Shelter (60 page)

    "Nicholas," said Fred, "I can tell you're upset. It's okay to be upset when we can't find things. Did your parents buy you the book about the Hobbit, and now you can't find it? Is that why you're upset?"

    "He's not a book," Nicholas said, lower lip quivering. "He's a man and he lived in a hole in the ground! He was taking care of Bluebell!"

    Oh, boy. "Nicky," Roberta said, "we sent Bluebell home with you. You gave me a note from your father."

    "And I gave her to the Hobbit! I told you that!"

    The phone on the wall rang. It was the phone for private conversations between Fred and the teacher during schooltime. Fred had never used it before. "Roberta," Fred said, "it's for you."

    "Thank you," she said, and picked it up, half expecting it to be Preston.

    "Fred? Is that you?"

    "Yes, Roberta. There's something you should know. Yesterday afternoon, Meredith Walford-Lindgren called the police to deal with a vagrant she feared had been interacting inappropriately with her son. The police arrested him. His name is Henry Carviero, and evidently he'd been living in a cave in the side of Telegraph Hill, between here and Nicholas's house. The story doesn't mention a mouse."

    Dear Goddess. Nicholas really had given Bluebell to a baggie, which meant that at the tender age of five he'd run a gigantic scam on all of them, including the AI, which meant he was much more seriously fucked up than Roberta had imagined. So much for the imaginary friend. "How do you know this?" she asked, her mouth dry.

    "Police reports, Roberta. They're public."

    Was checking police records part of Fred's job? Was checking up on parents part of Fred's job? Or had Preston told him this? At this point, Roberta knew, she and Fred were long past legally due to report Nicholas's bizarre behavior. But if Preston knew as much as she thought he did and hadn't done it himself, that probably meant he didn't want them to, either. There was no way to know for sure without talking to him.

    Shit.

    And then there was Fred's role in all this. He had outside security cameras, right? How far could he see? Had he seen Nicholas talking to the baggie? The side of Telegraph Hill wasn't very far away. If he'd seen Nicholas talking to a baggie, he shouldn't have stayed quiet about it either.

    "Roberta?" Fred said. "Roberta, are you still there?"

    "Yes, Fred. I'm sorry. I was—thinking. Thank you for the information."

    She hung up, detachedly aware that her legs had begun to tremble the way they'd done when Doe left. She sat down next to Nicholas and said, "Nicky, I'm sorry you're upset." It was what Fred would have said; she hoped Fred would pick up from here, because she had no idea what to say next.

    "Mommy made the police take him away," Nicholas said, and started to cry. She'd never seen him cry before. Roberta put her arms out and Nicholas walked into them; she rocked the solid little body, thinking that at least, as helpless as she felt, hugging Nicholas was something Fred couldn't do. "The Hobbit never hurt me and he never hurt Bluebell and Mommy made them take him away! I hate her!"

    Weird. Weirder and weirder. Meredith the CALM advocate: Roberta would have expected her to invite the guy in for tea and then get it broadcast on the evening news. But she supposed that Meredith's professed beliefs became rather brittle when it came to her own child.

    Roberta wondered if Fred would say something comforting, tell Nicholas that the police had probably found a nicer place for the Hobbit to live, but Fred said nothing. Fred was programmed always to tell the truth to children—although perhaps not to adults, Roberta thought grimly—and Fred must have known as well as Roberta did that Henry Carviero wouldn't be seeing daylight again anytime soon. "Oh, honey," she said, rocking Nicholas, "Nicky, I'm sorry about the Hobbit. I'm sorry you miss your friend." And I'm furious that you lied to us, you little shit. She wanted to protect Nicholas and kill him at the same time. She wondered if Meredith ever felt this way.

    "I had to give Bluebell away," Nicholas said miserably. "I gave her to the Temple so I can go see her sometimes, but the Temple doesn't need a mouse. They have lots of animals. The Hobbit needed her to keep him company."

    Roberta shook her head. "Nicholas, I don't understand. Why couldn't you keep Bluebell yourself? You brought me a note from your father saying it was all right for you to take her home. Why couldn't Bluebell live at your house?"

    Nicholas shuddered and began to cry again, harder. "Mommy wouldn't let me. Mommy said I couldn't have her."

    It didn't make any sense. Meredith Walford-Lindgren loved animals; everyone knew that, and she doted on her son. "Sweetheart, why not? Your mom had pets when she was a little girl, didn't she?"

