Perfect Match (7 page)

Nathaniel lies in bed thinking about the time he took a baby chick home from school. Well, it wasn't a chick exactly ... it was an egg that Miss Lydia had put in the trash, as if they were all too dumb to count that there were now three eggs instead of four in the incubator. The other eggs, though, had turn ed into little yellow cotton balls that cheeped. So that day before his fathe r picked him up, Nathaniel went into Miss Lydia's office and slipped the egg out of the garbage can, into the sleeve of his shirt.

He'd slept with it under his pillow, sure if it had a little more time it wou ld turn into a chick like the others had. But all it had come to were nightma res-of his father making an omelet in the morning, cracking the shell, and a live baby chick falling into the sizzling pan. His father had found the egg b eside his bed three days later; it had tumbled to the floor. He hadn't cleane d the mess up in time: Nathaniel could still remember the silvered dead eye, the knotted gray body, the thing that might have been a wing. Nathaniel used to think the Creature he'd seen that morning-it wasn't a chic k, that was for sure-was the scariest something that could ever exist. Even now, from time to time when he blinks, it is there on the backs of his eyeli ds. He has stopped eating eggs, because he is afraid of what might be inside . An item that looks perfectly normal on the surface might only be disguised. Nathaniel stares up at his ceiling. There are even scarier things; he knows t hat now.

The door to his bedroom opens wider, and someone steps in. Nathaniel is still thinking of the Creature, and the Other, and he can't see around the bright hall light. He feels something sink onto the bed, curl around him, as if Nath aniel is the dead thing now and needs to grow a shell to hide inside.

“It's okay,” his father's voice says at his ear. “It's only me.” His arms come around tight, keep him from trembling. Nathaniel closes his eyes, and for the f irst time since he's gone to bed that night, he doesn't see the chick at all. The moment before we step into Dr. Robichaud's office the next day, I have a sudden surge of hope. What if she looks at Nathaniel and decides she ha s misinterpreted his behavior? What if she apologizes, stamps our son's re cord with red letters, MISTAKEN? But when we walk inside, there's a new pe rson joining us, and it is all I need to blow my fairy-tale ending sky hig h. In a place as small as York County, I couldn't prosecute child molestat ion cases and not know Monica LaFlamme. I don't have anything against her, specifically, just her agency. In our office we change the acronym of BCY F to suit us: TGDSW-Those God Damn Social Workers; or RTSM-Red Tape Societ y of Maine. The last case I'd worked with Monica had involved a boy diagno sed with oppositional defiance disorder-a condition, ultimately, that prev ented us from prosecuting his abuser.

She gets up, her hands extended, as if she is my best friend. “Nina ... I am so , so sorry to hear about this.”

My eyes are flint; my heart is hard as a diamond. I do not fall for this touch y-feely bullshit in my profession; I'm sure as hell not going to fall for it i n my personal life. “What can you do for me, Monica?” I ask bluntly. The psychiatrist, I can tell, is shocked. Probably she's never heard anyone talk back to the BCYF before. Probably she thinks she ought to put me on P rozac.

“Oh, Nina. I wish I could do more.”

“You always do,” I say, and that's the point when Caleb interrupts.

“I'm sorry, we haven't been introduced,” he mumbles, squeezing my arm in warning. He shakes hands with Monica and says hello to Dr. Robichaud, ush ering Nathaniel inside to play.

“Ms. LaFlamme is the caseworker assigned to Nathaniel,” the psychiatrist ex plains. “I thought it might be helpful for you to meet her; have her answer some of your questions.”

“Here's one,” I start. “How do I go about getting BCYF uninvolved?” Dr. Robichaud looks nervously at Caleb, then at me. “Legally-”

“Thank you, but legally, I pretty much know the routine. See, that was a tr ick question. The answer is that the BCYF is already uninvolved. They never get involved.” I'm babbling, I can't help it. Seeing Monica here is too st range, like work and home have tunneled through the same wormhole in time.

“I give you a name and tell you what he did . . . and then you can go do yo ur job?”

“Well,” Monica says, her voice as smooth as caramel. I have always hated car amel. “It's true, Nina, that a victim has to give an ID before we-” A victim. She has reduced Nathaniel to any of a hundred cases I have prose cuted over the years. To any of a hundred lousy outcomes. That is why, I r ealize, seeing Monica LaFlamme in Dr. Robichaud's office has turned me ins ide out. It means Nathaniel has already been given a number and a file in a system that I know is bound to fail him.

