Perfect Match (43 page)

When I look up again, Quentin is gone.

After a few weeks, the interviews stop. The eagle eye of the news refocuses on some other sordid story. A caravan of media vehicles snakes its way sou th, and we go back to what we used to be.

Well, most of us do.

Nathaniel is stronger every day; and Caleb has picked up a few new jobs. Pa trick called me from Chicago, his halfway point to the West Coast. So far, he is the only one who has been brave enough to ask me how I will fill my d ays now that I am not a prosecutor.

It has been such a big part of me for so long that there's no easy answer. M aybe I'll write the book everyone seems to want me to write. Maybe I'll give free legal advice to senior citizens at the town recreation hall. Maybe I w ill just stay at home and watch my son grow up.

I tap the envelope in my hand. It is from the Bar Disciplinary Committee, an d it has been on the kitchen counter, unopened, for nearly two months. There 's no point in opening it now, either. I know what it will say. Sitting down at the computer, I type a very concise note. I am tartly turning in my license; I no longer wish to practice law. Sincerely, Nina Frost,

I print it, and an envelope to match. Fold, lick, seal, stamp. Then I put on my boots and walk down the driveway to the mailbox.

“Okay,” I say out loud, after I put it inside and raise the red flag. “Okay,” I repeat, when what I really mean is, What do I do now?

There's always one week in January that's a thaw. Without warning, the tempe rature climbs to fifty degrees; the snow melts in puddles wide as a lake; pe ople take to sitting on Adirondack chairs in their shorts, watching it all h appen.

This year, however, the thaw's gone on for a record number of days. It start ed the day of Nina's release. That very afternoon, the town skating pond was closed due to spotty ice; by the end of the week teenagers were skateboardi ng down sidewalks; there was even word of a few crocuses pushing their way u p through the inevitable mud. It has been good for business, that's for sure -construction that couldn't get done in the dead of winter has suddenly been given a reprieve. And it has also, for the first time Caleb can recall, mad e the sap run in the maple trees this early in the year.

Yesterday Caleb set up his taps and buckets; today, he is walking the perime ter of his property, collecting the sap. The sky seems crisp as a lancet, an d Caleb has his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. The mud is a succubus, grabbing for his boots, but even that can't slow him. Days like this, they j ust don't come around often enough.

He pours the sap into huge vats. Forty gallons of this sweet juice will boil down to a single gallon of maple syrup. Caleb makes it right on the kitchen s tove, in a spaghetti pot, straining each batch through a sieve before it thic kens. For Nina and Nathaniel, it's all about the end product-pouring it on pa ncakes and waffles. But to Caleb, the beauty is in the way you get there. The blood of a tree, a spout, and a bucket. Steam rising, the scent filling ever y corner of the house. There is nothing quite like it: knowing every breath y ou take is bound to be sweet.

Nathaniel is building a bridge, although it might turn out to be a tunnel. Th e cool thing about Legos is that you can change them right in the middle. Sometimes when he builds he pretends he is his father, and he does i t with the same careful planning. And sometimes when he builds he pretends h e is his mother, and takes a tower as high as it can go before it falls to t he ground.

He has to work around the dog's tail, because Mason happens to be sleeping r ight on the middle of his bedroom floor, but that's all right too, because t his could be a village with a monstrous beast. In fact, he might be creating the wicked awesome getaway boat.

But where will they all go? Nathaniel thinks for a minute, then lays down fo ur greens and four reds, begins to build. He makes sturdy walls and wide win dows. A level of a house, his father has told him, is called a story. Nathaniel likes that. It makes him feel like maybe he is living between the covers of a book himself. Like maybe everyone in every home is sure to get a happy ending.

Laundry is always a good, mindless start. Ours seems to reproduce at the dank bottom of its bin, so that regardless of how careful we are with our clothes , there is always a full basket every other day. I fold the clean wash and ca rry it upstairs, putting Nathaniel's items away before I tackle my own. It is when I go to fold a pair of my jeans over a hanger that I see the duff el bag. Has it really been sitting here, shoved into the back of the closet, for two weeks? Caleb probably never even noticed; he has enough clothes in his drawers to have overlooked unpacking the bag he took with him to the mot el. But seeing it is an eyesore; it reminds me of the moment he moved out. I pull out a few long-sleeved shirts, some boxers. It is not until I toss them into the laundry bin that I realize my hand is sticky. I rub my fingers togethe r, frown, pick up one shirt again and shake it out.

