by Jodi Picoult
“Have you talked to—”
“Not yet.”
“You’ll call me, won’t you? After?”
“What do you think?” Patrick says, and hangs up. He bends down to fork all the spilled clothing back into the bin, and notices something bright in an alcove behind the boiler. Working his big body into a pretzel, he stretches out a hand but cannot grab it. Patrick looks around the custodial closet, finds a fireplace poker, and slides it behind the bulk of the boiler to the small hollow. He snags a corner of it—paper, maybe?—and manages to drag it within his arm’s reach.
Baseball mitts. One hundred percent cotton. Gap, size XXS.
He pulls a brown paper bag from his pocket. With his gloved fingers, he turns the underwear over in his hand. On the left rear, slightly off center, there is a stiff stain.
In the custodial closet, directly beneath the altar where Father Szyszynski is at that moment reading Scripture aloud, Patrick bows his head and prays that in a situation as unfortunate as this one, there might be a shred of pure luck.
• • •
Caleb feels Nathaniel’s giggle like a tiny earthquake, shuddering up from the rib cage. He presses his ear down more firmly against his son’s chest. Nathaniel is lying on the floor; Caleb is lying on him, his ear tipped close to the boy’s mouth. “Say it again,” Caleb demands.
Nathaniel’s voice is still thready, syllables hanging together by a string. His throat needs to learn how to hold a word again, cradle it muscle by muscle, heft it onto the tongue. Right now, this is all new to him. Right now, it is still a chore.
But Caleb can’t help himself. He squeezes Nathaniel’s hand as the sound flounders out, spiky and tentative. “Daddy.”
Caleb grins, so proud he could split in two. Beneath his ear, he hears the wonder in his son’s lungs. “One more time,” Caleb begs, and he settles in to listen.
• • •
A memory: I am searching all over the house for my car keys, because I am already late to drop Nathaniel at school and go to work. Nathaniel is dressed in his coat and boots, waiting for me. “Think!” I say aloud, and then turn to Nathaniel. “Have you seen my keys?”
“They’re under there,” he answers.
“Under where?”
A giggle erupts from deep inside him. “I made you say underwear.”
When I laugh along with him, I forget what I’ve been looking for.
• • •
Two hours later, Patrick enters St. Anne’s again. This time, it is empty. Candles flicker, casting shadows; dust motes dance in the slices of light thrown by the stained-glass windows. Patrick immediately heads downstairs to Father Szyszynski’s office. The door is wide open, the priest sits at his desk. For a moment, Patrick enjoys the feeling of voyeurism. Then he knocks, twice, firmly.
Glen Szyszynski glances up, smiling. “Can I help you?”
Let’s hope so, Patrick thinks, and he walks inside.
• • •
Patrick pushes a Miranda form across the investigation room table toward Father Szyszynski. “It’s just a standard practice, Father. You’re not in custody, and you’re not under arrest . . . but you’re willing to answer questions, and the law says I need to tell you you’ve got rights before I ask you a single thing.”
Without hesitation, the priest signs the list of rights Patrick has just read aloud.
“I’m happy to do anything that helps Nathaniel.”
Szyszynski had immediately volunteered to help with the investigation. He agreed to give a blood sample when Patrick said they needed to rule out anyone who’d been around Nathaniel. At the hospital, watching the phlebotomist, Patrick had wondered if the sickness in this man’s veins was measurable, as much a part of the fluid as the hemoglobin, the plasma.
Now, Patrick leans back in his chair and stares at the priest. He has faced a thousand criminals, all of whom proclaim their innocence or pretend to have no idea what he is talking about. Most of the time he is able to acknowledge their barbarity with the cool detachment of a law enforcement professional. But today, this slight man sitting across from him—well, it is all Patrick can do to not beat the priest bloody just for speaking Nathaniel’s name.
“How long have you known the Frosts, Father?” Patrick asks.
“Oh, I’ve known them since I first came to the parish. I had been sick for a while, and was given a new congregation. The Frosts moved to Biddeford a month after I became a priest here.” He smiles. “I baptized Nathaniel.”
“Do they come to church regularly?”
Father Szyszynski’s gaze slides to his lap. “Not as regularly as I’d like,” he admits. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Have you taught Nathaniel in Sunday school?”
