SEVEN
When I was four I found a caterpillar on my bedroom windowsill and decided to save its life. I made my mother take me to the library so that I could look it up in a Field guide. I punched pinholes in the top of a jar; I gave it grass and leaves and a tiny thimbleful of water. My mother said that if I didn’t let the caterpillar go, it would die, but I was convinced I knew better. Out in the world, it could be run over by a truck. It could be scorched by the sun. My protection would stack the odds.
I changed its food and water religiously. I sang to it when the sun went down. And on the third day, in spite of my best intentions, that caterpillar died.
Years later, it is happening all over again.
“No,” I tell Fisher. We have stopped walking; the cold January air is a cobra charmed up the folds of my coat. I thrust the paper back at him, as if holding my son’s name out of sight might keep it from being on the witness list at all.
“Nina, it’s not your decision,” he says gently. “Nathaniel’s going to have to testify.”
“Quentin Brown’s just doing this to get to me. He wants me to watch Nathaniel have a relapse in court so maybe I’ll snap again, this time in front of a judge and a jury.” Tears freeze on the tips of my eyelashes. I want it over, now. It was why I had murdered a man—because I thought that would stop this boulder from rolling on and on; because if the defendant was gone then my son would not have to sit on a witness stand and recount the worst thing that had ever happened to him. I wanted Nathaniel to be able to close this godawful chapter—and so, ironically, I didn’t.
But even this great sacrifice—of the priest’s life, of my own future—has not done what it was supposed to.
Nathaniel and Caleb have kept their distance since Christmas, but every few days Caleb brings him to the house to spend a few hours with me. I don’t know how Caleb has explained our living arrangements to Nathaniel. Maybe he says I am too sick to take care of a child, or too sad; and maybe either of these are true. One thing is certain—it is not in Nathaniel’s best interests to watch me plan for my own punishment. There is already too much he’s witnessed.
I know the name of the motel where they are staying, and sometimes, when I feel particularly courageous, I call. But Caleb always answers the phone, and either we have nothing to say to each other, or there are so many words clogging the wires between us that none of them fall forward.
Nathaniel, though, is doing well. When he comes to the house, he is smiling. He sings songs for me that Miss Lydia has taught the class. He no longer jumps when you come up behind him and touch his shoulder.
All of this progress, and it will be erased at a competency hearing.
In the park behind us, a toddler lies on his back making a snow angel. The problem with one of those is that you have to ruin it when you stand up. No matter what, there is always a footprint binding you to the ground. “Fisher,” I say simply, “I’m going to jail.”
“You don’t—”
“Fisher. Please.” I touch his arm. “I can handle that. I even believe that it’s what I deserve, because of what I did. But I killed a man for one reason and one reason only—to keep Nathaniel from being hurt any more. I don’t want him to think about what happened to him ever again. If Quentin wants to punish someone, he can punish me. But Nathaniel, he’s off limits.”
He sighs. “Nina, I’ll do the best I can—”
“You don’t understand,” I interrupt. “That’s not good enough.”
· · ·
Because Judge Neal hails from Portland, he doesn’t have chambers at the Alfred Superior Court, so he’s been given another judge’s lair to borrow for the duration of my trial. Judge McIntyre, however, spends his free time hunting. To this end, the small room is decorated with the heads of moose and ten-point bucks, prey that has lost the battle. And me? I think. Will I be next?
Fisher has filed a motion, and the resulting meeting is being held in private chambers to prevent the media from getting involved. “Judge, this is so outrageous,” he says, “that I can’t begin to express my absolute chagrin. The state has Father Szyszynski’s death on videotape. What possible need do they have for this child to testify to anything?”
“Mr. Brown?” the judge prompts.
“Your Honor, the alleged rationale for the murder was the boy’s psychiatric condition at the time, and the fact that the defendant believed her son had been the victim of molestation at the hands of Father Szyszynski. The state has learned that, in fact, this is not the truth. It’s important that the jury get to hear what Nathaniel actually told his mother before she went out and killed this man.”
The judge shakes his head. “Mr. Carrington, it’s going to be very difficult for me to quash a subpoena if the state alleges they can make it relevant. Now, once we’re in trial, I may be able to rule that it’s not relevant at all—but as it stands now, this witness’s testimony goes to motive.”
Fisher tries once again. “If the state will submit a written allegation of what they believe the child’s testimony to be, maybe we can stipulate to it, so that Nathaniel doesn’t have to take the stand.”
“Mr. Brown, that seems reasonable,” the judge says.
“I disagree. Having this witness, in the flesh, is critical to my case.”
