Perfect Match (31 page)

He falls asleep in my embrace, and I watch him. That's when I tell him what I cannot manage to tell anyone else. I make a fist, the letter S, and move it in a circle over his heart. It is the truest way I know to say I'm sorry. Patrick wakes up when the sun is a live wire at the line of the horizon. He to uches his hand to Nina's shoulder, and then to his own chest, just to make sur e this is real. He lies back, stares into the glowing coals of the fireplace, and tries to wish away morning.

But it will come, and with it, all the explanations. And in spite of the fac t that he knows Nina better than she knows herself, he is not sure which exc use she will choose. She has made a living out of judging people's misdeeds. Yet no matter what argument she uses, it will all sound the same to him: Th is should not have happened; this was a mistake.

There is only one thing Patrick wants to hear on her lips, and that is his ow n name.

Anything else-well, it would just chip away at this, and Patrick wants to hol d the night intact. So he gently slides his arm out from beneath the sweet we ight of Nina's head. He kisses her temple, he breathes deeply of her. He lets go of her, before she has a chance to let go of him.

The tent, standing upright, is the first thing I see. The second is the absenc e of Patrick. Sometime during that incredible, deep sleep, he left me. It is probably better this way.

By the time I've cleaned up our feast from the previous night and showered, I have nearly convinced myself that this is true. But I cannot imagine see ing Patrick again without picturing him leaning over me, his black hair bru shing my face. And I don't think that the peace inside me, spread like hone y in my blood, can be chalked up to Christmas.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

But have I? Does Fate ever play by the rules? There is a gulf as wide as an ocean between should and want, and I am drowning in it.

The doorbell rings, and I jump up from the couch, hurriedly wiping my eyes. Patrick, maybe back with coffee, or bagels. If he makes the choice to retu rn, I'm absolved of blame. Even if it was what I was wishing for all along. But when I open the door, Caleb is standing on the porch, with Nathaniel i n front of him. My son's smile is brighter than the dazzle of snow on the driveway, and for one panicked moment I peer over Caleb's shoulder to see whether the tracks made by Patrick's police cruiser have been covered over by the storm. Can you smell transgression, like a perfume deep in the ski n? “Mommy!” Nathaniel shouts.

I lift him high, revel in the straight weight of him. My heart beats like a h ummingbird in my throat. “Caleb.”

He will not look at me. “I'm not staying.”

This is a mercy visit, then. In minutes, Nathaniel will be gone. I hug him clo ser.

“Merry Christmas, Nina,” Caleb says. “I'll pick him up tomorrow.” He nods at me, then walks off the porch. Nathaniel chatters, his excitement wrappi ng us tighter as the truck pulls away. I study the footprints Caleb has left in the snowy driveway as if they are clues, the unlikely proof of a ghost that comes and goes.

III Our virtues are most frequently but vices disguised.

-Frangois, Due de La Rochefoucauld 254 Today in school Miss Lydia gave us a special snack.

First, we had a piece of lettuce with a raisin on it. This was an egg. Then we had a string cheese caterpillar.

Next came a chrysalis, a grape.

The last part was a piece of cinnamon bread, cookie-cuttered into the body of a butterfly.

After, we went outside and set free the monarchs that had been born in our classroom. One landed on my wrist. It looked different now, but I just knew this was the same caterpillar I found a week before and gave to Miss Lydia . Then it flew into the sun.

Sometimes things change so fast it makes my throat hurt from the inside out .

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When I was four I found a caterpillar on my bedroom windowsill and decided to save its life. I made my mother take me to the library so that I could look it up in a Field guide. I punched pinholes in the top of a jar; I gave it gra ss and leaves and a tiny thimbleful of water. My mother said that if I didn't let the caterpillar go, it would die, but I was convinced I knew better. Out in the world, it could be run over by a truck. It could be scorched by the s un. My protection would stack the odds.

I changed its food and water religiously. I sang to it when the sun went down. And on the third day, in spite of my best intentions, that caterpillar died. Years later, it is happening all over again.