“I don’t teach it; a parent does. Janet Fiore. While the service is going on upstairs.” The priest shrugs. “I love children, though, and I like to connect with the little ones—”
I bet you do, Patrick thinks.
“—so after the service, when the congregation is enjoying fellowship and coffee, I take the children downstairs and read a story to them.” He grins sheepishly. “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a frustrated actor.”
No surprise there, either. “Where are the parents, while you’re reading?”
“Enjoying a few moments to themselves upstairs, for the most part.”
“Does anyone else read to the children with you, or are you alone?”
“Just me. The Sunday school teachers usually finish cleaning the room, and then go up for coffee. The storytime only lasts about fifteen minutes.”
“Do the children ever leave the room?”
“Only to go to the bathroom, right down the hall.”
Patrick considers this. He does not know how Szyszynski managed to get Nathaniel by himself, when all the other children were allegedly present, too. Maybe he gave them the book to look over for themselves, and followed Nathaniel into the bathroom. “Father,” Patrick says, “have you heard how Nathaniel was hurt?”
There is a hesitation, and then the priest nods. “Yes. Unfortunately, I have.”
Patrick locks his eyes on Szyszynski’s. “Did you know that there’s physical evidence Nathaniel was anally penetrated?” He is looking for the slightest pinking of the man’s cheeks; a telltale hitch of his breathing. He is looking for surprise, for backpedaling, for the beginnings of panic.
But Father Szyszynski just shakes his head. “God help him.”
“Did you know, Father, that Nathaniel has told us you were the one that hurt him?”
Finally, the shock that Patrick has expected. “I . . . I . . . of course I haven’t hurt him. I would never do that.”
Patrick remains silent. He wants Szyszynski to think about all the priests around the globe who’ve been found guilty of this offense. He wants Szyszynski to realize that he’s walked himself right onto the gallows of his own execution. “Huh,” Patrick says. “Funny, then. Because I talked to him just the other night, and he specifically told me that it was Father Glen. That’s what the kids call you, isn’t it, Father? Those kids you . . . love?”
Szyszynski shakes his head repeatedly. “I didn’t. I don’t know what to say. The boy must be confused.”
“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 of anything that might have made him think it happened, even though it didn’t?” Patrick leans forward. “Maybe a time you were alone with him, something occurred between you two that might have put this idea into his head?”
“I was never alone with him. There were fourte
en other children around.”
Patrick rocks his chair back on its rear legs. “Did you know that I found a pair of Nathaniel’s underwear behind the boiler of the custodial closet? The laboratory 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 leave now.”
Patrick shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Father,” he says. “But I’m placing you under 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 attorney too long to doubt his own abilities—last year, he even locked away a priest 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 act. It has nothing to do with Nina Frost or her son—he’d just like York County’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 wonder on cross-examination. “I understand that you’re nervous about tomorrow, Nina. But the arraignment, well, you know exactly what it’s going to entail. Let’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 kitchen. 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. But he wouldn’t cave in. Not even when I told him about the semen, and Nathaniel’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 Patrick; tilts his head meaningfully toward Nathaniel. Patrick has not even noticed 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. “Wanna 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 seen 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 his 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 Nathaniel 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 Mockingbird 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 trees 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 Wings.” Stuyvesant sees us come in and grins. “You two never come in on a Sunday.”
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 house,” 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 there 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 absolutely 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 know? 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 person because of it.”
“Yeah, and the rest of the audience needs Excedrin. Give me hot coals to walk over, any day. Oh, that’s right, I’ve already done that.” To my embarrassment, tears come to my eyes; to hide this, I take a great gulp of my whiskey. “Do you know when I talked to him, he told me to think about forgiveness? Can you believe he had the nerve to say that to me, Patrick?”
“He wouldn’t admit an
ything,” 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 best 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 take a tentative sip. Then a larger one, even though my throat bursts into flame. “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 approaches us, holding out a binder. Her bleached hair hangs into her face, and she 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. ‘Summer Nights,’ remember that one from Grease? Or how about that one Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt do?”
I am not here; this is not happening. A woman is not pressuring me into singing karaoke when I have come to discuss putting my son’s rapist in jail. “Go away,” I say succinctly.
