He shakes his head, certain I haven't really thought this through.
But I have never been more sure of anything in my life. I will do what it takes to keep my son from being a witness. "You're right," I tell Patrick. "And that's why I'm counting on you to get the priest to confess."
Before I realize it, I've driven to St. Anne's. I pull into the parking lot and get out of my car, avoiding the front walk to tiptoe, instead, around to the back of the building. The rectory is here, attached to the main body of the church. My sneakers leave prints in the frost, the trail of an invisible man.
If I climb onto the ridge of a drainage well, I can see into the window. This is Father Szyszynski's personal apartment, the living room. A cup of tea sits, the bag still draining, on a side table. A book-Tom Clancy-is cracked open on the couch. All around are gifts he's received from parishioners: a handmade afghan, a wooden Bible stand, a framed drawing by a child. All of these people believed him, too; I have not been the only sucker.
What I am waiting for, exactly, I don't know. But as I stand there I remember the day before Nathaniel had stopped speaking, the last time we had all gone to Mass. There had been a reception for the two clergymen who'd come to visit, a banner hung from the serving table wishing them a safe journey home. I remember that the flavored coffee that morning was hazelnut. That there were no powdered sugar doughnuts left, though Nathaniel had wanted one. I remember talking to a couple I had not seen in several months, and noticing that the other children were following Father Szyszynski downstairs for his weekly storytime. "Go, Nathaniel," I'd said. He had been hiding behind me, clinging to my legs. I fairly pushed him into joining the others.
I pushed him into it.
I stand here on the drainage ditch for over an hour, until the priest comes into his living room. He sits down on the couch and picks up his tea and he reads. He doesn't know I'm watching him. He doesn't realize that I can slide into his life, just as surreptitiously as he has slid into mine.
As Patrick has promised, there are ten photos-each the size of a baseball card, each with a different
"priest" portrayed on the front. Caleb examines one. "The San Diego Pedophiles," he murmurs. "All that's missing are the stats."
Nathaniel and I come into the room, holding hands. "Well," I say brightly. "Look who's here."
Patrick gets to his feet. "Hiya, Weed. Remember when I talked to you the other day?" Nathaniel nods.
"Will you talk to me today, too?"
He is already curious about the photos; I can feel it in the way he's tugging toward the couch. Patrick pats the cushion beside him, and Nathaniel immediately climbs up. Caleb and I sit on either side of them, in two overstuffed chairs. How formal we look, I think.
"I brought some pictures for you, just like I said I would." Patrick takes the rest from the manila envelope and arranges them on the coffee table, as if he is going to play solitaire. He looks at me, and then at Caleb-a silent warning that now this is his show. "You remember telling me that someone hurt you, Weed?"
Yes.
"And you said you knew who it was?"
Another nod, this one longer in coming.
"I want to show you some pictures, and if one of these people is the one who hurt you, I want you to point to it. But if the person who hurt you isn't in one of the pictures, you just shake your head no, so I know he's not there."
Patrick has phrased this perfectly-an open, legally valid invitation to make a disclosure; a question that does not lead Nathaniel to believe there's a right answer.
Even though there is.
We all watch Nathaniel's eyes, dark and boundless, moving from one face to another. He is sitting on his hands. His feet don't quite reach the floor.
"Do you understand what I need you to do, Nathaniel?" Patrick asks.
Nathaniel nods. One hand creeps out from beneath a thigh. I want him to be able to do this, oh, I want it so badly it aches, so that this case will be set into motion. And just as badly, for the same reasons, I want Nathaniel to fail.
His hand floats over each card in succession, a dragonfly hovering over a stream. It lights, but doesn't settle. His finger brushes Szyszynski's face, moves on. With my eyes, I try to will him back. "Patrick," I blurt out. "Ask him if he recognizes anyone."
Patrick smiles tightly. Through his teeth, he says, "Nina, you know I can't do that." Then, to Nathaniel:
"What do you think, Weed? Do you see the person who hurt you?"
Nathaniel's finger dips like a metronome, traces the edge of Szyszynski's card. He hesitates there, then begins to move the other cards. We all wait, wondering what he is trying to tell us. But he slides one photo up, and another, until he has two columns. He connects them with a diagonal. All this deliberation, and it turns out he is only making the letter N.
"He touched the card. The right one," I insist. "That IDs good enough."
"It's not." Patrick shakes his head.
"Nathaniel, try again." I reach over and mess the pictures up. "Show me which one."