There is a moment of surprised silence. “Think twice, counselor,” Judge Neal urges.
“I have, Your Honor, believe me.”
Fisher looks at me, and I know exactly what he is about to do. His eyes are dark with sympathy, but he waits for me to nod before he turns to the judge again. “Judge, if the state is going to be this inflexible, then we need a competency hearing. We’re talking about a child who’s been rendered mute twice in the past six weeks.”
The judge will leap at this compromise, I know. I also know that of all the defense attorneys I’ve seen in action, Fisher is one of the most compassionate toward children during competency hearings. But he won’t be, not this time. Because the best-case scenario, now, is to get the judge to declare Nathaniel not competent, so that he will not have to suffer through a whole trial. And the only way Fisher can do that is to actively try to make Nathaniel fall to pieces.
Fisher has kept it to himself, but his personal opinion is that art is beginning to imitate life. That is, his insanity defense for Nina—a complete fabrication at first—is starting to hit quite close to the mark. To keep her from dissolving after the motions hearing this morning, he took her out to lunch in a swanky restaurant, a place where she was less likely to have a breakdown. He had her tell him all the questions the prosecutor would ask Nathaniel on the stand, questions she’d asked child witnesses a thousand times.
The courthouse is dark now, empty except for the custodial staff, Caleb, Nathaniel, and Fisher. They move down the hall quietly, Nathaniel clutched in his father’s arms.
“He’s a little nervous,” Caleb says, clearing his throat.
Fisher ignores the comment. He might as well be walking a tightrope ten thousand feet above the ground. The last thing he wants to do is deal harshly with the boy; but then again, if he’s too solicitous, Nathaniel might feel comfortable enough at the hearing to be declared competent to stand trial. Either way, Nina will have his head.
Inside the court, Fisher switches on the overhead lights. They hiss, then flood the room with a garish brilliance. Nathaniel burrows closer to his father, his face pressed into the big man’s shoulder. Where is a roll of Tums when you need it?
“Nathaniel,” Fisher says tersely, “I need you to go sit in that chair. Your father is going to be in the back. He can’t say anything to you, and you can’t say anything to him. You just have to answer my questions. You understand?”
The boy’s eyes are as wide as the night. He follows Fisher to the witness stand, then scrambles onto the stool that has been placed inside. “Get down for a second.” Fisher reaches inside and takes out the stool, replacing it with a low chair. Now, Nathaniel’s brow does not even clear the lip of the witness stand.
“I … I can’t see anything,” Nathaniel whispers.
“You don’t need to.”
Fisher is about to begin asking practice questions when a sound distracts him—Caleb, methodically gathering every high stool in the courtroom, corralling them near the double doors. “I thought maybe these might be … better off somewhere else. So they’re not around first thing in the morning.” He meets Fisher’s gaze.
The attorney nods. “The closet. One of the janitors can lock them up.”
When he turns back to the boy, he has to work to keep a smile off his face.
Now Nathaniel knows why Mason always tries to pull out of his collar—this thing called a tie that doesn’t have a bow in it at all is choking his neck. He tugs at it again, only to have his father grab his hand. There are flutters in his stomach, and he’d rather be at school. Here, everyone is going to be staring at him. Here, everyone wants him to talk about things he doesn’t like to say.
Nathaniel clutches Franklin, his stuffed turtle, more tightly. The closed doors of the courtroom sigh open, and a man who looks like a policeman but isn’t one waves them inside. Nathaniel moves hesitantly down the rolled red tongue of carpet. The room is not as spooky as it was last night in the dark, but he still has the feeling that he is walking into the belly of a whale. His heart begins to tap as fast as rain on a windshield, and he holds his hand up to his chest to keep everyone else from hearing, too.
His mommy is sitting in the front row. Her eyes are puffy, and before she sees him standing there she wipes them with her fingers. It makes Nathaniel think of all the other times she’s pretended she isn’t crying, says it with a smile, even though there are tears right on her cheeks.
There is a big man in the front of the room too, with skin the color of chestnuts. It is the same man who was in the supermarket; who made his mother get taken away. His mouth looks like it has been sewn shut.
The Lawyer sitting next to his mother gets up and walks toward Nathaniel. He does not like the Lawyer. Every time the Lawyer comes to his house, his parents have yelled at each other. And last night, when Nathaniel had been brought here to practice, the Lawyer was downright mean.
Now, he puts his hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder. “Nathaniel, I know you’re worried about your mommy. I am, too. I want her to be happy again, but there is someone here who doesn’t like your mommy. His name is Mr. Brown. Do you see him over there? The tall man?” Nathaniel nods. “He’s going to ask you some questions. I can’t stop him from doing that. But when you answer them, remember—I’m here to help your mommy. He isn’t.”
