Perfect Match (14 page)

“Well, Father, that's why you're here today. I need to know if you can think of any reason why Nathaniel might say you hurt him, if you didn't.”

“The child's been through so much-”

“Did you ever insert anything in his anus?”

“No!”

“Did you ever see anyone insert anything in his anus?” The priest draws in his breath. “Absolutely not.”

“Then why do you imagine Nathaniel would say what he did? Can you think o f anything that might have made him think it happened, even though it did n't?” Patrick leans forward. “Maybe a time you were alone with him, somet hing occurred between you two that might have put this idea into his head ?”

“I was never alone with him. There were fourteen other children around.” Patrick rocks his chair back on its rear legs. “Did you know that I found a p air of Nathaniel's underwear behind the boiler of the custodial closet? The l aboratory says there's semen on it.”

Father Szyszynski's eyes widen. “Semen? Whose?”

“Was it yours, Father?” Patrick asks quietly.

“No.”

A flat denial. Patrick has expected nothing less than this. “Well, I hope for your sake you're right, Father, because we're going to be able to tell from DNA testing on your blood whether that's true.”

Szyszynski's face is pale and drawn; his hands are trembling. “I'd like to le ave now.”

Patrick shakes his head. “I'm sorry, Father,” he says. “But I'm placing you un der arrest.”

Thomas LaCroix has never met Nina Frost, although he's heard about her. He remembers when she got a conviction for a rape that occurred in a bathtub, although all the evidence had been washed away. He has been a district atto rney too long to doubt his own abilities-last year, he even locked away a p riest in Portland for this same crime-but he also knows that these sorts of cases are extremely difficult to win. However, he wants to put on a good a ct. It has nothing to do with Nina Frost or her son-he'd just like York Co unty's prosecutors to know how they do things up in Portland. She answers the phone on the first ring. “It's about time,” she says, when he introduces himself. “I really need to discuss something with you.”

“Absolutely. We can talk tomorrow at the courthouse, before the arraignment ,“ Thomas begins. ”I just wanted to call before-”

“Why did they pick you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What makes you the best attorney Wally could find to prosecute?” Thomas draws in his breath. “I've been in Portland for fifteen years. And I've tried a thousand cases like this.”

“So you're just phoning in a performance, now.”

“I didn't say that,” Thomas insists, but he is thinking: She must be a wonde r on cross-examination. “I understand that you're nervous about tomorrow, Ni na. But the arraignment, well, you know exactly what it's going to entail. L et's just get through it, and then we can sit down and strategize about your son's case.”

“Yes.” Then, dryly: “Do you need directions?” Another dig-this is her territory, her life; he is an outsider on both counts . “Look, I can imagine what you're going through. I have three children of my own.”

“I used to think I could imagine it too. I thought that's what made me good at what I did. I was wrong on both counts.”

She falls silent, all the fire having burned out of her. “Nina,” Thomas vows, “I will do everything in my power to prosecute this case the way you would.”

“No,” she replies quietly. “Do it better.”

“I didn't get a confession,” Patrick admits, striding past Nina into her kitch en. He just wants his failure immediately set out there, like a carcass to be picked apart. There's nothing she can say to berate him he hasn't already said to himself.

“You . . .” Nina stares at him, then sinks onto a stool. “Oh, Patrick, no.” Anguish pushes on his shoulders, makes him sit down too. “I tried, Nina. Bu t he wouldn't cave in. Not even when I told him about the semen, and Nathan iel's disclosure.”

“So!” Caleb's voice interrupts firmly, brightly. “You finished with your ice cream, buddy?” He throws a warning like a knife between his wife and Patric k; tilts his head meaningfully toward Nathaniel. Patrick has not even notice d the boy sitting at the table, having a bedtime snack. He took one look at Nina, and forgot there might be anyone else in the room.

“Weed,” he says. “You're up late.”

“It's not bedtime yet.”

Patrick has forgotten about Nathaniel's voice. Still rough, it sounds better suited to a grizzled cowboy than a small child, but it is a symphony all the same. Nathaniel hops off his seat to run to Patrick, extends a skinny arm. “W anna feel my muscle?”

Caleb laughs. “Nathaniel was watching the Ironman competition on ESPN.” Patrick squeezes the tiny biceps. “Gosh, you could deck me with an arm like that,” he says soberly, then turns toward Nina. “He's strong. Have you see n how strong this guy is?”

