Eyes of a Child

by Richard North Patterson

  ‘Why don’t we go to Golden Gate Park,’ Terri said.

  ‘Okay.’ Turning from the street below, Elena seemed to hesitate. ‘Do you think Carlo could go?’ she asked. ‘He never plays with me anymore.’

  As Terri looked at her more closely, Elena’s eyes flickered. The question was disingenuous, Terri knew: in some way, Elena had pieced together the reason she did not see Carlo. ‘What if Carlo isn’t home?’ Terri asked. ‘Can Chris come?’

  Elena looked at the ground. ‘All right.’ She seemed to know that Terri would not ask Carlo.

  When Chris met them, in a large grassy field surrounded by oaks, he was holding a kite.

  ‘Carlo always did this,’ he explained. ‘I thought Elena might like to try.’

  Elena looked dubious. ‘I’d like to try,’ Terri said. This was true; her memories of childhood did not include a kite, and Terri doubted she had ever flown one.

  It turned out that she was a natural.

  Within moments, she had the kite aloft. After a moment of self-indulgence, Terri turned it over to Elena and sat next to Chris. They watched from a blanket, drinking coffee, while Elena flew the kite, flicking its string from side to side in imagined feats of steering. Seeing this, Chris smiled.

  ‘Did Carlo use to do that?’ Terri asked.

  ‘Uh-huh, and so did I. As a kid, kite flying was one of my major talents – it’s something you can do alone, and San Francisco is great for wind.’ Chris smiled. ‘Of course, Carlo always wanted to do it all himself. Floating somewhere over China are several perfectly good kites which somehow escaped his grasp.’

  His tone was relaxed, matter-of-fact in his fondness for Carlo. But he did not look at her. Terri wondered if they would ever have a conversation about their children that was not shadowed by Richie’s charges.

  There was a sudden gust of wind; the kite slipped from Elena’s hands, rattled upward, and became snagged in a nearby tree. She gazed upward, lips tremulous. When Chris and Terri got up to help, she considered them both, then turned to Chris, hesitant. ‘Can you please get my kite down?’ she finally asked. ‘You’re tall.’

  Chris nodded. ‘I can try.’

  Terri sat down, mildly amused; by the age of seven, she thought, girls learn that men are supposed to be good at things. And then, with sudden bitterness, she thought of Richie.

  The kite was easy enough for Chris to reach, Terri saw; with a few twists, he could get it down. But after working the string loose from a couple of branches, Chris stared up at the tree, his hands on his hips.

  ‘I need some help for the last part,’ he said. ‘if I hold you up, can you get it loose from that branch?’

  It was just the opposite, Terri thought, of what Richie would have said. Elena stared up at the string, caught on a branch perhaps five feet over her head, as if it were at the top of a building.

  ‘I won’t let you fall,’ Chris told her.

  Elena paused again. Then, turning to Chris but looking away, she held out her arms as she once had to Richie.

  Chris held her aloft. Elena’s head disappeared amid the leaves; Chris held the string in one hand, to prevent mischance. But when he lowered her, Terri saw Elena’s delighted face, and then the kite.

  Chris smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said to her. ‘That would have been hard by myself.’

  Firmly gripping the kite string, Elena appraised him. ‘Do you know Susie Goldman?’ she asked.

  Chris tilted his head, as if trying to remember. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘She’s in first grade with me.’ The little girl frowned. ‘Sometimes we’re friends, and sometimes we fight.’

  It made Chris smile again. ‘Sometimes friends are like that.’ He knelt to wrap the string around her wrist. ‘You’re a good kite flyer, Elena. At least as good as Carlo.’

  At the mention of Carlo, the little girl scurried off with the kite again.

  Chris sat down again. ‘I thought you weren’t any good with little kids,’ Terri said.

  He picked up his coffee, took a sip. ‘I never said I was no good. I said I’d had no practice. Especially with girls.’

  Terri gave him an amused look. ‘You are good, though – letting her get the kite was a true lesson in self-esteem.’

  Chris smiled. ‘It’s easier to resist impressing women,’ he said, ‘when they’re in grade school.’

  Terri smiled back and then wondered for a fleeting moment if this was a sardonic allusion to Richie. She found herself staring at Chris.

