sexually abusing a child, the c hild is often told that it's a measure of love. But Nathaniel keeps shaking hi s head, so hard that his hair flies from side to side. “Stop. Nathaniel, pleas e stop.” When he does, he looks at me with the strangest expression, as if he does not understand me at all.
It is why I say the words out loud. I need to hear the truth. I need confir mation from my son. “Did Daddy hurt you?” I whisper, the leading question D r. Robichaud would not ask, would not let me ask.
Nathaniel bursts into tears and hides under his covers. He will not come out, not even when I say I'm sorry.
Everything in the motel room is the color of wet moss-the frayed rug, the bow l of the sink, the bilious bedspread. Caleb turns on the heat and the radio. He takes off his shoes and sets them neatly beside the door.
This is not a home; this is barely a residence. Caleb wonders about the other people staying at these efficiency cabins here in Saco. Are they all in limb o like him?
He cannot imagine sleeping here one night. And yet he knows he will live here a lifetime, if that is what it takes to help his son. He would give anything , for Nathaniel. Even, apparently, himself.
Caleb sits on the edge of the bed. He picks up the phone, then realizes he ha s no one to call. But he holds the receiver to his ear for a few moments, unt il the operator gets on and reminds him that no matter what, on the other end , someone is listening.
There is nothing for it: Patrick can't start his day without a chocolate crois sant. The other cops rib him about it constantly-Too upscale for hnuts, are you, Ducharme? He brushes it off, willing to suffer some teasing a s long as the police secretary who orders the daily tray of baked goods inclu des his personal favorite. But that morning, when he walks into the cafeteria to grab his snack and fill his coffee cup, Patrick's croissant is missing.
“Aw, come on,” he says to the beat cop standing next to him. “Are you guys being assholes? Did you hide it in the ladies' room again?”
“We didn't touch it, Lieutenant, swear.”
Sighing, Patrick walks out of the cafeteria to the desk where Mona is check ing her e-mail. “Where's my croissant?”
She shrugs. “I placed the same order as always. Don't ask me.” Patrick begins to walk through the police station, scanning the desks of the other detectives and the room where the street officers relax during their br eaks. He passes the chief in the hall. “Patrick, you got a second?”
“Not right now.”
“I have a case for you.”
“Can you leave it on my desk?”
The chief smirks. “Wish you were half as single-minded about your police work as you are about your damn doughnuts.”
“Croissants,” Patrick calls to his retreating back. “There's a difference.” In the booking room, seated next to the bored desk sergeant, he finds the p erp: a kid who looks like he was playing cop in his dad's uniform. Brown ha ir, bright eyes, chocolate on his chin. “Who the hell are you?” Patrick dem ands.
“Officer Orleans.”
The desk sergeant folds his hands over his ample stomach. “And the detectiv e who's about to rip your head off, here, is Lieutenant Ducharme.”
“Why's he eating my breakfast, Frank?”
The older cop shrugs. “Because he's only been here a day-”
“Six hours!” the kid proudly corrects.
Frank rolls his eyes. “He don't know better.”
“You do.”
“Yeah, but if I told him so I wouldn't have gotten to see all this excitement.” The rookie holds out the remaining bite of the croissant, his peace offering.
“I, uh, I'm sorry, Lieutenant.”
Patrick shakes his head. He considers going to the fridge and raiding the lu nch the kid's mom has probably packed him. “Don't let it happen again.” Hell of a way to start a day; he counts on the combination of caffeine in the chocolate and his coffee to get him jump-started. By ten o'clock, no doubt, he'll have a monster headache. Patrick stalks
It is why I say the words out loud. I need to hear the truth. I need confir mation from my son. “Did Daddy hurt you?” I whisper, the leading question D r. Robichaud would not ask, would not let me ask.
Nathaniel bursts into tears and hides under his covers. He will not come out, not even when I say I'm sorry.
Everything in the motel room is the color of wet moss-the frayed rug, the bow l of the sink, the bilious bedspread. Caleb turns on the heat and the radio. He takes off his shoes and sets them neatly beside the door.
This is not a home; this is barely a residence. Caleb wonders about the other people staying at these efficiency cabins here in Saco. Are they all in limb o like him?
He cannot imagine sleeping here one night. And yet he knows he will live here a lifetime, if that is what it takes to help his son. He would give anything , for Nathaniel. Even, apparently, himself.
Caleb sits on the edge of the bed. He picks up the phone, then realizes he ha s no one to call. But he holds the receiver to his ear for a few moments, unt il the operator gets on and reminds him that no matter what, on the other end , someone is listening.
There is nothing for it: Patrick can't start his day without a chocolate crois sant. The other cops rib him about it constantly-Too upscale for hnuts, are you, Ducharme? He brushes it off, willing to suffer some teasing a s long as the police secretary who orders the daily tray of baked goods inclu des his personal favorite. But that morning, when he walks into the cafeteria to grab his snack and fill his coffee cup, Patrick's croissant is missing.
“Aw, come on,” he says to the beat cop standing next to him. “Are you guys being assholes? Did you hide it in the ladies' room again?”
“We didn't touch it, Lieutenant, swear.”
Sighing, Patrick walks out of the cafeteria to the desk where Mona is check ing her e-mail. “Where's my croissant?”
She shrugs. “I placed the same order as always. Don't ask me.” Patrick begins to walk through the police station, scanning the desks of the other detectives and the room where the street officers relax during their br eaks. He passes the chief in the hall. “Patrick, you got a second?”
“Not right now.”
“I have a case for you.”
“Can you leave it on my desk?”
The chief smirks. “Wish you were half as single-minded about your police work as you are about your damn doughnuts.”
“Croissants,” Patrick calls to his retreating back. “There's a difference.” In the booking room, seated next to the bored desk sergeant, he finds the p erp: a kid who looks like he was playing cop in his dad's uniform. Brown ha ir, bright eyes, chocolate on his chin. “Who the hell are you?” Patrick dem ands.
“Officer Orleans.”
The desk sergeant folds his hands over his ample stomach. “And the detectiv e who's about to rip your head off, here, is Lieutenant Ducharme.”
“Why's he eating my breakfast, Frank?”
The older cop shrugs. “Because he's only been here a day-”
“Six hours!” the kid proudly corrects.
Frank rolls his eyes. “He don't know better.”
“You do.”
“Yeah, but if I told him so I wouldn't have gotten to see all this excitement.” The rookie holds out the remaining bite of the croissant, his peace offering.
“I, uh, I'm sorry, Lieutenant.”
Patrick shakes his head. He considers going to the fridge and raiding the lu nch the kid's mom has probably packed him. “Don't let it happen again.” Hell of a way to start a day; he counts on the combination of caffeine in the chocolate and his coffee to get him jump-started. By ten o'clock, no doubt, he'll have a monster headache. Patrick stalks
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