4

“Nina,” Caleb sighs, “you’re going to understand what Patrick says, and I’m going to need to have it explained. You might as well be the translator.” He watches Nathaniel take the last bite of ice cream into his mouth. “Come on, buddy. Let’s see if that guy from Romania popped a vein in his neck yet.”

At the threshold of the kitchen door, Nathaniel lets go of his father’s hand. He runs toward Nina, catching her at the knees, a near tackle. “Bye, Mom,” he says, smiling, his dimples deep. “Sweep tight.”

It’s an uncanny malapropism, Patrick thinks. If Nina could, she’d whisk away this whole mess for Nathaniel. He watches her kiss her son good night. As Nathaniel hurries back toward Caleb, she ducks her head and blinks, until the tears aren’t quite as bright in her eyes. “So,” she says, “let’s go.”

In an effort to improve the revenues on slow Sunday nights, Tequila Mockingbird has established the Jimmy Buffet Key Largo Karaoke Night, an all-you-can-eat burgerfest paired with singing. When Patrick and I walk into the bar, our senses are assaulted: A string of lights in the shape of palm trees adorn the bar; a crepe-paper parrot hangs from the ceiling; a girl with too much makeup and too little skirt is butchering “The Wind Beneath My Wings.” Stuyvesant sees us come in and grins. “You two never come in on a Sunday.”

Patrick looks at some poor waitress, shivering in a bikini as she serves a table. “And now we know why.”

Stuyv sets two napkins down in front of us. “The first margarita is on the house,” he offers.

“Thanks, but we need something a little less …”

“Festive,” I finish.

Stuyvesant shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

After he turns away to get our drinks and burgers, I feel Patrick’s eyes on me. He is ready to talk, but I’m not, not just yet. Once the words are hanging there in the open air, there is no taking back what is going to happen.

I look at the singer, clutching the mike like a magic wand. She has absolutely no voice to speak of, but here she is, belting out her off-key rendition of a song that’s crappy to begin with. “What makes people do things like that?” I say absently.

“What makes people do any of the things they do?” Patrick lifts his drink, bares his teeth after he takes a sip. There is a smattering of applause as the woman gets down from the makeshift stage, probably because she’s done. “I hear that karaoke’s some kind of self-discovery deal. Like yoga, you know? You go up there and you muster the courage to do something you never in a million years thought you could do, and when it’s over, you’re a better person because of it.”

“Yeah, and the rest of the audience needs Excedrin. Give me hot coals to walk over, any day. Oh, that’s right, I’ve already done that.” To my embarrassment, tears come to my eyes; to hide this, I take a great gulp of my whiskey. “Do you know when I talked to him, he told me to think about forgiveness? Can you believe he had the nerve to say that to me, Patrick?”

“He wouldn’t admit anything,” Patrick answers softly. “He looked at me like he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. Like when I told him about the underwear, and the semen stain, it was a shock.”

“Patrick,” I say, lifting my gaze to his, “what am I going to do?”

“If Nathaniel testifies—”

“No.”

“Nina …”

I shake my head. “I’m not going to be the one who does that to him.”

“Then wait a while, until he’s stronger.”

“He is never going to be strong enough for that. Am I supposed to wait until his mind has managed to erase it … and then make him sit on a witness stand and bring it all back again? Tell me, Patrick, how is that in Nathaniel’s best interests?”

Patrick is quiet for a moment. He knows this system like I do; he knows I’m right. “Maybe once the semen comes back as a match, the priest’s lawyer can talk to him and work out some kind of deal.”

“A deal,” I repeat. “Nathaniel’s childhood is being traded for a deal.”

Without saying a word, Patrick lifts my whiskey glass and hands it to me. I take a tentative sip. Then a larger one, even though my throat bursts into flame. “This … is horrible,” I wheeze, coughing.

“Then why did you order it?”

“Because you always do. And I don’t feel like being myself tonight.”

Patrick grins. “Maybe you should just have your usual white wine, then, and go up and sing for us.”

As if he has cued it, the woman who assists the karaoke machine man approaches us, holding out a binder. Her bleached hair hangs into her face, and she is wearing pantyhose with her tropical sarong miniskirt. “Hons,” she says to us. “You want to do a duet?”

Patrick shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come on. There are some cute songs here for couples like you. ‘Summer Nights,’ remember that one from Grease? Or how about that one Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt do?”

