"Picoult's novel… reminds us how easy it is to jump to conclusions and to do all the wrong things for al the right reasons."
—Glamour
Book 9: Perfect Match
The Publisher: Pocket Books 2002; paperback edition published by Washington Square Press, 2003.
Synopsis
What happens when you do all the right things for all the wrong reasons? As an assistant district attorney in York County, Maine, Nina Frost prosecutes the sort of crimes that tear families apart. She helps clients navigate their way through a nightmare – even though the legal system is not always the faultless compass they want and need it to be. She learns that the easiest way to cross this devastating minefield time and time again is to offer compassion, battle fiercely for justice, and keep her emotional distance.
But when Nina and her husband Caleb discover that their five-year-old son Nathaniel has been sexually abused, that distance is impossible to maintain. The world Nina inhabits now seems different from the one she lived in yesterday; the lines between family and professional life are erased; and answers to questions she thought she knew are no longer easy to find. Overcome by anger and desperate for vengeance, Nina ignites a battle that may cause her to lose the very thing she's fighting for.
What others are saying about Perfect Match…
A Booksense 76 Book of the Year Nominee
"Picoult's characters are so compelling that the reader hopes this won't be the last time we meet."
—USA Today
"At the heart of Perfect Match lie the true emotions of motherhood, with all the contradictions and intensity… It is impossible not be held spellbound by the way she forces us to think, hard, about right and wrong."
—The Washington Post
"A spellbinding story."
—The Toronto Sun
Book club discussion questions for Perfect Match
-
Disguises figure prominently in Perfect Match, and what you seem to be is not always what you are. Discuss.
-
What is the metaphorical significance of Caleb's job?
-
Immediately after shooting and killing Father Szyszynski, Nina says repeatedly, "I did what I had to do." Do you think she really felt she had no other choice but to do it, to protect her son as well as for the greater good, as she claimed? Or was it just to aid in her defense?
-
Was Nina justified in her actions, or was she "simply a reckless woman who thought she knew better than anyone else"? (pg. 228) Was she morally right to do what she did? Is there a difference?
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Do you feel Nina's sentence is a fair one, or do you think the judge was too lenient? Why?
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In what ways do some of Caleb's and Nina's domestic moments foreshadow the bigger differences between them? (pgs. 209-210)
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Compromised trust appears to be an issue at play for some of the characters in Perfect Match. Discuss each of the characters affected. Who will have the most difficult time learning to trust again?
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During the course of the story, did you feel Caleb was supportive enough of Nina? Was his anger justified?
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In your opinion, which person involved in the case has the most selfless motives? Discuss.
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What has Quentin Brown learned from his involvement in Nina's prosecution? Explain.
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What is the metaphorical significance of Nathaniel's silence?
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How far would you be willing to go if you discovered that someone you trusted molested your own child, or a child you love deeply, knowing that the justice system does not often work in favor of the child? Would you be capable of murder? Can a person really know oneself enough to be sure, if it's never happened to them?
An Excerpt from Perfect Match
Nathaniel wants to disappear. It can't be that hard; it
happens every day to all sorts of things. The rain puddle
outside the school is gone by the time the sun is in the
middle of the sky. His blue toothbrush vanishes, and is
replaced by a red one. The cat next door goes out one night
and never comes back. When he thinks about all this, it
makes him cry. So he tries to dream of good things
—Men and Christmas and maraschino cherries
– but he can't even make pictures of them in his head.
He tries to imagine his birthday party, next May, and all he
can see is black.
· · · · · ·
He wishes he could close his eyes and fall asleep
forever, just stay in that place where dreams feel so real.
Suddenly he has a thought: Maybe this is the nightmare.
Maybe he'll wake up and everything will be the way it is
supposed to be.
From the corner of his eye Nathaniel sees that fat
stupid book with all the hands in it. If it wasn't for that
book, if he'd never learned how to talk with his fingers, if
he'd stayed quiet, this wouldn't have happened. Drawn
upright, he walks to the table where it rests.
It's a loose–leaf, the kind of binder with three
big teeth. Nathaniel knows how to open one; they have them
at home. When the jaw is wide he takes out the first page,
the one with a happy smiling man using his hand to say
hello. The next page shows a dog, and a cat, and the signs
for them. Nathaniel throws both on the floor.
