He was kicking the snow off his boots on the lip of the doorstep, and when he finished that he turned around and she saw that he was also wearing a pistol in a cowboy-style tooled leather holster on his belt.
"What the hell is that for, Arthur?"
"What?"
"You come to pick up your son with a gun on your hip?"
"I'm carrying some cash from the restaurant. It's out in the car. I have a permit, Liddy."
"I know you have a permit. Just don't do it again, Arthur. Ever."
"Oh, for chrissake."
"I mean it."
She called up to Robert again. It was hard keeping the anger out of her voice but she tried.
This time he came downstairs. He was carrying a small box of his plastic guys and some copies of Cracked and Mad. His boots and jacket were on so he was ready. She was relieved. He didn't look quite so reluctant to be going along this time. Which meant she didn't have to feel so guilty.
"When will you be back?"
"I'll have him back by dinnertime."
"Fine."
She bent down to give him a kiss and a hug. Pretty soon, she thought, she wouldn't be bending anymore. She'd be standing on tiptoe the way he was growing.
"Bye, honey. Have a good time."
"Bye, Mom." He kissed her back. His lips were still wet and smooth. Like a baby's lips.
"Arthur?"
He turned to her.
"Lose the gun, please."
He nodded and they left together out into the lightly falling snow.
Ellsworth, New Hampshire
He'd come here often as a boy. The property was just off his parents' property. There was a hill leading down to a winding solitary stream where you could catch crayfish in summer and which, even now in the dead of winter, slashed its arterial way down the mountain like an open wound, defeating the freezing flesh of ice which attempted to close over it.
You passed the stream, crawled up the banks, and you were in a field of tall brown grass and low scattered scrub. He'd hunted here many times—quail and the occasional rabbit. He wasn't supposed to. But Old Man Wingerter never got down this way very often back then and he was dead now, his property in dispute between his surviving daughters. Nobody was going to give a damn what he did here these days.
"Quiet now," he said to the boy.
They both were breathing hard from the climb up over the banks and the boy was cold, he was shivering. But Arthur could see he was excited too. What kid wouldn't be? Out here with his dad and his dad's brand-new AK-47? Like Cowboys and Indians. Only better. Because the weapon was starkly, coldly real and even the quiet kids like Robert had some sense of its power. Hell, the kid had seen the Rambo movies, right?
But it took over an hour of moving slowly and carefully through the grass and brush before they saw anything. And by then it was clear that Robert was getting bored with the game. Kids these days had lousy attention spans, he thought. When he was a kid he could go all day with a pitiful little .22 in his hands. It had all the stopping power of a gnat. But he loved the .22 anyway. You had to have patience to hunt. Patience and desire.
It was obvious his kid had neither.
He heard Robert sigh behind him. Like Arthur was putting him through something.
The kid had no appreciation.
At least he was basically keeping quiet about it. Not tramping around screwing up the hunt like a lot of kids might do. He was good for that much, anyway.
When the rabbit bolted out of the brush not four feet away from them, Arthur was ready, the weapon on full automatic, spraying the ground in a short tight arc that exploded through the bare dry brush, turning it to powder, and exploded the rabbit too—a wet furry brown-and-red mess lying in the snow.
One ear gone.
A leg almost shot away.
"Jesus! Jesus!" Robert was saying behind him.
The kid was astonished. The kid couldn't believe what he'd seen.
Arthur whooped and laughed and held the rabbit up for their inspection. Robert wouldn't think that hunting was boring now. No way. Not anymore.
"Did you see that? We damn near stepped on him! Most times you've got to have yourself some dogs to get one of these guys. We got lucky!"
Jeez, God was all the kid was saying.
Shaking his head. Eyes wide like he'd seen a ghost.
And he realized then that it wasn't just astonishment that he was seeing on his son's face, though that was there too. It was also—inexplicably—horror.
