An hour later, in my own home, Monica carries her mug to the sink. "Is it all right with you if I tell your husband?"
"Of course. I would have told him myself, but..." My voice trails off.
"That's my job," she finishes, saving me from speaking the truth: Now that I have forgiven Caleb, I do not know if he will forgive me.
I busy myself with the dishes-rinsing our mugs, squeezing dry the tea bags and putting them into the trash. I have specifically tried to focus on Nathaniel since leaving Dr. Robichaud's office-not only because it is the right thing to do, but because I am a terrible coward at heart. What will Caleb say, do?
Monica's hand touches my forearm. "You were protecting Nathaniel."
I look directly at her. No wonder there is a need for social workers; the relationships between people knot so easily, there needs to be a person skilled at working free the threads. Sometimes, though, the only way to extricate a tangle is to cut it out and start fresh.
She reads my mind. "Nina. In your shoes, he would have reached the same conclusions."
A knock on the door captures our attention. Patrick lets himself in, nods to Monica. "I'm just on my way out," she explains. "If you want to reach me later, I'll be in my office."
This is directed to both Patrick and me. Patrick will need her, presumably, to be kept abreast of the case. I will need her, presumably, for moral support. As soon as the door closes behind Monica, Patrick steps forward. "Nathaniel?"
"He's in his room. He's okay." A sob hops the length of my throat. "Oh, my God, Patrick. I should have known. What did I do? What did I do?"
"You did what you had to," he says simply.
I nod, trying to believe him. But Patrick knows it isn't working. "Hey." He leads me to one of the stools in the kitchen, sits me down. "Remember when we were kids, and we used to play Clue?"
I wipe my nose with my sleeve. "No."
"That's because I always trounced you. You'd pick Mr. Mustard every time, no matter what the evidence said."
"I must have let you win."
"Good. Because if you've done it before, Nina, it's not going to be that hard to do it again." He puts his hands on my shoulders. "Give over. I know this game, Nina, and I'm good at it. If you let me do what I have to, without messing yourself up in the process, we can't lose." Suddenly he takes a step away from me, stuffs his hands into his pockets. "And you've got other things to work on, now."
"Other things?"
Patrick turns, meets my eye. "Caleb?"
It's like that old contest: Who will blink first? This time, I can't bear it; I am the one to look away.
"Then go lock him up, Patrick. It's Father Szyszynski. I know it, and you know it. How many priests have been convicted of doing just this-shit!" I wince, my own mistake hammering back. "I talked to Father Szyszynski about Nathaniel during confession."
"You what? What were you thinking?"
"That he was my priest." Then I glance up. "Wait. He thinks it's Caleb. That's what I thought, then.
That's good, right? He doesn't know that he's the suspect."
"What's important is whether Nathaniel knows it."
"Isn't that crystal clear?"
"Unfortunately, it's not. Apparently, there's more than one way to interpret the word father. And by the same logic, there's a whole country full of priests out there." He looks at me soberly. "You're the prosecutor. You know this case can't afford another mistake."
"God, Patrick, he's only five. He signed priest. Szyszynski is the only priest he even knows, the only priest who has any contact with him on a regular basis. Go ahead and ask Nathaniel if that's who he meant."
"That's not going to stand up in court, Nina."
Suddenly I realize that Patrick has not come only for Nathaniel; he has also come for me. To remind me that while I'm being a mother, I still have to think like a prosecutor now. We cannot name the accuser for Nathaniel; he has to do it himself. Otherwise, there is no chance of a conviction.
My mouth is dry. "He isn't ready to talk yet."