He is trying to convince her of a different sort of strength, and she knows it . Nina crosses her arms. “He could be Hercules, Patrick, and he'd still be my little boy.”

“Mom,” Nathaniel wails.

Over his head, Nina mouths, “Did you arrest him?”

Caleb puts his hands on Nathaniel's shoulders, steering him back toward hi s bowl of melting ice cream. “Look, you two need to talk-and clearly, here isn't the best place to do it. Why don't you just go out? You can fill me in after Nathaniel's gone to sleep.”

“But don't you want to-”

“Nina,” Caleb sighs, “you're going to understand what Patrick says, and I'm going to need to have it explained. You might as well be the translator.” He watches Nathaniel take the last bite of ice cream into his mouth. “Come on, buddy. Let's see if that guy from Romania popped a vein in his neck yet.” At the threshold of the kitchen door, Nathaniel lets go of his father's hand . He runs toward Nina, catching her at the knees, a near tackle. “Bye, Mom,” he says, smiling, his dimples deep. “Sweep tight.” It's an uncanny malapropism, Patrick thinks. If Nina could, she'd whisk away this whole mess for Nathaniel. He watches her kiss her son good night. As N athaniel hurries back toward Caleb, she ducks her head and blinks, until the tears aren't quite as bright in her eyes. “So,” she says, “let's go.” In an effort to improve the revenues on slow Sunday nights, Tequila Mockin gbird has established the Jimmy Buffet Key Largo Karaoke Night, an all-you -can-eat burgerfest paired with singing. When Patrick and I walk into the bar, our senses are assaulted: A string of lights in the shape of palm tre es adorn the bar; a crepe-paper parrot hangs from the ceiling; a girl with too much makeup and too little skirt is butchering “The Wind Beneath My W ings.“ Stuyvesant sees us come in and grins. ”You two never come in on a S unday.”

Patrick looks at some poor waitress, shivering in a bikini as she serves a table. “And now we know why.”

Stuyv sets two napkins down in front of us. “The first margarita is on the hou se,” he offers.

“Thanks, but we need something a little less ...”

“Festive,” I finish.

Stuyvesant shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

After he turns away to get our drinks and burgers, I feel Patrick's eyes on me . He is ready to talk, but I'm not, not just yet. Once the words are hanging t here in the open air, there is no taking back what is going to happen. I look at the singer, clutching the mike like a magic wand. She has absolutel y no voice to speak of, but here she is, belting out her off-key rendition of a song that's crappy to begin with. “What makes people do things like that?” I say absently.

“What makes people do any of the things they do?” Patrick lifts his drink, bares his teeth after he takes a sip. There is a smattering of applause as the woman gets down from the makeshift stage, probably because she's done.

“I hear that karaoke's some kind of self-discovery deal. Like yoga, you kno w? You go up there and you muster the courage to do something you never in a million years thought you could do, and when it's over, you're a better p erson because of it.”

“Yeah, and the rest of the audience needs Excedrin. Give me hot coals to wa lk over, any day. Oh, that's right, I've already done that.” To my embarras sment, tears come to my eyes; to hide this, I take a great gulp of my whisk ey. “Do you know when I talked to him, he told me to think about forgivenes s? Can you believe he had the nerve to say that to me, Patrick?”

“He wouldn't admit anything,” Patrick answers softly. “He looked at me like he didn't have a clue what I was talking about. Like when I told him about the underwear, and the semen stain, it was a shock.”

“Patrick,” I say, lifting my gaze to his, “what am I going to do?”

“If Nathaniel testifies-”

“No.”

“Nina ...”

I shake my head. “I'm not going to be the one who does that to him.”

“Then wait a while, until he's stronger.”

“He is never going to be strong enough for that. Am I supposed to wait until his mind has managed to erase it ... and then make him sit on a witness stand and bring it all back again? Tell me, Patrick, how is that in Nathaniel's be st interests?”

Patrick is quiet for a moment. He knows this system like I do; he knows I'

m right. “Maybe once the semen comes back as a match, the priest's lawyer can talk to him and work out some kind of deal.”

“A deal,” I repeat. “Nathaniel's childhood is being traded for a deal.” Without saying a word, Patrick lifts my whiskey glass and hands it to me. I t ake a tentative sip. Then a larger one, even though my throat bursts into fla me. “This ... is horrible,” I wheeze, coughing.