Plymouth, New Hampshire
By 6:45 she was beginning to get mad. Dinnertime was normally 6:00/6:30, and he knew that, and even though the sautéed chicken would do just fine on simmer she still had the rice to make once Robert got home and she still had to steam the vegetables, and the point was, anyway, that he deliver him back on time, not whenever he damn well felt like it.
At just before seven she heard the car pull in, heard its door slam and then heard it pull right out again. That Arthur was leaving quickly was probably just as well. She'd been nearly ready to go out there and make the kind of scene that Robert probably didn't need.
He came in slamming the door behind him and ran for the stairs.
"Robert?"
She smelled it right away.
He'd soiled himself.
He never did this during the day.
"Robert?"
She put down the pan of vegetables and followed him. The bathroom door was closed. His coat lay on the floor. "Robert? Are you all right?"
She heard him crying. To hell with privacy, she thought. Even though she'd always been careful to provide it for him. She opened the door.
His soiled pants and underpants were lying on the floor. He was on the toilet.
No. Not quite on it.
He was braced above it, hands clutching either side of the seat holding him up just over it, as though.
She looked at him, tears running down his cheeks.
"It hurts!" he said.
... as though he couldn't bear to put his full weight down and ...
She felt the room begin to reel and she knelt in front of him, her hands fluttering out to him, to his arms, to his legs, like the wings of strange trapped birds—she didn't know where to touch him.
... and it was impossible for him in that position. She saw the shit slide down his poor little skinny thighs and drop to the floor and it was bad-smelling, dark, abnormal, as though there were something foul inside him, something evil there.
She grabbed some toilet paper off the roll and began to wipe him down, his legs and thighs, and he was crying harder now, so shamed by what he'd done, standing in front of her with his legs spread and shaking with tears and she was saying it's all right, don't worry, it doesn't matter honey, let's just clean you up, taking a wet facecloth off the sink and wiping him, rinsing it, wiping him some more, the cheeks of his butt, turning him around, the cheeks red, smelling his shit all the while and thinking that she had never smelled shit like this, it was as though someone had poisoned him.
When she touched him between the buttocks he screamed.
He jumped away, batting at her hand holding the facecloth. He turned and ran for his bedroom. She heard him fall to the bed and heard him sobbing in his pillow.
She knelt there, so stunned that she had to grab the edge of the sink to keep from falling to the tile floor.
The room had come unglued from the universe.
She felt suddenly adrift in an awful ice-cold storm made of sudden insight and a terrible knowledge. Knowledge like a cancer inside her.
It was as though somebody had poisoned him.
Yes. It was.
And she knew.
In a single moment it all made sense to her. She saw into the pattern. She saw deceit. She saw evil. She saw a sickness that was almost beyond her imagining.
The nervousness, the stuttering.
His soiling the bed.
The nightmares. Of course there were nightmares.
He wa
s living one.
Her baby.
Even the goddamn crazy knee-chest thing made sense now. He was telling her something. He'd been telling her something all along.
How could she have been so stupid and blind as to miss it? As to not hear him asking for her help over and over, night after night, in the silent language of his body?
But no. It had been unthinkable until now. Unthinkable that Arthur would do this. Now—anything was possible.
Butt in the air. Head to the pillow.
She'd been there a lot more times than she cared to remember.
Hell, it was Arthur's favorite position.
You sick, cowardly, evil bastard, she thought.
I'll get you for this one.
For this I'm going after you.
I swear to god I am.
She got up off the floor and heard him crying and found that it was possible to stand up and walk again and went to comfort her son.
He wasn't home and he wasn't at his parents'.
Which left the restaurant.
She could have used the phone but she wanted—no, she needed—to see his face when she told him. She wanted to be looking right at him when he denied it. She wanted to watch him squirm.
The Lincoln was parked out front. For a moment she considered ramming it. Arthur loved that car. Instead she pulled in right beside it.