  He gazed out at Elena; somehow, Terri knew that he was conscious of her scrutiny. ‘I honestly think you still wonder,’ he said, ‘after what Carlo went through, how I truly feel about Elena.’

  It was disconcerting; Terri could not tell if, because she looked at him, Chris had guessed her thoughts. ‘I know you feel sorry for her,’ she said quietly. ‘But yes, I suppose I do.’

  He turned to her. ‘What happened to Elena was a tragedy,’ he said. ‘How can I possibly blame her for it? So don’t make things any worse than they are, okay?’

  Could you ever love her? Terri wanted to ask. But she was not sure that the question mattered.

  Just before the November election, McKinley Brooks was indicted by a federal grand jury.

  The formal counts included conspiring to violate the federal campaign laws, as well as Christopher Paget’s civil rights. But the essence of the charge was that, at the apparent instigation of James Colt, Brooks had prevented the police from following leads in the murder of Ricardo Arias. The witnesses included Jack Slocum and a political consultant, George Norton: Norton had received immunity for describing his conversations with Brooks, Slocum, and an aide to James Colt.

  On the day of the indictment, Paget met Johnny Moore downtown, to watch the evening news. The two friends sat at a mirrored bar beneath a television, Paget drinking a Tanqueray martini, Moore his usual mineral water. ‘Does drinking that stuff ever bother you?’ Paget asked.

  Moore smiled. ‘All the time. By ten o’clock, I’m not half the wit I used to be. Nor do I have those wonderful epiphanies, where I suddenly go for the political throat of whoever’s sitting nearest me, in flights of scorn and eloquence. Worse yet, the surviving drunks bore me to tears.’

  ‘Maybe you should develop a new passion, Johnny. Like going to the gym.’

  Moore gave him a look of distaste. ‘And start lifting weights in front of mirrors? At least alcoholism can be shared with others. Besides, I can experience narcissism vicariously. Through you.’

  Paget smiled, and then the news came on.

  The lead story was Brooks’s indictment. The anchorwoman, a blonde who looked something like Marla Maples, spoke in a voice typically reserved for kidnappings and mass disasters. ‘San Francisco District Attorney McKinley Brooks was indicted today, on five counts alleging obstruction of the Senate race and subsequent murder trial of prominent San Francisco lawyer Christopher Paget. . . .’

  The picture changed. A grim McKinley Brooks appeared hurrying from the federal building, flanked by his own lawyers. For once, Brooks did not speak to the press; over the film, the anchorwoman went on.

  ‘The case against Brooks centers on the testimony of political operative George Norton, who allegedly spoke to Brooks on behalf of gubernatorial aspirant James Colt. According to sources close to the grand jury, Norton claims he funneled campaign moneys to Ricardo Arias, the estranged husband of one of Mr Paget’s associates, Teresa Peralta, to make sensational charges against Mr Paget and his son in Arias’s divorce case. After Arias’s mysterious death by gunshot, Mr Norton – supposedly at the instance of an aide to James Colt – again contacted District Attorney Brooks, to ensure that the police did not discover the ties between Ricardo Arias and the Colt campaign.

  ‘At his home in Bel Air, James Colt denied all charges. . . .’

  On the screen, Colt appeared, standing beneath a palm tree, tense but composed. He was surrounded by cameras.

  ‘He looks a little peaked,’ Moore rem
arked. ‘Rather like an albino, in fact. It seems the attention doesn’t agree with him.’

  Paget nodded. ‘I wondered where my entourage had gone. I’ve missed them.’

  Colt began speaking. ‘These charges,’ he said in tones of anger, ‘are the work of those who oppose my efforts to bring a better quality of life to all Californians, rich or poor. We expect total vindication and are confident that it will come quite soon. . . .’

  ‘Two to one Mac sells him out,’ Paget murmured.

  ‘Two cases of Perrier water against a bottle of Tanqueray. Are you serious?’

  ‘Sure.’

  On the screen, Colt’s lips were moving soundlessly. ‘However,’ the anchorwoman narrated, ‘there were reports this evening that McKinley Brooks is negotiating for reduced charges, in exchange for testimony regarding his conversations with James Colt. While the outcome of these negotiations is uncertain, the damage to Colt’s candidacy may be immediate and severe.’