There is a big, green stain on one corner.

There are stains on some socks too. It looks as if something has spilled all over, but when I look in the bag, there's no open bottle of shampoo. Then, it doesn't smell like shampoo either. It is a scent I cannot place, exact ly. Something industrial.

The last item in the bag is a pair of jeans. Out of habit, I reach into the poc kets to make sure Caleb hasn't left money or receipts inside. In the left rear pocket is a five-dollar bill. And in the right rear pocket are boarding passes for two US Air flights: one from Boston to New Orleans , one from New Orleans to Boston, both dated January 3, 2002. The day after Nathaniel's competency hearing.

Caleb's voice comes from a few feet behind me. “I did what I had to do.” Caleb is yelling at Nathaniel to stop playing with the antifreeze. “How many times do I have to tell you . . . It's poison.” Mason, lapping at the puddle because it tastes so sweet; he does not know any better.

“The cat,” I whisper, turning to him. “The cat died too.”

"I know. I figure it got at the rest of the cocoa. Ethylene glycol is toxic . .

. but it's sweet enough.“ He reaches for me, but I back away. ”You told me his name. You said it wasn't over yet. All I did,“ Caleb says softly, ”is finish w hat you started."

“Don't.” I hold up my hand. “Caleb, don't tell me this.”

“You're the only one I can tell.”

He is right, of course. As his wife, I am not obligated to testify against him . Not even if Gwynne is autopsied, and there are traces of poison in the tissu es. Not even if evidence leads right to Caleb.

But then, I have spent three months learning the repercussions of taking th e law into one's own hands. I have watched my husband walk out the door-not because he was judging me, it turns out, but because he was trying himself . I have come so close to losing everything I ever wanted-a life I was too foolish to value until it was nearly taken away.

I stare at Caleb, waiting for an explanation.

Yet there are some feelings so far-flung and wide that words cannot cover t hem. As language fails Caleb, his eyes lock onto mine, and he spells out wh at he cannot speak. His hands come up to clasp each other tightly. To someo ne who does not know how to listen in a different way, it looks like he is praying for the best. But me, I know the sign for marriage.

It is all he needs to say to make me understand.

Suddenly Nathaniel bursts into our bedroom. “Mom, Dad!” he yells. “I made t he coolest castle in the world. You have to see it.” He spins before he has even come to a complete stop, and runs back, expecting us to follow.

Caleb watches me. He cannot take the first step. After all, the only way to communicate is to find someone who can comprehend; the only way to be forg iven is to find someone who is willing to forgive. So I start for the door, turning back at the threshold. “Come on,” I say to Caleb. “He needs us.” 352 f the rest of me. One of the steps just isn't where it is supposed to be, and I fall really hard onto the railing where hands go. I hit the part of my arm tha t makes a corner, the part with the name that sounds just like what it is. L-bo w.

It happens when I am trying to come down the stairs superfast, my feet ahead o f the rest of me. One of the steps just isn't where it is supposed to be, and I fall really hard onto the railing where hands go. I hit the part of my arm t hat makes a corner, the part with the name that sounds just like what it is. L -bow.

The hurt feels like a shot, a needle going in right there and spreading out l ike fire under the rest of my arm. I can't feel my fingers, and my hand goes wide. It hurts more than when I fell on the ice last year and my ankle got as fat as the rest of my leg. It hurts more than when I went over the handlebar s of my bike and scraped up the whole front of my face and needed two stitche s. It hurts so much that I have to get past the ouch of it before I can remem ber to cry.

“Moooooooooooml”

When I yell like that, she can come quick as a ghost, the air empty one minut e and full of her the next. “What hurts?” she cries. She touches all the plac es I am holding close to myself.

“I think I broke my funny bone,” I say.

“Hmm.” She moves that arm up and down. Again. Then she puts her hands on my shoulders and looks up at me. “Tell a joke.”

“Mom!”

“How else are we going to know for sure if it's broken?” I shake my head. “It doesn't work that way.”

She picks me up and carries me into the kitchen. “Says who?” She laughs, a nd before I know it I am laughing back, which must mean I'm going to be ok ay after all.

She laughs, and before I know it I am laughing back, which must mean I'm g oing to be okay after all.