She'd driven Robert to Cindy's house once he calmed down. It was still early and Cindy's daughter Gail was still awake, and Robert seemed to like the idea of being in the company of another kid right now. Probably he needed to forget it. To forget everything. It was obvious that Cindy wanted to know what was going on but she didn't pry and all Lydia volunteered was that she had to talk to Arthur right away. Explanations—if she chose to make any, even to Cindy—could wait.
It bothered her that he wouldn't come right out and tell her what Arthur had done to him. She supposed he was ashamed. But she knew it would be a whole lot better if he could get it out and talk about it.
"Does Daddy touch you?" she'd said. "Does he touch you back there?"
He shrugged. "I dunno."
"Tell me the truth, honey. Nothing that's happened is your fault and it's nothing for you to be ashamed of. But I think Daddy's doing something he shouldn't be doing and I think you and I should talk about it."
He just sat on the bed and looked at her. She gave him a moment.
"Do you think you can? Do you want to try to talk about it?"
"Uh-uh."
"No?"
"Uh-uh."
"Do you think maybe you'll be able to talk about it later, then?"
She didn't want to press him. Not now.
"I dunno."
"Will you try?"
"I guess."
She'd left it there for the time being.
She had Arthur to deal with. While the wound was fresh.
His bar was crowded. There was a country tune on the jukebox—something about the twentieth century being almost over. Almost over. Almost over. She saw him standing at the end of the bar saying something to Jake, his barman. Jake had been with him since the place opened and Lydia knew him and liked him. She also knew he was interested in her in a somewhat less than casual way. She'd caught his glances plenty of times.
Well, this would interest him too.
She walked over.
"I want to talk to you," she said. "Do you want it here or in the office?"
She knew what she looked like. She could barely contain her fury now that they were standing there face-to-face. He simply looked annoyed.
"God, Lydia. What now?"
"You want it here, then? Fine."
She was aware of Jake and of the customers on either side. It didn't matter a damn to her what they heard.
"Look, I know I was late. I lost track of the time. I'm sorry, okay? It won't happen again."
"I'll just bet you lost track of the time! What were you doing that you lost track of the time, Arthur? What were you doing with my son?"
He looked at her. Really looked at her finally. And saw in her face what she needed him to see. She watched it dawn on him.
"My office," he muttered.
"No, I don't think so. I changed my mind. I decided I like it here. Or is Jake too sensitive to hear about you butt-fucking our son!"
For a moment he looked as though she'd physically struck him. She saw Jake move away down the bar. Giving them space, being discreet. But the men on either side of them had gone quiet.
"You're fucking crazy!"
There it was. The denial.
It wasn't as satisfying as it should have been. She couldn't read guilt on his face and she wanted guilt. Just anger and outrage.
He was too damn good an actor.
She'd never known him.
It wasn't satisfying at all.
"I'm not crazy, Arthur. But you are, if you think you're ever going to see that boy alone again. I'm telling you—you'll never, never touch my child again, you perverted son of a bitch! You want to visit? You want your fucking visitation? You can have your visitation. You can come to the house and I'm going to be standing right there in the room with you to make sure you keep your goddamn hands off him, you bastard, and won't that be great fun for all three of us?"
"You can't do that."
"I can't? Watch me."
"Look, I never did anything to that boy. Has he said I did?"
Somehow he already seemed to know the answer to that one. She wondered how.
"He doesn't need to."
"Bullshit. He hasn't said a thing, has he? This is all some crap you dreamed up because you're pissed off over the divorce. If you wanted more money why didn't you just say you wanted more money? Why don't you just get the hell out of here and leave me the hell alone!"
"Glad to, Arthur. But you remember what I said. Never. Not once. Never again."
"I'll take you to fucking court, you crazy bitch!"
"Not if I take you first. You're a sick man, Arthur. You need help. I hope you get some. For Robert's sake."
She turned and walked away from him through the bar and out the door.
The cold air, at least, felt good.
Otherwise, furious or not, she felt surprisingly much like crying.
