the police been called?” Monica nods. “If there's anything I can do for you . . .” There is somewhere I need to go, and I cannot have Nathaniel with me. It hur ts to have to ask, but I have lost my barometer for trust. “Yes,” I ask. “Wi ll you watch my son?”
I find him at the third job site, making a stone wall. Caleb's face lights up as he recognizes my car. He watches me get out, and then he waits, expecting Nathaniel. It's enough to propel me forward, so that by the time I reach him I am nearly at a dead run, and I slap him as hard as I can across the face.
“Nina!” Caleb catches my wrists and holds me away from him. “What the he ll!”
“You bastard. How could you, Caleb? How could you?” He pushes me away, rubbing his fingers against his cheek. My hand rises on it, a bright print. Good. “I don't know what you're talking about,” Caleb s ays. “Slow down.”
“Slow down?” I spit out. “I'll make it really simple: Nathaniel told us. He t old us what you did to him.”
“I didn't do anything to him.”
For a long moment, I don't say a word, just stare. “Nathaniel said I. . . I . . .” Caleb falters. “That's ridiculous.”
It is what they all say, the guilty ones, and it makes me unravel. “Don't you dare tell me that you love him.”
“Of course I do!” Caleb shakes his head, as if to clear it. “I don't know what he said. I don't know why he said it. But Nina, Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.” When I don't respond, every year we've spent together unspools, until we are both standing knee deep in a litter of memories that don't matter. Caleb's eyes are wide and wet. “Nina, please. Think about what you're saying.” I look down at my hands, one fist gripping the other tightly. It is the sign f or in. In trouble. In love. In case. “What I think is that kids don't make thi s up. That Nathaniel didn't make this up.” I raise my gaze to his. “Don't come home tonight,” I say, and I walk back to my car with great precision, as if m y heart has not gone to pieces inside me.
Caleb watches the taillights of Nina's car disappear down the road. The dust that's kicked up in her wake settles, and the scene still looks like it did a minute ago. But Caleb knows things are completely different now; that there is no going back.
He will do anything for his son. Always has, always will.
Caleb looks down at the wall he's been crafting. Three feet, and it took him the better part of the day. While his son was in a psychiatrist's office, tur ning the world inside out, Caleb has been lifting stone, fitting it side by s ide. Once when he'd been dating Nina he'd shown her how to set together rocks with proportions that did not seem to meet. All you need is one edge in comm on, he'd told her.
Case in point, this jagged piece of quartz, kitty-corner to a fat, low block of sandstone. Now, he lifts the piece of sandstone and hurls it into the road, where it breaks into pieces. He raises the quartz and sends it spin ning into the woods behind him. He demolishes the wall, all this work, piece by careful piece. Then he sinks into the pile of rubble and presses his dusty hands to his eyes, crying for what cannot be put back together. I have one more place to go. In the clerk's office of the East District Court , I move like an automaton. Tears keep coming, no matter how I try to will th em away. This is not a professional demeanor, but I couldn't care less. This is not a professional matter, it's a personal one.
“Where do you keep the protective order forms for juveniles?” I ask the cl erk, a woman who is new to the court, and whose name I have forgotten. She looks at me as if she's afraid to answer. Then she points to a bin. She fill s it out for me, as I feed her the answers in a voice that I can't place. Judge Bartlett receives me in chambers. “Nina.” He knows me, they all do.
“What can I do for you?”
I hold the form out for him and lift my chin. Breathe, speak, focus. “I am fil ing
I find him at the third job site, making a stone wall. Caleb's face lights up as he recognizes my car. He watches me get out, and then he waits, expecting Nathaniel. It's enough to propel me forward, so that by the time I reach him I am nearly at a dead run, and I slap him as hard as I can across the face.
“Nina!” Caleb catches my wrists and holds me away from him. “What the he ll!”
“You bastard. How could you, Caleb? How could you?” He pushes me away, rubbing his fingers against his cheek. My hand rises on it, a bright print. Good. “I don't know what you're talking about,” Caleb s ays. “Slow down.”
“Slow down?” I spit out. “I'll make it really simple: Nathaniel told us. He t old us what you did to him.”
“I didn't do anything to him.”
For a long moment, I don't say a word, just stare. “Nathaniel said I. . . I . . .” Caleb falters. “That's ridiculous.”
It is what they all say, the guilty ones, and it makes me unravel. “Don't you dare tell me that you love him.”
“Of course I do!” Caleb shakes his head, as if to clear it. “I don't know what he said. I don't know why he said it. But Nina, Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.” When I don't respond, every year we've spent together unspools, until we are both standing knee deep in a litter of memories that don't matter. Caleb's eyes are wide and wet. “Nina, please. Think about what you're saying.” I look down at my hands, one fist gripping the other tightly. It is the sign f or in. In trouble. In love. In case. “What I think is that kids don't make thi s up. That Nathaniel didn't make this up.” I raise my gaze to his. “Don't come home tonight,” I say, and I walk back to my car with great precision, as if m y heart has not gone to pieces inside me.
Caleb watches the taillights of Nina's car disappear down the road. The dust that's kicked up in her wake settles, and the scene still looks like it did a minute ago. But Caleb knows things are completely different now; that there is no going back.
He will do anything for his son. Always has, always will.
Caleb looks down at the wall he's been crafting. Three feet, and it took him the better part of the day. While his son was in a psychiatrist's office, tur ning the world inside out, Caleb has been lifting stone, fitting it side by s ide. Once when he'd been dating Nina he'd shown her how to set together rocks with proportions that did not seem to meet. All you need is one edge in comm on, he'd told her.
Case in point, this jagged piece of quartz, kitty-corner to a fat, low block of sandstone. Now, he lifts the piece of sandstone and hurls it into the road, where it breaks into pieces. He raises the quartz and sends it spin ning into the woods behind him. He demolishes the wall, all this work, piece by careful piece. Then he sinks into the pile of rubble and presses his dusty hands to his eyes, crying for what cannot be put back together. I have one more place to go. In the clerk's office of the East District Court , I move like an automaton. Tears keep coming, no matter how I try to will th em away. This is not a professional demeanor, but I couldn't care less. This is not a professional matter, it's a personal one.
“Where do you keep the protective order forms for juveniles?” I ask the cl erk, a woman who is new to the court, and whose name I have forgotten. She looks at me as if she's afraid to answer. Then she points to a bin. She fill s it out for me, as I feed her the answers in a voice that I can't place. Judge Bartlett receives me in chambers. “Nina.” He knows me, they all do.
“What can I do for you?”
I hold the form out for him and lift my chin. Breathe, speak, focus. “I am fil ing
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