Then he walks Nathaniel to the front of the courtroom. There are more people there than last night—a man wearing a black dress and holding a hammer; another person with hair that stands straight up on his head in little curls; a lady with a typewriter. His mom. And the big man who doesn’t like her. They walk to the little fence-box where Nathaniel had to sit before. He crawls onto the chair that is too low, then folds his hands in his lap.
The man in the black dress speaks. “Can we get a higher seat for this child?”
Everyone starts looking left and right. The almost-policeman says what everyone else can see: “There don’t seem to be any around.”
“What do you mean? We always have extra stools for child witnesses.”
“Well, I could go to Judge Shea’s courtroom to see if he has any, but there won’t be anybody here to watch the defendant, Your Honor.”
The man in the dress sighs, then hands Nathaniel a fat book. “Why don’t you sit on my Bible, Nathaniel?”
He does, wiggling a little, because his bum keeps sliding off. The curly man walks up to him with a smile. “Hi, Nathaniel,” he says.
Nathaniel doesn’t know if he is supposed to talk yet.
“I need you to put your hand on the Bible for me.”
“But I’m sitting on it.”
The man takes out another Bible, and holds it in front of Nathaniel like a table. “Raise your right hand,” he says, and Nathaniel lifts one arm into the air. “Your other right hand,” the man corrects. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
Nathaniel vehemently shakes his head.
“Is there a problem?” This from the man in the black dress.
“I’m not supposed to swear,” he whispers.
His mommy smiles, then, and hiccups out a laugh. Nathaniel thinks it is the prettiest sound he has ever heard.
“Nathaniel, I’m Judge Neal. I need you to answer some questions for me today. Do you think you can do that?”
He shrugs.
“Do you know what a promise is?” When Nathaniel nods, the judge points to the lady who is typing. “I need you to speak out, because that woman is writing down everything we say, and she has to hear you. You think you can talk nice and loud for her?”
Nathaniel leans forward. And at the top of his lungs, yells, “Yes!”
“Do you know what a promise is?”
“Yes!”
“Do you think you can promise to answer some questions today?”
“Yes!”
The judge leans back, wincing a little. “This is Mr. Brown, Nathaniel, and he’s going to talk to you first.”
Nathaniel looks at the big man, who stands up and smiles. He has white, white teeth. Like a wolf. He is nearly as tall as the ceiling and Nathaniel takes one look at him coming closer and thinks of him hurting his mother and then turning around and biting Nathaniel himself in two.
He takes a deep breath, and bursts into tears.
The man stops in his tracks, like he’s lost his balance. “Go away!” Nathaniel shouts. He draws up his knees, and buries his face in them.
“Nathaniel.” Mr. Brown comes forward slowly, holding out his hand. “I just need to ask you a couple of questions. Is that okay?”
Nathaniel shakes his head, but he won’t look up. Maybe the big man has laser eyes too, like Cyclops from the X-Men. Maybe he can freeze them with one glance and with the next, make them burst into fire.
“What’s your turtle’s name?” the big man asks.
Nathaniel buries Franklin under his knees, so that he won’t have to see the man either. He covers his face with his hands and peeks out, but the man has gotten even closer and this makes Nathaniel turn sideways in the chair, as if he might slip through the slats on the back side of it.
“Nathaniel,” the man tries again.
“No,” Nathaniel sobs. “I don’t want to!”
The man turns away. “Judge. May we approach?”
Nathaniel peers over the lip of the box he is sitting in and sees his mother. She’s crying too, but then that makes sense. The man wants to hurt her. She must be just as scared of him as Nathaniel is.
Fisher has told me not to cry, because I will get kicked out of the room. But I can’t control myself—the tears come as naturally as a blush or a breath. Nathaniel burrows into the wooden chair, all but hidden by the frame of the witness stand. Fisher and Brown walk toward the bench, where the judge is angry enough to be spitting sparks. “Mr. Brown,” he says. “I can’t believe you insisted on taking this so far. You know very well you didn’t need this testimony, and I’m not going to allow psychological mind games to be played in my courtroom. Don’t even think about making an argument to revisit this.”
“You’re right, Judge,” answers that bastard. “I asked to approach because clearly this child should not have to testify.”
The judge raps his gavel. “This court rules that Nathaniel Frost is not competent to stand trial. The subpoena is quashed.” He turns to my son. “Nathaniel, you can go on down to your dad.”