Robert lay in bed and thought, He promised me he wouldn't anymore but he did again anyway and every time he does he hurts me, like he doesn't care, Daddy doesn't care, like he just wants it I think there's something wrong with him, like it's crazy that he doesn't care if he hurts me or not, but if I tell he says he'll do to my mom what he did to that rabbit, and even though he was smiling he absolutely positively meant it, I know he did. I'm sure he did.
I can't tell. I can't make him stop.
I can't do anything right.
I wonder what I did to him.
I wonder what I did.
Fourteen
Initial Responses
Bromberg was supposed to be the best in the area but that didn't mean she had to like him.
Or even think he was any good.
He sat behind his desk in the toy-cluttered room, wearing a cheap off-the-rack blue suit that made him look more like a balding, middle-aged bank teller than a child psychologist. The white shirt was imperfectly ironed and open at the collar. Patchy tufts of thick brown hair gave his neck an oddly mottled look. His glasses were bifocals. She could see the line.
Right now Plymouth seemed impossibly rural to her. Smalltown, USA. When she needed experts, goddammit!
But Owen Sansom said it had to be done today. At the moment she guessed the best in the area was the best she had.
"Your lawyer is aware of all this?" he said when she was finished.
"He's the one who told me to make the appointment. You and a proctologist. What we need is for you to talk to Robert and establish exactly what Arthur did and that Arthur was the one who did it. The proctologist he has to see for the obvious reasons."
"He won't speak to you about it?"
"No."
r /> He frowned and sighed and leaned heavily across the desk.
"You know, he's not saying much to me either. We use a form of play-therapy here as you know and it usually opens them up after a while. A child gets relaxed, he normally starts speaking. But Robert's mostly been playing. Playing period. I got him to address how he feels about the stuttering and he's told me a nightmare or two now and then—though I honestly think he embellishes them—you know, makes up something he thinks might be interesting to just throw in there. Some fantasy. Unhelpful, to say the least. But nothing on soiling the bed and nothing on the diapering."
He got up and started pacing back and forth behind the desk. Tapping his chin with his fingertips. It was his professorial mode. He was going to make a speech now. She'd seen it before and it annoyed her.
"It does fit together, though," he said, "doesn't it. Certainly the nightmares, his generally nervous disposition, the clumsiness, the shyness. It would definitely account for the soiled bed and the position he takes when you try to diaper him. I haven't heard of child molestation leading directly to stuttering before but I suppose that kind of trauma could be a strong causal factor. I'm particularly interested in the clumsiness in light of this. It would be a form of punishment."
He turned to face her.
"To tell you the truth, I'd almost expected as much."
"What?"
"Well, it didn't strike me as whatsoever impossible."
"That Robert was being molested didn't strike you as impossible?"
"I'm afraid I thought it somewhat likely."
"And you didn't say something? You kept this ... this likelihood to yourself?"
She could easily strangle the man. Easily.
He sighed again. He seemed impatient with her.
"Mrs. Danse, child abuse is not the kind of thing one discusses lightly. Particularly not—and I must say this to you—with one of the child's potential abusers."
"Wait a minute," she said. "Let me get this right. I bring my son in to see you, with all these questions about his behavior, and you think that I might be responsible for abusing him?"
He shrugged. "It's been known to happen. The parent knows the child won't tell, threatens him perhaps. Then, in case it should somehow come to light, brings him to a therapist as a smoke screen. Using exactly the same argument you're using now. Why would I do this if I were the guilty party? Or perhaps there is an unconscious wish for the child to reveal the truth, a need to be punished that the parent feels, but he or she is unable to confess directly and hopes the child will do it for him or her. You must admit, Mrs. Danse, that even now, I only have your version of events. For all I know, you may still be the abuser. Though obviously I find that highly unlikely. But the key, of course, is Robert. It has always been Robert. Only the child himself can tell me with any degree of reliability."