Caleb hefts Nathaniel higher in his arms. He walks out of the bathroom without saying another word, cradling our son close to his chest. He leaves me standing in a puddle, to clean up the mess that's been left behind.
Ironically, in Maine's Bureau of Children, Youth and Family Services, an investigation into child abuse is not an investigation at all. By the time a caseworker can officially open a case, he or she will already have psychiatric or physical evidence of abuse in the child, as well as the name of a suspected perpetrator. There will be no guesswork involved-all the research will have been completed by that point. It is the role of the BCYF caseworker to simply go along for the ride, so that if by some miracle it reaches the trial stage, everything has been done the way the government likes.
Monica LaFlamme has worked in the Child Abuse Action Network of the BCYF for three years now, and she is tired of coming in during the second act. She looks out the window of her office, a squat gray cube like every other government office in the complex, to a deserted playground. It is a metal swing set resting on a concrete slab. Leave it to the BCYF to have the one play structure left in the region that doesn't meet updated safety standards.
She yawns, pinches her finger and thumb to the bridge of her nose. Monica is exhausted. Not just from staying up for Letterman last night, but in general, as if the gray walls and commercial carpet in her office have somehow seeped into her through osmosis. She is tired of filling out reports on cases that go nowhere. She is tired of seeing forty-year-old eyes in the faces of ten-year-old children. What she needs is a vacation to the Caribbean, where there is so much color exploding-blue surf, white sand, scarlet flowers-that it renders her blind to her daily work.
When the phone rings, Monica jumps in her chair. "This is Monica LaFlamme," she says, crisply opening the manila folder on her desk, as if the person on the other end of the line has seen her daydreaming.
"Yes, hello. This is Dr. Christine Robichaud. I'm a psychiatrist up at Maine Medical Center." A hesitation, and that is all Monica needed to know what is coming next. "I need to report a possible case of sexual abuse against a five-year-old male."
She takes notes as Dr. Robichaud describes behaviors she's seen over and over. She scrawls the name of the patient, the names of his parents. Something nicks the corner of her mind, but she pushes it aside to concentrate on what the psychiatrist is saying.
"Are there any police reports you can fax me?" Monica asks. "The police haven't been involved. The boy hasn't identified the abuser yet."
At that, Monica puts down her pen. "Doctor, you know I can't open an investigation until there's someone to investigate."
"It's only a matter of time. Nathaniel is experiencing a somatoform disorder, which basically renders him mute without any physical cause.
It's my belief that within a few weeks or so, he'll be able to tell us who did this to him."
"What are the parents saying?"
The psychiatrist pauses. "This is all new behavior."
Monica taps her pen on her desk. In her experience, when the parents claim to be completely surprised by the speech or actions of a child who has been abused, it often ends up that one parent or both is the abuser.
Dr. Robichaud is well aware of this, too. "I thought that you might want to get in at the ground level, Ms. LaFlamme. I referred the Frosts to a pediatrician trained in child sexual abuse cases, for a detailed medical examination of their son. He should be faxing you a report."
Monica takes down the information; hangs up the phone. Then she looks over what she's written, in preparation for beginning yet another case that will most likely fizzle before a conviction is secured.
Frost, she thinks, rewriting the name. Surely it must be someone else.
We lay in the dark, not touching, a foot of space between us.
"Miss Lydia?" I whisper, and feel Caleb shake his head. "Who, then? Who's alone with him, other than the two of us?"
Caleb is so quiet I think he's fallen asleep. "Patrick watched him for a whole weekend when we went to your cousin's wedding last month."
I come up on an elbow. "You've got to be kidding. Patrick's a police officer. And I've known him since he was six."
"He doesn't have a girlfriend-"
"He's only been divorced for six months!"
"All I'm saying," Caleb rolls over, "is you may not know him as well as you think."
I shake my head. "Patrick loves Nathaniel."
Caleb just looks at me. His response is clear, although he never speaks it aloud: Maybe too much.
The next morning Caleb leaves while the moon is still hanging crooked on its peg in the sky. We have discussed this plan, trading our time like chips in a poker game: Caleb will finish his wall, then be home by midday. The implication is that I can go to the office when he returns, but I won't. My work, it will have to wait. This all happened to Nathaniel when I wasn't present to bear witness; I cannot risk letting him out of my sight again.
It's a noble cause to champion-protecting my child. But this morning I am having trouble understanding lionesses that guard their cubs, and relating more to the hamster that devours her offspring. For one thing, my son hasn't seemed to notice that I want to be his hero. For another, I'm not so sure I want to be one, either. Not if it means sticking up for a boy who fights me at every turn.
God, he has every right to hate me for being so selfish now.
Yet patience has never been my strong point. I solve problems; I seek reprisal. And even though I know it is not a matter of will for Nathaniel, I am angry that his silence is protecting the person who should be held accountable.
