One morning, my counselor-a girl with a macrame necklace that she wears even during swim time-takes us into the woods on a hike. It's time for a circle, she says. She moves one log, to make a bench.
She moves a second log, and there are all the yellow jackets.
I freeze. The bees cover the counselor's face and arms and belly. She tries to bat them away while she's screaming. I throw myself at her. I slap my hands on her skin. I save her, even while I am being stung and stung.
At the end of camp that summer, the counselors give out awards. They are blue ribbons, each one, printed with fat black letters. Mine says Bravest Boy.
I still have it.
FOUR
In the moments after, Patrick wonders how he could know that Nina's favorite number is 13, that the scar on her chin came from a sledding crash, that she wished for a pet alligator for three Christmases straight- yet not know that inside her, all this time, was a grenade waiting to explode. "I did what I had to," she murmurs, all the way across the slick and bloodied court.
In his arms, she trembles. She feels light as a cloud. Patrick's head whirls. Nina still smells of apples, her shampoo; she still can't walk a straight line-but she is babbling incoherently, not at all in control the way Patrick is accustomed to seeing her. As they cross the threshold into the holding cell, Patrick looks behind him into the courtroom. Pandemonium. He's always thought that word sounds like a circus, but here it is now. Brain matter covers the front of the defense attorney's suit. A litter of paper and pocketbooks covers the gallery, as some reporters sob, and others direct their cameramen to film. Caleb stands still as a statue. Bobby, one of the bailiffs, is talking into the radio at his shoulder: "Yeah, shots were fired, and we need an ambulance." Roanoke, the other bailiff, hustles a white-faced Judge Bartlett into chambers. "Clear the court!" the judge yells, and Roanoke answers: "But we can't, Your Honor.
They're all witnesses."
On the floor, being completely ignored, is the body of Father Szyszynski.
Killing him was the right thing, Patrick thinks before he can stop himself. And then immediately afterward: Oh, God, what has she done?
"Patrick," Nina murmurs.
He cannot look at her. "Don't speak to me." He will be a witness at-Christ-Nina's murder trial.
Whatever she tells him, he will have to tell a court.
As an aggressive photographer makes her way toward the holding cell, Patrick moves slightly to block the camera's view of Nina. His job, right now, is to protect her. He just wishes there were someone to protect him.
He jostles her in his arms so that he can shut the door. It will be easier to wait out the arrival of the Biddeford Police Department that way. As it swings closed, he sees the paramedics arriving, leaning down over the body.
"Is he dead?" Nina asks. "I just need you to tell me, Patrick. I killed him, right? How many shots did I get off? I had to do it, you know I had to do it. He's dead, isn't he? The paramedics can't revive him, can they? Tell me they won't. Please, just tell me he's dead. I promise, I'll sit right here and not move if you just go look and see if he's dead."
"He's dead, Nina," Patrick says quietly.
She closes her eyes, sways a little. "Thank God. Oh, God, God, thank God." She sinks down onto the metal bunk in the small cell.
Patrick turns his back on her. In the courtroom, his colleagues have arrived. Evan Chao, another detective-lieutenant in the department, supervises the securing of the crime scene, yelling over the crescendo of shrieks and sobs. Policemen crouch, dusting for fingerprints, taking photos of the spreading pool of blood and the broken railing where Patrick tackled Nina to get the gun out of her hand. The Maine state police SWAT team arrives, thundering down the center aisle like a tornado. One woman, a reporter sequestered for questioning, glances at what is left of the priest and vomits. It is a grim, chaotic scene; it is the stuff of nightmares, and yet Patrick stares fixedly, far more willing to face this reality than the one crying quietly behind him.
What Nathaniel hates about this particular board game is that all you have to do is spin the spinner the wrong way, and that's it, your little game piece is coasting down that big long slide in the middle. It's true that if you spin the right way, you can climb that extra tall ladder . . . but it doesn't always work like that, and before you know it, you've lost.
Monica lets him win, but Nathaniel doesn't like that as much as he thought he would. It makes him feel the way he did when he fell off his bike and had this totally gross cut all across his chin. People looked at him and pretended that there was nothing wrong with him but you could see in their eyes that they really wanted to turn away.
"Are you going to spin, or do I have to wait until you turn six?" Monica teases.
Nathaniel flicks the spinner. Four. He moves his little man the right number of spaces and, it figures, winds up on one of those slides. He pauses at the top, knowing that if he only moves three instead, Monica won't say a word.
But before he can decide whether or not to cheat, something catches his attention behind her shoulder.
Through the wide glass window of the playroom, he sees one policeman . . . no, two . . . five . . . racing through the hallway. They don't look like Patrick does when he works-all rum-ply, in a regular shirt and tie. They are wearing shiny boots and silver badges, and their hands are on their guns, just like Nathaniel sees late at night on TV when he comes downstairs to get a drink and his parents don't change the channel fast enough.
"Shoot," he says softly.
Monica smiles at him. "That's right, a chute. But you'll have better luck next time, Nathaniel."
"No . . . shoot." He curves his fingers into a gun, the sign for the letter G. "You know. Bang."
He realizes the moment Monica understands him. She looks behind her at the sound of all those running feet, and her eyes go wide. But she turns back to Nathaniel with a smile glued over the question that shivers on her lips. "It's your spin, right?" Monica says, although they both know his turn has come and gone.
