Nathaniel sat next to Amelia Underwood that day, a girl who always smelled of spaghetti sauce and the stuff that gets caught in bathtub drains. "Did elephants go on the boat?" she asked, and Mrs. Fiore nodded. "Everything."
"Raccoons?"
"Yes."
"Narwhals?" That from Oren Whitford, who was already reading chapter books when Nathaniel wasn't even sure which way the loop went on a b and a d.
"Uh-huh."
"Cockroaches?"
"Unfortunately," Mrs. Fiore said.
Phil Filbert raised his hand. "How about the holy goats?"
Mrs. Fiore frowned. "That's the Holy Ghost, Philip, which is something totally different." But then she reconsidered. "I suppose it was there too, though."
Nathaniel raised his hand. The teacher smiled at him. "What animal are you thinking of?"
But he wasn't thinking of an animal at all. "I need to go pee," he said, and all the other kids laughed.
Heat spread across his face, and he grabbed the block of wood that Mrs. Fiore gave him for a bathroom pass and darted out the door. The bathroom was at the end of the hall, and Nathaniel lingered in there, flushing the toilet a bunch of times just to hear the sound of it; washing his hands with so much soap bubbles rose in the sink like a mountain.
He was in no rush to get back to Sunday school. In the first place, everyone would still be laughing at him, and in the second place, Amelia Underwood stank worse than the little cakes inside the bathroom urinals. So he wandered down the hall a little farther, to Father Glen's office. The door was usually locked, but right now, there was a crack just big enough
for someone like Nathaniel to slip through. Without hesitation, he crept inside.
The room smelled of lemons, just like the main part of the church. Nathaniel's mother said that was because a lot of ladies volunteered to scrub the pews until they were shining, so he figured they probably came into the office and scrubbed too. There were no pews, though-only row after row of bookshelves. There were so many letters jammed onto the spines of the books that it made Nathaniel dizzy to try to sort them all out. He turned his attention instead to a picture hanging on the wall, of a man riding a white stallion, and spearing a dragon through its heart.
Maybe dragons hadn't fit onto the Ark, which was why no one ever saw them anymore.
"St. George was awfully brave," a voice said behind him, and Nathaniel realized he was not alone.
"And you?" the priest asked with a slow smile. "Are you brave too?"
If Nina had been his wife, Patrick would have sat in the front row of the gallery. He would have made eye contact with her the second she walked through the door of the courtroom, to let her know that no matter what, he was there for her. He wouldn't have needed someone to come to his house and spoon-feed him the outcome of the arraignment.
By the time Caleb answers the doorbell, Patrick is furious at him all over again.
"She's out on bail," Patrick says without preamble. "You'll have to get a check for ten thousand dollars to the courthouse." He stares Caleb down, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket. "I assume you can do that. Or were you planning to leave your wife high and dry twice in one day?"
"You mean the way she left me?" Caleb retorts. "I couldn't go. I had no one to watch Nathaniel."
"That's bullshit. You could have asked me. In fact, I'll watch him right now. You go ahead, get Nina.
She's waiting." He crosses his arms, calling Caleb's bluff.
"I'm not going," Caleb says, and in less than a breath Patrick pins him against the doorframe.
"What the fuck is the matter with you?" he grits out. "She needs you now."
Caleb, bigger and stronger, pushes back. He balls a fist, sends Patrick flying into the hedge on the path.
"Don't you tell me what my wife needs." In the background is the sound of a tiny voice, calling for his father. Caleb turns, walks inside, closes the door behind him.
Sprawled in the bushes, Patrick tries to catch his breath. He gets to his feet slowly, extricating leaves from his clothing. What is he supposed to do now? He cannot leave Nina in jail, and he doesn't have the cash to bail her out himself.
Suddenly the door opens again. Caleb stands there, a check in hand. Patrick takes it and Caleb nods in gratitude, neither one alluding to the fact that only minutes ago, they were willing to kill. This is the currency of apology; a deal transacted in the name of the woman who has unbalanced both of their lives.
