Old friends, oh yes. Like Hitler and Churchill.
Caleb doesn't want to be sitting here, defending himself. He wants to talk to his boy. He wants to know if Nina finished reading him the pirate book. He wants to know if Nathaniel wet his bed again.
"We might as well get started." Patrick turns on a tape recorder.
Caleb suddenly realizes his best source of information is sitting three feet away. "You saw Nathaniel,"
he murmurs. "How is he?"
Patrick glances up, surprised. He's used to being the one who asks the questions.
"Was he okay, when you were there? Did he look like he'd been crying?"
"He was ... he was all right, given the circumstances," Patrick says. "Now-"
"Sometimes, if he's not eating, you can distract him by talking about something he likes. Soccer, or frogs, like that. And while you talk you just keep putting food on his fork. Tell Nina."
"Let's talk about Nathaniel."
"What do you think I'm doing? Has he said anything yet? Verbally, I mean. Not with his hands?"
"Why?" Patrick asks guardedly. "Are you worried he might have more to tell us?"
"Worried? I wouldn't care if the only word he could say was my name. I wouldn't care if it meant I'd be locked up for life. I just want to hear it for myself."
"His accusation?"
"No," Caleb says. "His voice."
I have run out of places to go. The bank, the post office, an ice cream for Nathaniel. A local park, the pet store. Since leaving the church, I have dragged us from building to building, running errands that don't need to be done, all so that I won't have to go back to my own home.
"Let's visit Patrick," I announce, swinging into the parking lot of the Biddeford police station at the last minute. He'll hate me for this- checking up on his investigation-but above all, he'll understand. In the backseat of the car, Nathaniel slumps to the side, letting me know what he thinks of this idea.
"Five minutes," I promise.
The American flag cracks sharply in the cold wind as Nathaniel and I walk up the path toward the front door. Justice for all. When we are about twenty feet away, the door opens. Patrick steps out first, shielding his eyes against the sun. Directly behind him are Monica LaFlamme and Caleb.
Nathaniel sucks in his breath, then wrenches free of me. At the same moment, Caleb sees him and goes down on one knee. His arms catch Nathaniel tight, hold him close. Nathaniel looks up at me with a wide smile, and in that awful moment I realize he thinks I have planned this for him, a wonderful surprise.
Patrick and I stand a distance away, bookends, bracketing this story as it happens.
He comes to his senses first. "Nathaniel," Patrick says quietly, firmly, and he goes to pull my son away.
But Nathaniel is having none of that. He wraps his arms around Caleb's neck, he tries to burrow inside his coat.
Over our son's head, Caleb's eyes meet mine. He stands up, taking Nathaniel with him.
I force myself to look away. To think of the hundreds of children I've met-the ones who are bruised and filthy and starving and neglected- who scream as they are removed from their homes, and beg to stay with an abusive mother or father.
"Buddy," Caleb says quietly, forcing Nathaniel to look at him. "You know I'd like nothing better than to spend some time with you right now. But ... I have something to do."
Nathaniel shakes his head, his face crumpling.
"I'm gonna see you just as soon as I can." Caleb walks toward me, bouncing Nathaniel in his arms; peels him off his own body and settles him into my embrace. By now, Nathaniel is crying so hard that the silent sobs choke him. His rib cage shudders under my palm like a dragon coming to life.
As Caleb heads toward his truck, Nathaniel lifts his gaze. His eyes are slitted and nearly black. He raises his fist and hits me on the shoulder. Then he does it again, and again, a tantrum waged against me.
"Nathaniel!" Patrick says sharply.