  ‘Colt is toast,’ Moore said. ‘Whether Mac deals him or not.’

  ‘What about the bet, Johnny? Any takers?’

  ‘No, thanks. Winning something should be fun. And Mac will deal him. It’s just a matter of establishing the market rate.’

  The anchorwoman reappeared. ‘Today’s indictment seemingly assures the election of insurgent candidate Victor Salinas as district attorney. Asked for comment, Salinas said, quote, “The Ricardo Arias matter was a travesty. This indictment reaffirms the principle that justice should not be sold, no matter how rich and powerful the bidder.”’

  Moore, Paget saw, was grinning at his mineral water.

  ‘As for Mr Paget, who has been silent throughout, his only comment was, quote, “I’m sure they’ll treat Mr Colt more fairly than he treated my teenage son. Of course, he’ll need that.”’

  Moore looked sharply over at Paget. ‘Nasty,’ he said, ‘to stick Colt with Richie’s dirt.’

  Paget shrugged. ‘It had a certain elegance, I thought.’ He raised his glass. ‘In any event, we’ve made the world safe for Caroline.’

  Moore touched Paget’s glass. ‘Very selfless of you, that. Although I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve also redeemed Carlo’s reputation. And, to some extent, your own.’

  Paget smiled. ‘We do have to live here, after all. Terri too.’

  ‘True enough.’ Pausing, Moore gave him an appraising sideways look. ‘So,’ he said softly, ‘who did kill Ricardo Arias?’

  Paget smiled again. ‘James Colt, of course. Didn’t he do everything?’

  Teresa Peralta lay beside Chris in the quiet of his bedroom.

  It was just past Christmas; Elena, happy with her toys, was spending the night with Rosa. Fourteen months after Richie’s death, Elena showed no sign of knowing the truth; for Elena, the security of Rosa’s love, and of her life with Terri, seemed more and more to define her world. Sensing this, Terri was content. The subject of Richie, so potentially explosive, might be dormant for a time: Terri felt Elena, with a child’s instinct for self-protection, establishing the touchstones of her new life before she could face the past. For once, what the absence of a father meant was safety.

  The last thought, as it always did, made Terri sad. She turned to Chris again.

  He slept lightly, his face calm and dreamless. A while ago they had made love, sweetly and unhurriedly, until the moment Terri lost herself and then lay back on the pillow, grining at Chris out of sheer surprise and pleasure at the way this always happened. Making love was so much better, Terri thought, when it was not just an escape but a destination. Except that, until some moments afterward, she had not been sure where they were going.

  ‘Remember the first time we made love?’ she had asked.

  Chris had smiled. ‘Tonight, you mean? Of course.’

  ‘I meant the first time.’

  Slowly, he nodded. ‘You’d lost Elena. But tonight was about us. It’s not the same.’

  She looked into his face, serious now. ‘But are we the same?’

  He slid away from her, turning on his elbow to watch her. ‘We’ll never be the same,’ he said. ‘We’ve been through too much.’

  The elliptical phrase made Terri as sad as the memory of sadness she read in his eyes. ‘Such as,’ she answered, ‘the fact that I thought you’d murdered Richie.’

  He regarded her without anger. ‘It’s there. I guess it will always be there. However much I may have deserved it.’

  ‘You didn’t deserve it, Chris.’ She shook her head. ‘What hurts is that I came out loving you that much more, and you came out loving me a little less.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Yes.’ Terri’s sudden tears surprised her. ‘Damn it, I love you so much it hurts. Ever since we found out what happened, you’ve been endlessly kind, all right? And it’s helped me a lot. But every day, the better I get, the more I feel how much I may have lost. I’ve gotten rid of the nightmares, I’m coming to terms with my father – somehow I can even live with what my mother did, then and now, and how she came to it. I can stand all that. What I can’t stand is the idea of losing you.’

  ‘You haven’t lost me, Terri.’