“Then why did you order it?”

“Because you always do. And I don't feel like being myself tonight.” Patrick grins. “Maybe you should just have your usual white wine, then, and go up and sing for us.”

As if he has cued it, the woman who assists the karaoke machine man approac hes us, holding out a binder. Her bleached hair hangs into her face, and sh e is wearing pantyhose with her tropical sarong miniskirt. “Hons,” she says to us. “You want to do a duet?”

Patrick shakes his head. “I don't think so.”

“Oh, come on. There are some cute songs here for couples like you. 'Summ er Nights,' remember that one from Grease? Or how about that one Aaron N eville and Linda Ronstadt do?”

I am not here; this is not happening. A woman is not pressuring me into sing ing karaoke when I have come to discuss putting my son's rapist in jail. “Go away,” I say succinctly.

She glances down at my hamburger, untouched. “Maybe you can get a side of manners with that,” she says, and twitches back to the stage. When she's gone, the weight of Patrick's eyes rests heavy on me. “What?” I demand.

“Nothing.”

“Clearly, there's something.”

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “You may not ever forgive Szyszynski, Ni na, but you won't be able to move past this ... to help Nathaniel move past t his . . . until you stop cursing him.”

I drain the rest of my liquor. "I will curse him, Patrick, until the day he dies.

"

A new singer fills in the space that has fallen between the two of us. A he avyweight woman with hair that touches her ass, she sways her considerable hips as the riff begins playing on the karaoke machine.

It only takes a minute . . .

For your life to move on past. , .

“What is she doing up there?” I murmur.

“Yeah . . . she's actually good.”

We both look away from the stage, and our eyes meet. “Nina,” Patrick says, “you're not the only one hurting. When I see you like this . . . well, it kills me.” He looks down at his drink, stirs it once. “I wish-”

“I wish too. But I could wish till the world stops turning, and it wouldn't cha nge a thing, Patrick.”

History was once today . . . Before the moment got away. . . . Nice guys, bab y, always finish last.

Patrick laces his fingers with mine on the table. He looks at me, hard, as if he is going to be quizzed on the details of my face. Then, with what seems to be a great effort, he turns away. “The truth is there shouldn't be any justice for motherfuckers like him. People like that, they ought to be shot.” Clasped together, our hands look like a heart. Patrick squeezes, I squeeze b ack. It is all the communication we need, this pulse between us, my reply. The most pressing issue the next morning involves what we are supposed to do with Nathaniel. It hasn't occurred to either Caleb or myself before this; o nly when the courthouse looms into view do I realize that Nathaniel cannot b e at this arraignment . . . and cannot be left alone. In the hallway, he sta nds between us, holding both of our hands-a living bridge.

“I could sit with him in the lobby,” Caleb volunteers, but I immediately re ject that solution. Caleb looks down at Nathaniel. “Don't you have a secret ary who could watch him for a while?”

“This isn't my district,” I point out. “And I'm not leaving him with someone I don't know.”

Of course not, never again. Although, as it turns out, it is not the strangers we have to be wary of.

We are leaning hard against this impasse when a guardian angel arrives. Nath aniel sees her first, and tears down the hallway. “Monica!” he shrieks, and she lifts him into the air, swinging him around.

“That is the most fabulous word I've ever heard,” Monica laughs. Nathaniel beams. “I can talk now.”

“That's what Dr. Robichaud told me. She said she can't get a word in edgew ise anymore when you come to her office.” She switches Nathaniel onto her other hip and turns to us. “How are you holding up?” As if there is an answer to that question, today.

“Well,” Monica says, as if we've responded. “We're just going to head down to the playroom near the family court. Sound good, Nathaniel?” She raises her brows. “Or do you have alternate plans for him?”

“No . . . not at all,” I murmur.

“That's what I figured. Child care this morning ... it probably wasn't your top priority.”

Caleb touches Nathaniel's golden hair. “Be good,” he says, and kisses his ch eek.

“He's always good.” Monica sets him on his feet, and begins to lead him a way. “Nina, you know where to find us when you're done.” I watch them walk for a moment. Two weeks ago I could not stand Monica L aFlamme; now I am indebted to her. “Monica,” I call out, and she turns.