    "Because Patty died," Nicholas said, and shoved his way, hard, out of Roberta's arms. For the next ten minutes he ran, arms outstretched, in circles around the room. He told Fred and Roberta that he was pretending to be an airplane, but it looked to Roberta as if he was trying very hard to run away from something.

    * * *

    To Roberta's relief, the rest of the day passed without crisis. It was Steven's birthday, and he'd asked if they could make sugar cookies and then decorate them. Roberta made enough dough for each kid to make several cookies, one to give to Steven and a few to take home. She rolled dough and cut out cookies-stars, flowers, cars, elephants, pudgy people—for the kids to adorn with sprinkles, licorice, and cinnamon drops, raisins and chocolate chips and M&Ms. They loved decorating cookies, and Roberta liked it too, even though it always resulted in an awful mess. Fortunately, none of the parents had ever complained, even though the project meant that the kids invariably went home wired on sugar.

    Sugar was the last thing Nicholas needed today, Roberta thought ruefully, but he settled down to decorating a dough person right away. Roberta peered over his shoulder and saw him patting into place a big raisin smile.

    "Hey, Nick, that's one happy cookie. Is that for Steven, for his birthday?"

    "No," Nicholas said. "It's for Fred."

    "Nicholas," said Fred, "that's very nice of you, but I don't eat cookies. And I think it would be nice if you made a cookie for Steven, because it's his birthday. He drew a picture for you on your birthday."

    Nicholas sighed. "Okay." He reached past Zillinth, over to the tray with undecorated sugar stars, and sprinkled chocolate chips on top of one of them. "There. That one's for Steven."

    "You're lazy," Zillinth said. "I'm making a nice one for Steven, 'cause it's his birthday."

    "That's because you want to marry him," Benjamin said smugly.

    "Do not, Benjamin!"

    "Zillinth," Fred cut in, "don't throw raisins at Benjamin. That's not nice. Can you pick them up now, please? So Roberta doesn't have to do it all herself?"

    "I'll help," Steven said. He loved raisins, and would eat as many as possible. Let him: it was his birthday.

    Nicholas, ignoring the others, looked up at Roberta. "I did one for Steven. Now can I work on Fred again?"

    So the cookie was Fred. She wasn't about to scold him, not after the morning. "Sure, Nick. This way you can take Fred home with you, right?"

    Nicholas nodded. "It's a body for Fred, so he can move around." "Thank you, Nicholas," said Fred. "I'd like to be able to move around. Then I could go home and play with you."

    Nicholas nodded, squinting at the cookie. He was doing something with tiny gold sugar balls that Roberta couldn't quite make out yet. "What's that?" she asked him. "Are you giving Fred a toy now, so he can play with you?"

    "No," Nicholas said, without even the hint of a smile. "This is a gun."

    "I didn't know you liked to play with guns," said Fred. "You don't play cops and terrorists with the other children."

    "That's make-believe," Nicholas said scornfully. "This is real."

    "A real gun?" Roberta said, working to keep her voice casual. And the Hobbit had been an imaginary friend. This kid had very fluid notions of reality.

    "Yes."

    "Do you have one too?"

    "No. That's why Fred needs one. To protect me." He frowned at the cookie and said, "I don't know if this gun's big enough." He began filling the barrel of the gold gun with cinnamon drops.

    "Are those bullets?" Roberta asked, her throat tight.

    "Of course they're bullets! Can't have a gun without bullets."

    "Who are the bullets going to hit?" Fred asked calmly. Meredith, Roberta thought grimly. For taking the Hobbit away.

    "The monsters," Nicholas said matter-of-factly, just as Steven dumped an entire cup of sprinkles into Zillinth's hair.

    * * *

    At least it wasn't peanut butter, and at least no one except Roberta was upset; Zillinth took the whole thing in high good spirits. Roberta got her cleaned up, got the cookies in the oven, and got everything else cleaned up too; Fred told the kids a story while the cookies cooked and cooled, and then the kids admired their handiwork and sang "Happy Birthday" to Steven and began getting stoned on sugar.

    Meredith came to pick up Nicholas after school. Of course, she usually did, but she hardly ever actually came inside the building. Roberta, looking up from cookie cleanup to see the familiar, aristocratic features, felt her stomach lurch. Now Nicholas was going to throw a tantrum about how much he hated his mother, and Roberta would be in the middle of it.