  ‘I haven’t got you, either.’ She felt her voice rise. ‘God, I didn’t want our life to be about Richie. But it still is, isn’t it? Because you’ll never forget what happened.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’ His expression was not unkind; Terri thought it was the gaze of a man too honest to lie without good reason. ‘So what do you want for us?’

  You, Terri thought, the way you were before. She felt more vulnerable than she could remember ever feeling. Quietly, she said, ‘I want all the things you said you wanted in Portofino. I want our child, and for you to love me. And Elena. Just as I answered you then.’

  He studied her, ‘Do you think we can do that? Make a family?’

  ‘I can. The question is whether you can. Or Carlo.’

  His eyes softened. ‘You’ve already won Carlo over,’ he answered. ‘Did you think I don’t know who helped bring him back to me again? It’s hard for me to ask things for myself, or even to arouse much sympathy. It’s not the way people see me – even Carlo.’

  She touched his face. ‘I see you, Chris. Except for those four months, I always did.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Don’t sound so accepting, okay? Do you think that’s easy work?’

  He smiled a little. ‘I just said it wasn’t.’

  She shook her head again. ‘It’s like there’s part of you, now, that’s out of reach. I can’t quite seem to touch it.’

  ‘Then keep trying.’ His smile faded. ‘Because if you ever stopped, I don’t think I could stand it.’

  Terri looked at him, confused. ‘There’s been damage,’ he said softly. ‘And hurt. But we’ve come through things that few people ever face.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘I believe in you, Terri. I always have. If you believe that we still can make a family, then we can. Because I still love you far too much not to try.’

  There it was, Terri thought, after months of wondering. She could not understand the tears in her eyes.

  Christopher Paget held her close. ‘So are you going to marry me?’ he said. ‘Or do I have to ask you?’

  Terri found that she was smiling against his shoulder: anyone who could feel all these things at once, she thought, must surely be crazy. ‘No,’ she managed, ‘I’ll marry you. But what about Carlo?’

  ‘Carlo? Oh, I did ask him, a few days ago.’ His voice softened. ‘It’s okay by Carlo. But he said to tell you no babysitting.’

  Now, as Chris slept, Terri smiled at his face.

  She would love him, she knew, more than he had ever been loved. And so, in time, would Elena. For whatever else life brought to her, Elena’s image of her father would not, in the end, remain Ricardo Arias. For this, and for herself, Teresa Peralta felt deeply grateful.

  For the first time, Paget entered the church in Montalcino.

  Carlo and Elena stood at the altar. But
an almost equal wonder was that Terri had persuaded a priest to marry her to Paget, the non-Catholic. He could only hope that it did not involve some terrible deceit.

  As they approached the altar, he turned to Terri, whispering, ‘You didn’t lie about me, did you?’

  She smiled up at him. ‘Of course not,’ she said innocently. ‘Your fingerprints were on the rosary, weren’t they?’

  ‘God,’ he murmured. ‘I hope this is legal.’

  She gave him an ambiguous smile. ‘Believe me, so do I.’ And then they stood in front of the priest, a stocky man with a peasant’s face and warm brown eyes, their children beside them.

  The church, Paget acknowledged, was simple and lovely. Even if, as he deeply suspected, no one really lived here. And then he looked at Teresa Peralta, and the thought did not matter.

  She gazed gravely at the altar, and at the priest, her face beautiful in the light and shadow. The mysteries of the human heart were deep, Paget thought; as much of her childhood as she cared to leave behind, this much was part of her. Paget was happy to share it.

  The vows began.

  The priest spoke in broken English, for Paget’s sake; with her Spanish, Terri could follow Italian well enough. But she wanted Paget to know, she had said that morning, the moment that they were married.

  When the moment came, Paget smiled to himself, and felt the pressure of Terri’s hand. He kissed her then: from the side, Elena Arias looked up at him solemnly, as if he were a new discovery.

  Carlo was the second to kiss Terri. ‘Nice going,’ he told her. ‘You guys are even starting to look like a couple.’

  Terri smiled. ‘It’s a miracle.’

  Beside them, Elena began tugging on Terri’s yellow silk dress. ‘Can we go outside now?’ she asked.

  The priest smiled down at her. ‘Go ahead,’ he told Chris and Terri. ‘I’ll give the papers to your son.’