I am not here; this is not happening. A woman is not pressuring me into singing karaoke when I have come to discuss putting my son’s rapist in jail. “Go away,” I say succinctly.

She glances down at my hamburger, untouched. “Maybe you can get a side of manners with that,” she says, and twitches back to the stage.

When she’s gone, the weight of Patrick’s eyes rests heavy on me. “What?” I demand.

“Nothing.”

“Clearly, there’s something.”

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “You may not ever forgive Szyszynski, Nina, but you won’t be able to move past this … to help Nathaniel move past this … until you stop cursing him.”

I drain the rest of my liquor. “I will curse him, Patrick, until the day he dies.”

A new singer fills in the space that has fallen between the two of us. A heavyweight woman with hair that touches her ass, she sways her considerable hips as the riff begins playing on the karaoke machine.

You keep playin’ where you shouldn’t be playin’,

And you keep thinkin’ that you’ll never get burned. …

“What is she doing up there?” I murmur.

“Yeah … she’s actually good.”

We both look away from the stage, and our eyes meet. “Nina,” Patrick says, “you’re not the only one hurting. When I see you like this … well, it kills me.” He looks down at his drink, stirs it once. “I wish—”

“I wish too. But I could wish till the world stops turning, and it wouldn’t change a thing, Patrick.”

These boots are made for walkin’,

And that’s just what they’ll do.

One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.

Patrick laces his fingers with mine on the table. He looks at me, hard, as if he is going to be quizzed on the details of my face. Then, with what seems to be a great effort, he turns away. “The truth is there shouldn’t be any justice for motherfuckers like him. People like that, they ought to be shot.”

Clasped together, our hands look like a heart. Patrick squeezes, I squeeze back. It is all the communication we need, this pulse between us, my reply.

The most pressing issue the next morning involves what we are supposed to do with Nathaniel. It hasn’t occurred to either Caleb or myself before this; only when the courthouse looms into view do I realize that Nathaniel cannot be at this arraignment … and cannot be left alone. In the hallway, he stands between us, holding both of our hands—a living bridge.

“I could sit with him in the lobby,” Caleb volunteers, but I immediately reject that solution. Caleb looks down at Nathaniel. “Don’t you have a secretary who could watch him for a while?”

“This isn’t my district,” I point out. “And I’m not leaving him with someone I don’t know.”

Of course not, never again. Although, as it turns out, it is not the strangers we have to be wary of.

We are leaning hard against this impasse when a guardian angel arrives. Nathaniel sees her first, and tears down the hallway. “Monica!” he shrieks, and she lifts him into the air, swinging him around.

“That is the most fabulous word I’ve ever heard,” Monica laughs.

Nathaniel beams. “I can talk now.”

“That’s what Dr. Robichaud told me. She said she can’t get a word in edgewise anymore when you come to her office.” She switches Nathaniel onto her other hip and turns to us. “How are you holding up?”

As if there is an answer to that question, today.

“Well,” Monica says, as if we’ve responded. “We’re just going to head down to the playroom near the family court. Sound good, Nathaniel?” She raises her brows. “Or do you have alternate plans for him?”

“No … not at all,” I murmur.

“That’s what I figured. Child care this morning … it probably wasn’t your top priority.”

Caleb touches Nathaniel’s golden hair. “Be good,” he says, and kisses his cheek.

“He’s always good.” Monica sets him on his feet, and begins to lead him away. “Nina, you know where to find us when you’re done.”

I watch them walk for a moment. Two weeks ago I could not stand Monica LaFlamme; now I am indebted to her. “Monica,” I call out, and she turns. “Why don’t you have children?”

Shrugging, she smiles faintly. “To date, no one’s asked me.”

Our eyes meet, and that is all it takes to erase the history between us. “Their loss,” I say, and I smile.

Thomas LaCroix is two inches shorter than I am, and going bald. It makes no difference whatsoever, of course, but I find myself shooting glances at Wally during this meeting, wondering why he could not find the most perfect specimen of a prosecutor, one polished on the outside as well as the inside, so that no jury could possibly find fault.

“We’re turning this entirely over to Tom,” my boss says. “You know we support you and Caleb, we’re a hundred percent behind you … but we don’t want there to be any problems on appeal. And if we’re in the courtroom, it might look like we’re stacking the decks against this guy.”

“I understand, Wally,” I say. “No offense taken.”