Nathaniel bolts out of the chair and down the steps. I think he is going to run to Caleb, in the back of the courtroom—but instead he rushes straight to me. The force of his body sends my chair scooting back a few inches. Nathaniel wraps his arms around my waist, squeezing free the breath I have not even noticed I am holding.
I wait until Nathaniel glances up, terrified by the faces in this foreign world—the clerk, the judge, the stenographer, and the prosecutor. “Nathaniel,” I tell him fiercely, drawing his attention. “You were the best witness I could have had.”
Over his head, I catch Quentin Brown’s eye. And smile.
When Patrick met Nathaniel Frost, the child was six months old. Patrick’s first thought was that he looked just like Nina. His second thought was that, right here, in his arms, was the reason they would never be together.
Patrick made an extra effort to get close to Nathaniel, even though sometimes it was painful enough to make him ache for days after a visit. He’d bring Weed little dolphins to float in the bathtub; Silly Putty; sparklers. For years Patrick had wanted to get under Nina’s skin; Nathaniel, who’d grown below her heart, surely had something to teach him. So he tagged along on hikes, swapping off with Caleb to carry Nathaniel when his legs got tired. He let Nathaniel spin in his desk chair at the station. He even baby-sat for a whole weekend, when Caleb and Nina went away for a relative’s wedding.
And somewhere along the way, Patrick—who’d loved Nina forever—fell just as hard for her son.
The clock hasn’t moved in two hours, Patrick would swear to that. Right now, Nathaniel is undergoing his competency hearing—a procedure Patrick couldn’t watch, even if he wanted to. And he doesn’t. Because Nina will be there too, and he hasn’t seen or spoken to her since Christmas Eve.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to. God, he can’t seem to think of anything but Nina—the feel of her, the taste of her, the way her body relaxed against his in her sleep. But right now, the memory is crystallized for Patrick. Any words that come between them, aftershocks, are only going to take away from that. And it isn’t what Nina would say to him that worries Patrick—it’s what she wouldn’t say. That she loves him, that she needs him, that this meant as much to her as it did to him.
He rests his head in his hands. Deep inside, there is a part of him that also knows this was a grave error. Patrick wants to get this off his chest, to confess his doubts to someone who would understand implicitly. But his confidante, his best friend, is Nina. If she cannot be that anymore … and she cannot be his … where does that leave them?
With a deep sigh he grabs the phone from his desk and dials an out-of-state number. He wants resolution, a present to give to Nina before he has to take the stand and testify against her. Farnsworth McGee, the police chief in Belle Chasse, Louisiana, answers on the third ring. “Hello?” he drawls, extending the word an extra syllable.
“It’s Detective-Lieutenant Ducharme, from Biddeford, Maine,” Patrick says. “What’s the latest on Gwynne?”
Patrick can easily envision the chief, with whom he’d met before leaving Belle Chasse. Overweight by a good fifty pounds, with a shock of Elvis-black hair. A fishing rod propped up in the corner behind his desk; a bumper sticker tacked to the bulletin board: HELL, YES, MY NECK’S RED . “Y’all got to understand that we move carefully in our jurisdiction. Don’t want no hasty mishaps, if you understand my meaning.”
Patrick grits his teeth. “Did you arrest him yet or not?”
“Your authorities are still talkin’ to our authorities, Detective. Believe me, you’ll be the first to know when something happens.”
He slams down the phone—angry at the idiot deputy, angry at Gwynne, angriest at himself for not taking matters into his own hands when he was in Louisiana. But he couldn’t make himself forget that he was a law enforcement officer, that he was obligated to uphold certain rules. That Nina had said no, even if it was what she really wanted.
Patrick stares at the phone in its cradle. Then again, it is always possible to reinvent oneself. Particularly in the image of a hero.
He’s seen Nina do it, after all.
After a moment, Patrick grabs his jacket and walks out of the station, intent on effecting change, rather than waiting for it to steamroll him.
It has turned out to be the best day of my life. First, Nathaniel was ruled not competent. Then Caleb asked me to watch Nathaniel after the hearing, and overnight, because he is scheduled to do a job up near the Canadian border. “Do you mind?” he’d politely said, and I couldn’t even form an answer, I was so delighted. I have visions of Nathaniel standing beside me in the kitchen while we cook his favorite dinner; I imagine watching his Shrek video twice in a row with a bowl of popcorn bridged between us.
But in the end, Nathaniel is exhausted from the events of the day. He falls asleep on the couch by six-thirty P.M . and doesn’t wake when I carry him upstairs. In his bed, his hand unfurls on the pillow, as if he is offering me a hidden gift.