He starts ripping out big chunks of paper, scattering
them all around his feet like snow. He stomps on the pages
with pictures of food. He tears in half the ones that show a
family. He watches himself do this on the magic wall, a
mirror on this side but glass out there. And then he looks
down, and sees something.
This picture, it's the one he's been looking for all
along. He grabs the piece of paper so hard it wrinkles in
his fist. He runs to the door that leads into Dr.
Robichaud's office, where his mother is waiting. He does it
just the way the black–and–white man on the page
does.
Pinching together his thumb and his forefinger,
Nathaniel drags them across his neck, as if he is cutting
his own throat.
· · · · · ·
He wants to kill himself.
"No, Nathaniel,"I say, shaking my head.
"No, baby,no."Tears are running down his cheeks,
and he holds fast to my shirt. When I reach for him he
fights me, smoothes a paper over my knee. He jabs his finger
at one of the sketches.
"Slowly,"Dr. Robichaud instructs, and
Nathaniel turns to her. He draws a line across his windpipe
again. He taps together his forefingers. Then he points to
himself.
I look down at the paper, at the one sign I do not
recognize. Like the other groupings in the ASL book, this
one has a heading. RELIGIOUS SYMBOLS. And the motion of
Nathaniel's hands has not been suicidal. He has been tracing
an imaginary clerical collar; this is the sign for priest.
Priest. Hurt. Me.
Tumblers click in my mind: Nathaniel mesmerized by the
word father – although he has always called Caleb
daddy. The children's book Father Szyszynki brought, which
disappeared before we even had a chance to read it at
bedtime, and still has not turned up. The fight Nathaniel
put up this morning when I told him we were going to church.
And I remember one more thing: a few weeks ago, one
Sunday when we'd mustered the effort to go to Mass. That
night, when Nathaniel was getting undressed, I noticed he
was wearing underwear that wasn't his. Cheap little
Spiderman briefs, instead of the $7.99 miniature boxers I
bought at GapKids so that Nathaniel could match his dad.
Where are yours? I had asked.
And his answer: At church.
I assumed he'd had an accident at Sunday School, and
had received this spare pair from his teacher, who rummaged
through the Goodwill bin. I made a mental note to thank Miss
Fiore for taking care of it. But I had a wash to do and a
child to bathe and a pair of motions to write, and I never
did get a chance to speak to the teacher.
Now, I take my son's shaking hands, and I kiss the
fingertips. Now, I have all the time in the world.
"Nathaniel,"I say,"I'm listening."
· · · · · ·
An hour later, in my own home, Monica carries her mug
to the sink."Is it all right with you if I tell your
husband?"
"Of course. I would have told him myself,
but… "
My voice trails off."That's my job,"she
finishes, saving me from speaking the truth: Now that I have
forgiven Caleb, I do not know if he will forgive me. I busy
myself with the dishes – rinsing our mugs, squeezing
dry the tea bags and putting them into the trash. I have
specifically tried to focus on Nathaniel since leaving Dr.
Robichaud's office – not only because it is the right
thing to do, but because I am a terrible coward at heart.
What will Caleb say, do?
Monica's hand touches my forearm. "You were
protecting Nathaniel."
I look directly at her. No wonder there is a need for
social workers; the relationships between people knot so
easily, there needs to be a person skilled at working free
the threads. Sometimes, though, the only way to extricate a
tangle is to cut it out and start fresh. She reads my mind.
"Nina. In your shoes, he would reached the same
conclusions."
A knock on the door captures our attention. Patrick
lets himself in, nods to Monica. "I'm just on my way
out,"she explains. "If you want to reach me
later, I'll be in my office."
This is directed to both Patrick and me. Patrick will
need her, presumably, to be kept abreast of the case. I will
need her, presumably, for moral support. As soon as the door
closes behind Monica, Patrick steps forward.
"Nathaniel?"
"He's in his room. He's okay."A sob hops
the length of my throat."Oh, my God, Patrick. I should
have known.
What did I do? What did I do?"
"You did what you had to,"he says simply. I
nod, trying to believe him. But Patrick knows it isn't
working. "Hey."He leads me to one of the stools
in the kitchen, sits me down."Remember when we were
kids, and we used to play Clue?"I wipe my nose with my
sleeve."No."