“No,” I tell Fisher. We have stopped walking; the cold January air is a cobra charmed up the folds of my coat. I thrust the paper back at him, as if holdi ng my son's name out of sight might keep it from being on the witness list at all.

“Nina, it's not your decision,” he says gently. “Nathaniel's going to have to te stify.”

“Quentin Brown's just doing this to get to me. He wants me to watch Nathanie l have a relapse in court so maybe I'll snap again, this time in front of a judge and a. jury.” Tears freeze on the tips of my eyelashes. I want it over , now. It was why I had murdered a man-because I thought that would stop this boulder from rolling on and on; because if the defendant was gone then my son would not have to sit on a witness stand and recount the worst thing that had ever happened to him. I wanted Nathaniel to be able to close this godawful chapter-and so, ironically, I didn't. But even this great sacrifice-of the priest's life, of my own future-has not done what it was supposed to.

Nathaniel and Caleb have kept their distance since Christmas, but every few days Caleb brings him to the house to spend a few hours with me. I don't k now how Caleb has explained our living arrangements to Nathaniel. Maybe he says I am too sick to take care of a child, or too sad; and maybe either of these are true. One thing is certain-it is not in Nathaniel's best interes ts to watch me plan for my own punishment. There is already too much he's w itnessed.

I know the name of the motel where they are staying, and sometimes, when I feel particularly courageous, I call. But Caleb always answers the phone, a nd either we have nothing to say to each other, or there are so many words clogging the wires between us that none of them fall forward. Nathaniel, though, is doing well. When he comes to the house, he is smilin g. He sings songs for me that Miss Lydia has taught the class. He no longe r jumps when you come up behind him and touch his shoulder.

All of this progress, and it will be erased at a competency hearing. In the park behind us, a toddler lies on his back making a snow angel. The p roblem with one of those is that you have to ruin it when you stand up. No m atter what, there is always a footprint binding you to the ground. “Fisher,” I say simply, “I'm going to jail.”

“You don't-”

“Fisher. Please.” I touch his arm. “I can handle that. I even believe that i t's what I deserve, because of what I did. But I killed a man for one reason and one reason only-to keep Nathaniel from being hurt any more. I don't wan t him to think about what happened to him ever again. If Quentin wants to pu nish someone, he can punish me. But Nathaniel, he's off limits.” He sighs. “Nina, I'll do the best I can-”

“You don't understand,” I interrupt. “That's not good enough.” Because Judge Neal hails from Portland, he doesn't have chambers at the Alfr ed Superior Court, so he's been given another judge's lair to borrow for the duration of my trial. Judge Mclntyre, however, spends his free time hunting . To this end, the small room is decorated with the heads of moose and ten-p oint bucks, prey that has lost the battle. And me? I think. Will I be next?

Fisher has filed a motion, and the resulting meeting is being held in private chambers to prevent the media from getting involved. “Judge, this is so outr ageous,” he says, “that I can't begin to express my absolute chagrin. The sta te has Father Szyszynski's death on videotape. What possible need do they hav e for this child to testify to anything?”

“Mr. Brown?” the judge prompts.

“Your Honor, the alleged rationale for the murder was the boy's psychiatric c ondition at the time, and the fact that the defendant believed her son had be en the victim of molestation at the hands of Father Szyszynski. The state has learned that, in fact, this is not the truth. It's important that the jury g et to hear what Nathaniel actually told his mother before she went out and ki lled this man.”

The judge shakes his head. “Mr. Carrington, it's going to be very difficult fo r me to quash a subpoena if the state alleges they can make it relevant. Now, once we're in trial, I may be able to rule that it's not relevant at all-but a s it stands now, this witness's testimony goes to motive.” Fisher tries once again. “If the state will submit a written allegation of what they believe the child's testimony to be, maybe we can stipulate to it, so tha t Nathaniel doesn't have to take the stand.”

“Mr. Brown, that seems reasonable,” the judge says.

“I disagree. Having this witness, in the flesh, is critical to my case.” There is a moment of surprised silence. “Think twice, counselor,” Judge Nea l urges.