When Nathaniel was born, he waved tight fists in the air, as if he were angry at the world. They softened moment by moment, until I would nurse him and watch his fingers scrabble at my skin, clutching for purchase. I was mesmerized by that grasp, because of all its potential. Would Nathaniel grow up to wield a pencil or a gun? Would he heal with his touch? Create music? Would his palm be covered with calluses? Ink? Sometimes I would separate the tiny fingers and trace the lines of his palm, as if I could truly read his future.
If Nathaniel had been difficult to conceive in the wake of my cyst surgery, he’d been a positively horrendous delivery. Thirty-six hours of labor rendered me trancelike. Caleb sat on the edge of the bed watching a Gilligan’s Island marathon on the hospital TV, something that seemed equally as painful as my contractions. “We’ll name her Ginger,” he vowed. “MaryAnn.”
The vise inside me ratcheted tighter every hour, until agony became a black hole, each pain pulling in another. Over my head Gilligan voted for a chimp as beauty pageant queen, so that he wouldn’t offend any of the stranded ladies. Caleb got behind me, propping up my back when I couldn’t even find the energy to open my eyes. “I can’t,” I whispered. “It’s your turn.”
So he rubbed my spine and he sang. “The weather started getting rough … the tiny ship was tossed … come on, Nina! If not for the courage of the fearless crew …”
“Remind me,” I said, “to kill you later.”
But I forgot, because minutes afterward Nathaniel was born. Caleb held him up, a being so small he curled like an inchworm in my husband’s hands. Not a Ginger or a MaryAnn, but a Little Buddy. In fact, that was what we called him for three days, before we decided on a name. Caleb wanted me to choose, since he refused to take credit for work that was nearly all mine. So I picked Nathaniel Patrick Frost, to honor my deceased father, and my oldest friend.
Now, it is hard to believe that the boy sleeping in front of me was ever so tiny. I touch my hand to his hair, feel it slip through my fingers like time. I suffered once before, I think. And look at what I got in return.
Quentin, who will cross a black cat’s path without blinking and walk beneath ladders without breaking a sweat, is strangely superstitious about trials. On mornings that he’s set to go to court, he gets fully dressed, eats breakfast, and then takes off his shirt and tie to shave. It’s inefficient, of course, but it all goes back to his very first case, when he was so nervous he nearly walked out the door with a night’s beard.
Would have, too, if Tanya hadn’t called him back in.
He rubs the shaving lather on his cheeks and jaw, then drags the razor the length of his face. He’s not nervous today. In spite of the deluge of media that’s sure to flood the court, Quentin knows he has a strong case. Hell, he’s got the defendant committing the crime on videotape. Nothing she or Fisher Carrington do will be able to erase that action from the eyes of the jury.
His first trial was a traffic ticket, which Quentin argued as if it were a capital murder. Tanya had brought Gideon; had been bouncing him on her hip in the back of the courtroom. Once he’d seen that, well, he had to put on a show.
“Damn!” Quentin jumps as he nicks his jaw. The shaving cream burns in the cut, and he scowls and presses a tissue to the spot. He has to hold it there for a couple of seconds until it clots, blood welling between his fingers. It makes him think of Nina Frost.
He wads up the tissue and sends it shooting across the bathroom, into the trash can. Quentin doesn’t bother to watch his perfect shot. Quite simply, when you think you’re incapable of missing, you don’t.
This is what I have tried on so far: my black prosecutor’s suit, the one that makes me look like Marcia Clark on a tear; the pale rose suit I wore to my cousin’s wedding; the corduroy jumper Caleb got me one Christmas that still has the tags on it. I’ve tried slacks, but that’s too mannish, and besides, I can’t ever figure out whether you can wear loafers with slacks or if that comes off as too casual. I am angry at Fisher for not thinking of this—dressing me, the way defense attorneys dress prostitutes—in oversize clothes with ugly floral prints, garments handed down from the Salvation Army that never fail to make the women look slightly lost and impossibly young.
I know what to wear so that a jury believes I’m in control. I have no idea how to dress helpless.
The clock on the nightstand is suddenly fifteen minutes later than it should be.
I pull on the jumper. It’s nearly two sizes too big—have I changed that much? Or did I never bother to try it on in the first place? I hike it up to my waist and pull on a pair of stockings, only to notice that they have a run in the left leg. I grab a second pair—but they are ripped too. “Not today,” I say under my breath, yanking open my underwear drawer, where I keep a reserve pair of stockings for emergencies. Panties and bras spill like foam over the sides of the bureau and onto my bare feet while I search for the plastic packet.
But I used that spare pantyhose the day I killed Glen Szyszynski, and since I haven’t been working since then, never thought to replace them.