“Well!” Wally stands, having done his job here for the day. “We’ll all be waiting to hear what transpires.”

He pats my shoulder as he exits. When he leaves, it is just the three of us left—Caleb, myself, and Thomas LaCroix. Like a good prosecutor—like me —he jumps right into business. “They’re not going to arraign him until after lunch because of all the publicity,” Tom says. “Did you see the media when you came in?”

See it? We had to run the gauntlet. If I hadn’t known a service entrance into the court, I never would have gotten Nathaniel inside.

“Anyway, I’ve already talked to the bailiffs. They’re going to clear the other prisoners off the docket before they bring in Szyszynski.” He checks his watch. “We’re scheduled for one o’clock right now, so you’ve got some time.”

I flatten my hands on the table. “You will not be putting my son on the stand,” I announce.

“Nina, you know this is just an arraignment. A rubber stamp process. Let’s just—”

“I want you to know this, and to know it now. Nathaniel isn’t going to be testifying.”

He sighs. “I’ve done this for fifteen years. And we’re just going to have to see what comes to pass. Right now, you know better than I do what the evidence is. You certainly know better than I do how Nathaniel is faring. But you also know there are some pieces of the puzzle we’re waiting on—like the lab reports, and your son’s recovery. Six months from now, a year from now … Nathaniel might be doing a whole lot better, and taking the stand might not be as much of a hardship.”

“He is five years old. In those fifteen years, Tom, how many cases with a five-year-old witness ended up with a perp in jail for life?”

Not a single one, and he knows it. “Then we’ll wait,” Tom says. “We have some time, and the defendant is going to want time too, you know that.”

“You can’t hold him in jail forever.”

“I’m going to ask for $150,000 bail. And I doubt the Catholic Church will post it for him.” He smiles at me. “He’s not going anywhere, Nina.”

I feel Caleb’s hand steal into my lap, and I grab onto it. I think he is supporting me, at first, but then he squeezes my fingers nearly to the point of pain. “Nina,” he says pleasantly, “maybe we should just let Mr. LaCroix do his job right now.”

“It’s my job too,” I point out. “I put children on the stand every day, and I watch them fall apart, and then I watch the abusers walk. How can you ask me to forget that, when we’re talking about Nathaniel?”

“Exactly—we’re talking about Nathaniel. And today he needs a mother more than he needs a mother who is a prosecutor. We need to look at this in steps, and today that step is keeping Szyszynski locked up,” Tom says. “Let’s just focus, and once we clear this hurdle, we can decide what to do next.”

I stare into my lap, where I’ve nervously pleated my skirt into a thousand wrinkles. “I know what you’re saying.”

“Good, then.”

Lifting my gaze, I smile slightly. “You’re saying the same thing I do, to victims, when I really don’t know if I have any chance of securing a conviction.”

To his credit, Tom nods. “You’re right. But I’m not trying to con you. We never know which cases are going to work out, which cases are going to take a plea, which kids will make a turnaround, which kids will heal to the point where a year from now, they’re able to contribute in a way they can’t that first day.”

I get to my feet. “But you said it yourself, Tom. Today I’m not supposed to give a damn about those other kids. Today I just care about my own.” I walk to the door before Caleb even has risen from his seat. “One o’clock,” I say, and it is a warning.

Caleb doesn’t catch up to her until they are in the lobby, and then, he has to pull her aside to a small nook, where reporters will not find them. “What was that all about?”

“I’m protecting Nathaniel.” Nina crosses her arms, daring him to say otherwise.

She seems shaky and unsteady, not at all herself. Maybe it is just the truth of this day. God knows, Caleb isn’t faring all that well either. “We ought to go tell Monica that there’s a delay.”

But Nina is busy putting on her coat. “Can you do it?” she asks. “I need to run to the office.”

“Now?” Alfred, and the superior court building, is only fifteen minutes away. But still.

“It’s something I have to give to Thomas,” she explains.

Caleb shrugs. He watches Nina walk out the front steps. The flashes of several cameras strike her like bullets, freezing her in time as she jogs down the steps. Caleb sees her brush off a reporter with no more effort than she would use to wave away a fly.

He wants to run after her, hold Nina until that wall around her cracks and all the pain spills out. He wants to tell her that she doesn’t have to be so strong around him, because they are in this together. He wants to take her downstairs to the bright room with alphabet squares on the floor, sit with their son between them. All she has to do is take off those focused blinders; then she will see that she isn’t alone.

