"The guy's an asshole," Peter says desperately. "He's doing this to leave his mark on the town. He's-"
"Peter, where's my wife?"
The other man winces. "Back in jail. She violated her bail agreement, and the assistant attorney general had her arrested."
For a moment, Nathaniel feels like a lead weight. Caleb staggers under the responsibility of bearing him, then finds his footing. Nathaniel is still crying, more quietly now, a river that runs down the back of his shirt. Caleb makes small circles on the child's spine. "Back up. Tell me what happened."
Caleb picks out select words: grocery, produce, Quentin Brown. But he can barely hear Peter over the roar in his own head, one single phrase: Nina, what have you done now? "Nathaniel called me over,"
Peter explains. "I was so psyched to hear him talking again, I couldn't just ignore him."
Caleb shakes his head. "You . . . you were the one who approached her?"
Peter is a foot shorter than Caleb and feels every inch of it at that moment. He takes a step backward. "I never would have gotten her in trouble, Caleb, you know that."
Caleb pictures his son screaming, his wife being sandwiched between policemen, a barrage of fruit spilled on the floor in this fray. He knows it is not Peter's fault, not entirely. It takes two to have a conversation; Nina should have simply walked away.
But as Nina would tell him, she probably wasn't thinking at the time.
Peter places a hand on Nathaniel's calf and rubs gently. It only sets the child off again; screams ricochet around the porch and peal off the thick bare branches of trees. "Jesus, Caleb, I'm sorry. It's ridiculous.
We didn't do anything."
Caleb turns so that Peter can see Nathaniel's back, heaving with the force of his fear. He touches the damp cap of his son's hair. "You didn't do anything?" Caleb challenges, and leaves Peter standing outside.
I move stiffly as I'm led to the solitary cells again, but I cannot tell what's made me numb-my arrest, or the simple cold. The furnace at the jail has broken, and the correctional officers are all wearing heavy coats. Inmates usually clad in shorts or underwear have put on sweaters; having none, I sit shivering in my cell after the door is locked behind me.
"Honey."
I close my eyes, turn in to the wall. Tonight, I don't feel like dealing with Adrienne. Tonight I have to find a way to understand that Quentin Brown has screwed me. Getting released on bail the first time was a miracle; good fortune rarely strikes twice in the same spot.
I wonder if Nathaniel is all right. I wonder if Fisher has spoken to Caleb. This time, being booked, I chose my attorney as my one phone call. It was the coward's way out.
Caleb will say this is my fault. That is, if he's still speaking to me.
"Honey, your teeth are chattering so hard you're gonna give yourself a root canal. Here." Something swishes near the bars; I turn to see Adrienne tossing me a sweater. "It's angora. Don't be stretching it out."
With jerky movements, I tug on the sweater, which I couldn't stretch in my wildest imaginings, Adrienne being six inches and two cup sizes larger than me. I am still shaking, but at least now I know it has nothing to do with the cold.
As the guards call lights out, I try to think of heat. I remember how Mason, when he was a puppy, would lie on my feet with his soft belly hot against my bare toes. And the beach in St. Thomas, where Caleb buried me up to my neck in the hot sand on our honeymoon. Pajamas, pulled off Nathaniel's body in the early morning, still warm and smelling of sleep.
Across the corridor Adrienne chews Wintergreen Life Savers. They give off green sparks in the near dark, as if she has learned how to make her own lightning.
Even in the muffled silence of jail, I can hear Nathaniel screaming for me as I am being handcuffed.
Nathaniel, who had been doing so well- edging toward normal-what will this do to him? Will he wait for me at a window, even when I don't come home? Will he sleep next to Caleb, to chase away nightmares?
I rerun my actions at the grocery store like the loop of a security camera's video-what I did, what I should have done. I might have appointed myself to be Nathaniel's protector, but today I did not do a crackerjack job of it. I assumed that talking to Peter was harmless . . . and instead that one action might have set Nathaniel back by leaps and bounds.
A few feet away, in Adrienne's cell, sparks dance like fireflies. Things aren't always what they seem.
For example, I have always believed I know what is best for Nathaniel.
But what if it turns out I've been wrong?
"I put in some hot chocolate to go with your whipped cream," Caleb says, a lame joke, as he sets the mug down on Nathaniel's nightstand. Nathaniel doesn't even turn to him. He faces the wall, wrapped like a cocoon, his eyes so red from crying that he does not look like himself.
Caleb pulls off his shoes and gets right onto Nathaniel's bed, then wraps his arms tight around the boy.