"That's because I always trounced you. You'd pick
Mr. Mustard every time, no matter what the evidence
said.""I must have let you win."
"Good. Because if you've done it before, Nina,
it's not going to be that hard to do it again."He puts
his hands on my shoulders. "Give over. I know this
game, Nina, and I'm good at it. If you let me do what I have
to, without messing yourself up in the process, we can't
lose."Suddenly he takes a step away from me, stuffs
his hands into his pockets. "And you've got other
things to work on, now."
"Other things?"
Patrick turns, meets my eye. "Caleb?"
It's like that old contest: who will blink first?
This time, I can't bear it; I am the one to look away.
"Then go lock him up, Patrick. It's Father Szyszynski.
I know it, and you know it. How many priests have been
convicted of doing just this— shit!"I wince, my
own mistake hammering back. "I talked to Father
Szyszynski about Nathaniel during confession.""You
what? What were you thinking?"
"That he was my priest."Then I glance up.
"Wait. He thinks it's Caleb. That's what I thought,
then. That's good, right? He doesn't know that he's the
suspect."
"What's important is whether Nathaniel knows
it."
"Isn't that crystal clear?"
"Unfortunately, it's not. Apparently, there's
more than one way to interpret the word father. And by the
same logic, there's a whole country full of priests out
there."He looks at me soberly. "You're the
prosecutor. You know this case can't afford another
mistake."
"God, Patrick, he's only five. He signed priest.
Szyszynski is the only priest he even knows, the only priest
who has any contact with him on a regular basis. Go ahead
and ask Nathaniel if that's who he meant.""That's
not going to stand up in court, Nina."
Suddenly I realize that Patrick has not come only for
Nathaniel; he has also come for me. To remind me that while
I'm being a mother, I still have to think like a prosecutor
now. We cannot name the accuser for Nathaniel; he has to do
it himself. Otherwise, there is no chance of a conviction.
My mouth is dry. "He isn't ready to talk
yet."
Patrick holds out his hand to me. "Then let's
just see what he can tell us today."
· · · · · ·
Nathaniel is on the top bunk, sorting his daddy's old
collection of baseball cards into piles. He likes the feel
of their frayed edges, and the way they smell gray. His dad
says to be careful, that one day these could pay for
college, but Nathaniel could care less. Right now he likes
touching them, staring at all the funny faces, and thinking
that his dad used to do the same thing.
There's a knock, and his mom comes in with Patrick.
Without hesitation, Patrick climbs up the ladder — all
six–feet–two inches of him squashing into the
small space between ceiling and mattress. It makes Nathaniel
smile a little. "Hey, Weed."Patrick thumps the
bed with a fist.
"This is comfy. Gotta get me one of these."He
sits up, pretends to crack his head on the ceiling.
"What do you think? Should I ask your mom to buy me a
bed like this too?"
Nathaniel shakes his head and hands Patrick a card.
"Is this for me?"Patrick asks, then reads the
name and smiles broadly. "Mike Schmidt rookie. I'm sure
your dad will be thrilled you've been so generous."He
tucks it into his pocket, and takes out a pad and pen at the
same time.
"Nathaniel, you think it would be all right if I asked
you some questions?"
Well. He is tired of questions. He is tired, period.
But Patrick climbed all the way up here. Nathaniel jerks his
head, yes. Patrick touches the boy's knee, slowly, so slowly
that it doesn't even make Nathaniel jump, although these
days everything does. "Will you tell me the truth,
Weed?"he asks softly.
Slower this time, Nathaniel nods.
"Did your daddy hurt you?"
Nathaniel looks at Patrick, then at his mother, and
emphatically shakes his head. He feels something open up in
his chest, making it easier to breathe.
"Did somebody else hurt you?"
Yes.
"Do you know who it was?"
Yes.
Patrick's gaze is locked with Nathaniel's. He won't
let him turn away, no matter how badly Nathaniel wants to.
"Was it a boy or a girl?"Nathaniel is trying to
remember – how is it said again? He looks at his
mother, but Patrick shakes his head, and he knows that, now,
it is all up to him. Tentatively, his hand comes up to his
head. He touches his brow, as if there is a baseball cap
there.