Caleb goes so far as to open the glass door, to stick his head outside. By now she is a dot, far across the parking lot. Her name hovers on his lips, but then there is an explosion that blinds him—a newspaper photographer, again. Backing inside, he tries to shake the double vision, but it is a long time before he can see clearly; and so he never witnesses Nina’s car leaving the courthouse lot, turning in the opposite direction of her office.

I’m late.

I hurry through the front door of the court, around the line of people waiting to go through the metal detector. “Hey, Mike,” I say breathlessly, slipping behind the familiar bailiff, who just nods. Our courtroom is to the left; I open the double doors and walk inside.

It is filled with reporters and cameramen, all lined up in the back rows like the bad kids on the rear seats of a bus. This is a big story for York County, Maine. This is a big story for any place.

I walk to the front, where Patrick and Caleb are sitting. They have left a seat on the aisle for me. For a moment I fight my natural inclination—to continue through the gate, and sit at the prosecutor’s table with Thomas LaCroix. That is why we “pass the bar”—we are allowed, by virtue of that test, to work in the front of the courtroom.

I don’t know the defense attorney. Probably someone from Portland. Someone the diocese keeps on retainer for things like this. There is a cameraman set up to the right of the defense table, his head bent close to the machine in preparation.

Patrick notices me first. “Hey,” he says. “You all right?”

As I expect, Caleb is angry. “Where have you been? I’ve tried—”

Whatever he is about to say is interrupted as a bailiff speaks. “The Honorable Judge Jeremiah Bartlett presiding.”

The judge, of course, I know. He signed the restraining order against Caleb. He instructs us to sit down, and I try, but my body has gone stiff as a board and the seat does not fit me. My eyes take in everything and nothing all at once.

“Are we set for the arraignment on State v. Szyszynski?” the judge asks.

Thomas rises smoothly. “Yes, Your Honor.”

At the defense table, the other attorney stands. “I’m representing Father Szyszynksi, and we’re ready, Your Honor.”

I have seen this a thousand times before; one bailiff moves forward toward the bench. He does this to protect the judge. After all, the people brought in as defendants are criminals. Anything could happen.

The door to the holding cell opens, and the priest is led out. His hands are cuffed in front of him. Beside me, I feel Caleb forget to take his next breath. I hold my purse on my lap, a death grip.

The second bailiff leads the priest to the defense table, the inside seat, because he will have to stand up in front of the judge to enter his plea. He is close enough, now, that I could spit at him. I could whisper, and he might hear me.

I tell myself to be patient.

My eyes go to the judge, then to the bailiffs. They are the ones I am worried about. They stand behind the priest, make sure he sits down.

Move back. Move back move back move back.

I slide my hand into my purse, past the familiar, to the heat that leaps into my hand. The bailiff takes a step away—this defendant, scum of the earth, still has the right to privacy with his own attorney. There are words moving around the courtroom like small insects, distractions I do not really notice.

The minute I stand up, I’ve jumped off the cliff. The world goes by in a haze of color and light; my weight accelerates, head-over-heels. Then I think, Falling is the first step in learning how to fly.

In two steps, I am across the aisle of the courtroom. In a breath, I hold the gun up to the priest’s head. I pull the trigger four times.

The bailiff grabs my arm but I won’t let go of the weapon. I can’t, until I know that I’ve done it. There is blood spreading, and screams, and then I’m falling again, forward, past the bar, where I am supposed to be. “Did I get him? Is he dead?”

They slam me onto the ground, and when I open my eyes, I can see him. The priest lies with half his head missing, just a few feet away.

I let go of the gun.

The weight on me takes familiar shape, and then I hear Patrick in my ear. “Nina, stop. Stop fighting.” His voice brings me back. I see the defense attorney, hiding under the stenographer’s table. The press, their cameras flashing like a field of fireflies. The judge, pushing the panic button on his desk and yelling to clear the courtroom. And Caleb, white as snow, wondering who I am.

“Who’s got cuffs?” Patrick asks. A bailiff hands him a pair from his belt, and Patrick secures my hands behind me. He lifts me up and bustles me toward the same door through which the priest entered. Patrick’s body is unyielding, his chin firm against my ear. “Nina,” he whispers to me. “What did you do?”

Once, not long ago, standing in my own home, I had asked Patrick this same question. Now I give his own answer back to him. “I did what I had to,” I say, and I let myself believe it.