath. “There's your legal system, Caleb. Is it worth waiting fo r?”

When he doesn't answer, I get to my feet. “I'm already going to prison for ki lling a man. I don't have a life anymore. But Nathaniel can.”

“You want your son to grow up without you?” Caleb's voice breaks. “Let me save you the trouble.”

Standing abruptly, he leaves the bedroom, calling Nathaniel's name. “Hey, buddy,” I hear him say. “We're going on an adventure.” My hands and feet go numb. But I manage to get to Nathaniel's bedroom, and find Caleb haphazardly stuffing clothes into a Batman knapsack. "What . .

. what are you doing?"

“What does it look like I'm doing?” Caleb replies, an echo of my own earlie r words.

Nathaniel jumps up and down on his bed. His hair flies to the sides like sil k. “You can't take him away from me.”

Caleb zips shut the bag. “Why not? You were willing to take yourself away f rom him.” He turns to Nathaniel, forces a smile. “You ready?” he asks, and Nathaniel leaps into his outstretched arm.

“Bye, Mommy!” he crows. “We're on an adventure!”

“I know.” Smiling is hard, with this knot in my throat. “I heard.” Caleb carries him past me. There is the thunder of footsteps on the stairs, a nd the definitive slam of a door. The engine of Caleb's truck, revving and re versing down the driveway. Then it is so quiet I can hear my own misgivings, small susurrations in the air around me. I sink onto Nathaniel's bed, into sheets that smell of crayons and gingerbrea d. The fact of the matter is, I cannot leave this house. The moment I do, pol ice cars will come screaming up behind me. I will be arrested before I ever b oard a plane.

Caleb has succeeded; he's stopped me from doing what I so badly want to. Because he knows if I do walk out that door now, I won't go after Arthur Gwy nne at all. I'll be searching for my son.

Three days later Caleb has not called me. I have tried every hotel and motel in the area, but if he is staying at one, it's not under his own name. It's C hristmas Eve, though, and surely they will come back. Caleb is a big one for having holiday traditions, and to this end I have wrapped all of Nathaniel's Christmas presents-ones I've stored in the attic all year. From the dwindling supply of food in the refrigerator I have cooked a chicken and made celery s oup; I have set the table with our fancy wedding china.

I have cleaned up, too, because I want Caleb to notice that the moment he wa lks through the door. Maybe if he sees a difference on the outside, he will understand that I'm different within, too. My hair is coiled into a French t wist, and I'm wearing black velvet pants and a red blouse. In my ears are th e present Nathaniel gave me last Christmas-little snowman earrings made fro m Sculpy clay.

And yet, this is all just a surface glaze. My eyes are ringed with circles-I have not slept since they left, as if this is some kind of cosmic punishment for dozing away the days when we were all together. I walk the halls at night , trying to find the spots in the carpet that have been worn down by Nathanie l's running feet. I stare at old photographs. I haunt my own home. We have no tree, because I wasn't able to go out to chop one down. It's a tr adition for us to walk our property the Saturday before Christmas and pick o ne out as a family. But then, we have not been much of a family this holiday season.