“This is my son,'' I say through clenched teeth. ”I don't care what procedure calls for. I don't care if you don't have an ID; if you don't get one for mo nths or years. Take the whole population of Maine, then, and rule them out on e by one. But start, Monica. Jesus Christ. Start."

By the time I finish speaking, the others are staring at me as if I've grown another head. I glance at Nathaniel-playing with blocks, although none of t hese good people convened on his behalf are watching, for God's sake-and wal k out the door.

Dr. Robichaud catches up to me in the parking lot. Her heels click on the pa vement, and I smell a cigarette being lit. “Want one?”

“Don't smoke. But thanks.”

We are leaning against a car that isn't mine. A black Camaro festooned with f uzzy dice. The door is unlocked. If I get in and drive away, can I steal that person's life, too?

“You sound a little . . . frazzled,” Dr. Robichaud says. I have to laugh at that. “Is Understatement 101a course in med school?”

“Of course. It's the prereq for Lying Through One's Teeth.” Dr. Robichaud ta kes a final drag and crushes out her cigarette beneath her pump. "I know it'

s the last thing you want to hear, but in Nathaniel's case, time isn't your enemy."

She doesn't know that. She hadn't even met Nathaniel a week ago. She doesn'

t look at him every morning and remember, in sharp counterpoint, the little boy who used to ask so many questions-why birds on electrical wires don't get electrocuted, why fire is blue in the center, who invented dental floss -that I once, stupidly, wished for peace and quiet.

“He'll come back to you, Nina,” Dr. Robichaud says quietly. I squint into the sun. “At what price?”

She doesn't have an answer for that. “Nathaniel's mind is protecting him now . He isn't in pain. He isn't thinking about what happened nearly as much as you are.“ Hesitating, she extends an olive branch. ”I could refer you to an adult psychiatrist, who might be able to prescribe something.”

“I don't want any drugs.”

“Maybe you'd like someone to talk to, then.”

“Yes,” I say, turning to face her. “My son.” I look at the book once more to check. Then I pat my lap with one hand, and snap my fingers. “Dog,” I say, and as if I've cued it, our retriever comes r unning.

Nathaniel's lips curve as I shove the dog away. “No, Mason. Not now.” He t urns in a circle beneath the wrought-iron table, settles on my feet. A coo l October wind sends leaves parachuting our way-crimson and ocher and gold . They catch in Nathaniel's hair, bookmark themselves in the pages of the sign language manual.

Slowly, Nathaniel's hands creep out from beneath his thighs. He points to hi mself, then extends his arms, palms upright. Curling his fingers in, he draws his hands close. I want. He pats his lap, tries to snap his fingers .

“You want the dog?” I say. “You want Mason?” Nathaniel's face goes several shades sunnier. He nods, his mouth gaping wide in a grin. This is his first whole sentence in nearly a week. At the sound of his name, the dog lifts his shaggy head and pokes his nose into Nathaniel's belly. “Well, you asked for it!” I laugh. By the time Nath aniel has managed to push Mason away, his cheeks are flushed with pride. We have not learned much-the signs for want, and more, and drink, and dog. Bu t we have made a start.

I reach for Nathaniel's tiny hand, one I have fashioned into all the letters o f the American Sign Language alphabet this afternoon . . . although soft, smal l fingers don't stay tangled that well in knots. Folding down his middle and f ourth fingers so that all the others are still extended, I help him make the c ombined I, L, Y that signifies I love you.

Suddenly Mason leaps up, nearly crashing over the table, and bounds to the g ate to greet Caleb. “What's going on?” he asks, one glance taking in the thi ck manual, the rigid set of Nathaniel's hand.

“We,” I say, pointedly moving my index finger from shoulder to shoulder, “a re working.” I make two fists-S handshapes-and tap one on the other, to sim ulate hard labor.

“We,” Caleb announces, grabbing the book from the table to tuck it under his arm, “are not deaf.”

Caleb is not in favor of Nathaniel learning American Sign Language. He think s if we give Nathaniel such a tool, he might never have the incentive to spe ak again. I think that Caleb hasn't spent enough time trying to divine what his son wants to eat for breakfast. “Watch this,” I urge, and nod at Nathani el, trying to get him to do his sentence again. “He's so smart, Caleb.”

“I know he is. It's not him I'm worried about.” He grabs my elbow. “Can I ta lk to you alone for a minute?”