“I have, Your Honor, believe me.”

Fisher looks at me, and I know exactly what he is about to do. His eyes are dark with sympathy, but he waits for me to nod before he turns to the judge again. “Judge, if the state is going to be this inflexible, then we need a c ompetency hearing. We're talking about a child who's been rendered mute twic e in the past six weeks.”

The judge will leap at this compromise, I know. I also know that of all the d efense attorneys I've seen in action, Fisher is one of the most compassionate toward children during competency hearings. But he won't be, not this time. Because the best-case scenario, now, is to get the judge to declare Nathaniel not competent, so that he will not have to suffer through a whole trial. And the only way Fisher can do that is to actively try to make Nathaniel fall to pieces.

Fisher has kept it to himself, but his personal opinion is that art is beginn ing to imitate life. That is, his insanity defense for Nina-a complete fabric ation at first-is starting to hit quite close to the mark. To keep her from d issolving after the motions hearing this morning, he took her out to lunch in a swanky restaurant, a place where she was less likely to have a breakdown. He had her tell him all the questions the prosecutor would ask Nathaniel on t he stand, questions she'd asked child witnesses a thousand times. The courthouse is dark now, empty except for the custodial staff, Caleb, Nat haniel, and Fisher. They move down the hall quietly, Nathaniel clutched in h is father's arms.

“He's a little nervous,” Caleb says, clearing his throat. Fisher ignores the comment. He might as well be walking a tightrope ten thou sand feet above the ground. The last thing he wants to do is deal harshly wi th the boy; but then again, if he's too solicitous, Nathaniel might feel com fortable enough at the hearing to be declared competent to stand trial. Eith er way, Nina will have his head.

Inside the court, Fisher switches on the overhead lights. They hiss, then flo od the room with a garish brilliance. Nathaniel burrows closer to his father, his face pressed into the big man's shoulder. Where is a roll of Turns when you need it?

“Nathaniel,” Fisher says tersely, “I need you to go sit in that chair. Your father is going to be in the back. He can't say anything to you, and you can 't say anything to him. You just have to answer my questions. You understand ?”

The boy's eyes are as wide as the night. He follows Fisher to the witness sta nd, then scrambles onto the stool that has been placed inside. “Get down for a second.” Fisher reaches inside and takes out the stool, replacing it with a low chair. Now, Nathaniel's brow does not even clear the lip of the witness stand.

“I ... I can't see anything,” Nathaniel whispers.

“You don't need to.”

Fisher is about to begin asking practice questions when a sound distracts hi m-Caleb, methodically gathering every high stool in the courtroom, corrallin g them near the double doors. “I thought maybe these might be ... better off somewhere else. So they're not around first thing in the morning.” He meets Fisher's gaze.

The attorney nods. “The closet. One of the janitors can lock them up.” When he turns back to the boy, he has to work to keep a smile off his face. Now Nathaniel knows why Mason always tries to pull out of his collar-this thi ng called a tie that doesn't have a bow in it at all is choking his neck. He t ugs at it again, only to have his father grab his hand. There are flutters in his stomach, and he'd rather be at school. Here, everyone is going to be stari ng at him. Here, everyone wants him to talk about things he doesn't like to sa y.

Nathaniel clutches Franklin, his stuffed turtle, more tightly. The closed doo rs of the courtroom sigh open, and a man who looks like a policeman but isn't one waves them inside. Nathaniel moves hesitantly down the rolled red tongue of carpet. The room is not as spooky as it was last night in the dark, but h e still has the feeling that he is walking into the belly of a whale. His hea rt begins to tap as fast as rain on a windshield, and he holds his hand up to his chest to keep everyone else from hearing, too.

His mommy is sitting in the front row. Her eyes are puffy, and before she see s him standing there she wipes them with her fingers. It makes Nathaniel thin k of all the other times she's pretended she isn't crying, says it with a smi le, even though there are tears right on her cheeks.

There is a big man in the front of the room too, with skin the color of che stnuts. It is the same man who was in the supermarket; who made his mother get taken away. His mouth looks like it has been sewn shut.