    He didn't throw a tantrum. Instead, he threw himself into his mother's arms as if it had been years since he'd seen her, instead of hours. Meredith bent down, planted a firm kiss on his forehead, and scooped him into her arms before rising again. She was stronger than she looked; Nicholas, Roberta knew from experience, wasn't a light load. "So," Meredith said, "how was school today, Nicky?"

    "It was good. We made cookies. I made a body for Fred. Say hello to Roberta and Fred, Mommy."

    "Hello to Roberta and Fred," said Meredith, smiling.

    "Hi," Roberta said, wiping the last remains of cookie dough off her hands.

    "Hello, Ms. Walford-Lindgren. How are you today?"

    Meredith squinted up at the nearest speaker, her expression unreadable.

    "I'm just fine, Fred, thank you. I wanted to find out how Nicholas did in school today. He had a rather upsetting weekend."

    "Yes, he told us about it," Fred said.

    Nicholas squirmed in her arms. "I was good, Mommy. I was!"

    "He really was," Roberta said. Surely there was no way she could get into trouble for defending the child. "He was upset when he got here, and he was more active than usual—he ran around more, to vent his feelings, I guess—but he didn't do anything wrong." Nicholas never did anything visibly wrong, although he certainly knew how to spin a story. Surely his own mother had to know that? But Roberta remembered the weird business about arming Fred, and shivered.

    "Ms. Walford-Lindgren," Fred said, "maybe it would be best if Roberta and I spoke to you privately, in the conference room. Nicholas, do you think you can play by yourself for a few minutes while we talk to your mother?"

    "But I was good!" Nicholas said, just as Roberta thought furiously, Oh, that was tactful. Goddamn it, Fred, didn't they give you any diplomacy programming?

    Fred said soothingly, "I know you were, Nicholas. You were very good. You're always very good."

    "Then why do you have to talk to Mommy about me?"

    "Perhaps we can arrange a phone conference," Roberta said, but Meredith—who had knelt down to hug Nicholas again—shook her head.

    "At this point, I think it would be best if you said whatever you have to say to both of us. I'm sure you aren't going to say anything bad about Nicky"—she gave him a squeeze—"but I'd like him to hear this so he doesn't have to worry about it. Okay?"

    "Okay," Roberta said firmly. "I agree completely. Fred?" You started this. And whatever you're going to say, I hope Preston's approved it.

    "Certainly," Fred said. "Ms. Walford-Lindgren, Nicholas, I'm sorry to have upset you. That wasn't my intent. I just wanted to say that Nicholas misses his friend the Hobbit, and he misses Bluebell. He told us you didn't want him to have another mouse, Ms. Walford-Lindgren, and Roberta and I wondered why."

    Roberta saw the other woman's face freeze, just for a moment; then her features relaxed again. "I don't really think that's any of your business," she said. Right, Roberta thought. Then we won't mention the gun at all, will we?

    ''I'm sorry to have offended you. My first concern is Nicholas's happiness."

    "So's mine. I'm his mother."

    "I understand that. You know him much better than I do, of course, so I thought you'd be able to explain to me why it wouldn't be a good idea for him to have another mouse. It seems to me that a new pet would make him happy, but of course my knowledge is more limited than yours."

    Meredith winced; Roberta saw her arms tighten around her son. "Yes, your knowledge is limited," she said, her voice shaking. ''I'd been thinking of getting Nicholas a kitten for his birthday, and I didn't think having a mouse at the same time would be a good idea."

    She's lying, Roberta thought, although she couldn't have said how she knew. "A kitten?" Nicholas said. He sounded as doubtful as Roberta felt.

    "Sure," Meredith said, all false cheer. Roberta could see the sweat on her forehead. "I wanted to surprise you, but we can get it today, if you want. Would you like that, Nicky?"

    "Kittens are cute," he said dutifully, but Meredith sensed no excitement in him. This was getting weirder by the minute.

    "Okay, then," Meredith said, still in that fake, peppy cheerleader voice. "We'll go to the animal shelter right now and get a kitten. Come on, Nicky. Say good-bye to Roberta and Fred. You can tell them about the kitten tomorrow."

    "Okay. Bye, Berta. Bye, Fred."

    They left, and Roberta looked at her watch. Her workday was officially over, and everyone else had left. "So Fred," she said, "do you think she was telling the truth?"