We move inside and close the slider, so that Nathaniel cannot hear. “How m any words do you think you have to teach him before you can start using th is language to ask him who did it?” Caleb says.

Bright spots of color rise to my cheeks. Have I been that transparent? "All I want, all Dr. Robichaud wants, is to give Nathaniel a chance to 57 communicate. Because being like this is frustrating him. Today I taught him to say 'I want the dog.' Maybe you'd like to explain to me how that's goin g to lead to a conviction. Maybe you'd like to-explain to your son why you'

re so dead set on taking away the only method he has to express himself.“ Caleb spreads his splayed hands like an umpire. It is the sign for don't, al though I am sure he does not know this. ”I can't fight with you, Nina. You'r e too good at it." He opens the door and kneels down in front of Nathaniel.

“You know, it's an awfully nice day to be sitting here, studying. You could play on the swings, if you want-”

Play: two Y handshapes, caught at the pinkies to shake. “-or build a road in your sandbox ...”

Build: U handshapes, stacking one on top of the other over and over.

“. . . and you don't have to say anything, Nathaniel, if you're not ready. Not even with words that you make with your hands.” Caleb smiles at Nathani el. “Okay?” When Nathaniel nods, Caleb picks him up, swinging him high over his head to sit on his shoulders. “What do you say we go pick the crab app les in the woods?” he asks. “I'll be your ladder.” Just before he breaks the edge of our property, Nathaniel twists on his father 's shoulders. It's hard to see from this distance, but it seems that he's hold ing up a hand. To wave? I start to wave back, and then realize that his finger s are making that I, L, Y combination, then reconfiguring into what looks like a peace sign.

It may not be technically right, but I can understand Nathaniel, loud and clea r.

I love you, too.

Myrna Oliphant, the secretary shared by all five assistant district attorne ys in Alfred, is a woman nearly as wide as she is high. Her sensible shoes squeak when she walks, she smells of Brylcreem, and she can allegedly type an astounding hundred words a minute, although no one has ever actually see n her do it. Peter and I always joke that we see more of Myrna's back than her front, since she seems to have a sixth sense about disappearing the mom ent any of us need her.

So when I walk into my office eight days after Nathaniel stops speaking, a nd she comes right up to me, I know everything's wrong. “Nina,” she says, tsking. “Nina.” She puts her hand to her throat-there are real tears in her eyes. “If there's anything ...”

“Thank you,” I say, humbled. It does not surprise me that she knows what has happened; I told Peter and I'm sure he filled everyone else in on the relev ant details. The only sick days I've ever used have been when Nathaniel had strep or chicken pox; in a way my absence from work now has been no differen t, except that this illness is more insidious. “But you know, right now, I j ust need to get things taken care of here, so that I can go back home.”

“Yes, yes.” Myrna clears her throat, going professional. “Your messages, of course, Peter's been taking care of. And Wallace is expecting you.” She he ads back to her desk, but hesitates a moment, remembering. “I put a note up at the church,” she says, and that's when I remember she, too, is a member of the congregation at St. Anne's. There is a small roped square on the Ne ws and Notes bulletin board, where people can request that a Hail Mary or O ur Father be said for family members or friends in need. Myrna smiles at me . “Maybe God's listening to those prayers even now.”

“Maybe.” I do not say what I'm thinking: And where was God when it My office is just the way I left it. I sit gingerly in my swivel chair, push the papers around on my desk, scan my phone messages. It is good to come ba ck to a place that looks, and is, exactly the way I've remembered it in my m ind.

A knock. Peter comes in, then shuts the door behind him. “I don't know what to say,” he admits.

“Then don't say anything. Just come in and sit down.” Peter sprawls in the chair on the other side of my desk. "Are you sure, Nina?

I mean, is it possible that the psychiatrist is jumping to conclusions?"

“I saw the same behaviors she did. And I jumped to the same conclusions.” I look up at him. “A specialist found physical proof of penetration, Peter.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Peter clasps his hands between his knees, at a loss. “What can I do for you, Nina?”

“You've been doing it. Thanks.” I smile at him. “Whose brain matter was it, in the car?”

Peter's eyes are soft on my face. “Who the hell cares? You shouldn't be thin king about that. You shouldn't even be here.”

I am torn between confiding in him, and ruining his good impression of me. “B ut Peter,“ I admit quietly, ”it's easier.”