The Lawyer sitting next to his mother gets up and walks toward Nathaniel. He does not like the Lawyer. Every time the Lawyer comes to his house, his parents have yelled at each other. And last night, when Nath aniel had been brought here to practice, the Lawyer was downright mean. Now, he puts his hand on Nathaniel's shoulder. “Nathaniel, I know you're worried about your mommy. I am, too. I want her to be happy again, but th ere is someone here who doesn't like your mommy. His name is Mr. Brown. D o you see him over there? The tall man?“ Nathaniel nods. ”He's going to a sk you some questions. I can't stop him from doing that. But when you ans wer them, remember-I'm here to help your mommy. He isn't.“ Then he walks Nathaniel to the front of the courtroom. There are more people there than last night-a man wearing a black dress and holding a hammer; ano ther person with hair that stands straight up on his head in little curls; a lady with a typewriter. His mom. And the big man who doesn't like her. They walk to the little fence-box where Nathaniel had to sit before. He crawls o nto the chair that is too low, then folds his hands in his lap. The man in the black dress speaks. ”Can we get a higher seat for this child?“ Everyone starts looking left and right. The almost-policeman says what ever yone else can see: ”There don't seem to be any around.”

“What do you mean? We always have extra stools for child witnesses.”

“Well, I could go to Judge Shea's courtroom to see if he has any, but there won't be anybody here to watch the defendant, Your Honor.” The man in the dress sighs, then hands Nathaniel a fat book. “Why don't you sit on my Bible, Nathaniel?”

He does, wiggling a little, because his bum keeps sliding off. The curly man walks up to him with a smile. “Hi, Nathaniel,” he says. Nathaniel doesn't know if he is supposed to talk yet.

“I need you to put your hand on the Bible for me.”

“But I'm sitting on it.”

The man takes out another Bible, and holds it in front of Nathaniel like a ta ble. “Raise your right hand,” he says, and Nathaniel lifts one arm into the a ir. “Your other right hand,” the man corrects. “Do you swear to tell the trut h, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” Nathaniel vehemently shakes his head.

“Is there a problem?” This from the man in the black dress.

“I'm not supposed to swear,” he whispers.

His mommy smiles, then, and hiccups out a laugh. Nathaniel thinks it is the prettiest sound he has ever heard.

“Nathaniel, I'm Judge Neal. I need you to answer some questions for me tod ay. Do you think you can do that?”

He shrugs.

“Do you know what a promise is?” When Nathaniel nods, the judge points to the lady who is typing. “I need you to speak out, because that woman is wr iting down everything we say, and she has to hear you. You think you can t alk nice and loud for her?”

Nathaniel leans forward. And at the top of his lungs, yells, “Yes!”

“Do you know what a promise is?”

“Yes!”

“Do you think you can promise to answer some questions today?”

“Yes!”

The judge leans back, wincing a little. "This is Mr. Brown, Nathaniel, and he'

s going to talk to you first."

Nathaniel looks at the big man, who stands up and smiles. He has white, whit e teeth. Like a wolf. He is nearly as tall as the ceiling and Nathaniel take s one look at him coming closer and thinks of him hurting his mother and the n turning around and biting Nathaniel himself in two.

He takes a deep breath, and bursts into tears.

The man stops in his tracks, like he's lost his balance. “Go away!” Nathanie l shouts. He draws up his knees, and buries his face in them.

“Nathaniel.” Mr. Brown comes forward slowly, holding out his hand. “I just need to ask you a couple of questions. Is that okay?”

Nathaniel shakes his head, but he won't look up. Maybe the big man has las er eyes too, like Cyclops from the X-Men. Maybe he can freeze them with on e glance and with the next, make them burst into fire.

“What's your turtle's name?” the big man asks.

Nathaniel buries Franklin under his knees, so that he won't have to see the m an either. He covers his face with his hands and peeks out, but the man has g otten even closer and this makes Nathaniel turn sideways in the chair, as if he might slip through the slats on the back side of it.