"Boy,"he hears his mother translate.
"Was it a grown–up, or a kid?"
Nathaniel blinks at him. He cannot sign those words.
"Well, was he big like me, or little like
you?"Nathaniel's hand hovers between his own body, and
Patrick's. Then falls, deliberately, in the middle.
That makes Patrick grin. "Okay, it was a medium
guy, and it was someone you know?"
Yes.
"Can you tell me who?"
Nathaniel feels his whole face tighten, muscles
bunching. He squeezes his eyes shut. Please please please,
he thinks. Let me."Patrick,"his mother says, and
she takes a step forward, but Patrick holds out a hand and
she stops.
"Nathaniel, if I brought you a bunch of pictures
–"
He points to the baseball cards. "– like
these – do you think you could show me who this person
was?"
Nathaniel's hands flutter over the piles, bumblebees
choosing a place to light. He looks from one card to the
other. He cannot read, he cannot speak, but he knows that
Rollie Fingers has a handlebar moustache, Al Hrabrosky
looked like a grizzly bear. Once something sticks in his
head, it stays there; it's just a matter of getting it back
out again. Nathaniel looks up at Patrick; and he nods. This,
this he can do.
· · · · · ·
Nathaniel lies on the lower bunk while I read him a
book before bedtime. Suddenly, he jacknifes upright and
fairly flies across the room, to the doorway where Caleb
stands. "You're home,"I say, the obvious, but he
doesn't hear. He is lost in this moment.
Seeing them together, I want to kick myself again. How
could I have ever believed that Caleb was at fault? The room
is suddenly too small to hold all three of us. I back out of
it, closing the door behind me. Downstairs, I wash the
silverware that sits on the drying rack, already clean. I
pick Nathaniel's toys up from the floor. I sit down on the
living room couch; then, restless, stand up and arrange the
cushions.
"He's asleep."Caleb's voice cuts to the
quick. I turn, my arms crossed over my chest. Does that look
too defensive? I settle them at my sides,
instead."I'm… I'm glad you're home."
"Are you?"
His face gives nothing away. Coming out of the
shadows, Caleb walks toward me. He stops two feet away, but
there might as well be a universe between us.
I know every line of his face. The one that was carved
the first year of our marriage, by laughing so often. The
one that was born of worries the year he left the
contracting the company, to go into business for himself.
The one that developed from focusing hard on Nathaniel as he
took his first steps, said his first word. My throat closes
tight as a vise, and all the apologies sit bitter in my
stomach. We had been naive enough to believe that we were
invincible; that we could run blind through the hairpin
turns of life at treacherous speeds and never crash.
"Oh Caleb,"I say finally, through the
tears,"these things, they weren't supposed to happen to
us."
Then he is crying too, and we cling to each other,
fitting our pain into each other's hollows and breaks.
"He did this. He did this to our baby."Caleb
holds my face in his hands. "We're going to get through
it. We're going to make Nathaniel get better."But his
sentences turn up at the ends, like small animals begging.
"There are three of us in this, Nina,"he
whispers. "And we're all in it together."
"Together,"I repeat, and press my open
mouth against his neck.
"Caleb, I'm so sorry."
"Ssh."
I am, no, I am –"
He cuts me off with a kiss. The action arrests me; it
is not what I have been expecting. But then I grab him by
the collar of his shirt and kiss him back. I kiss him from
the bottom of my soul, I kiss him until he can taste the
copper edge of sorrow. Together. We undress each other with
brutality, ripping fabric and popping buttons that roll
under the couch like secrets. This is the anger overflowing:
anger that this has happened to our son, that we cannot turn
back time. For the first time in days I can get rid of the
rage, I pour it into Caleb, only to realize that he is doing
the same to me. We scratch, we bite, but then Caleb lays me
down with the softest touch. Our eyes lock when he moves
inside me, neither one of us would dare to blink. My body
remembers: this is what it is to be filled by love, instead
of despair.
"Do you –"I breathe.
"Yes."He doesn't have to hear the rest. I
close my eyes, and this time, these tears are a relief.
Finally, someone knows exactly how I feel.
· · · · · ·
I've driven to St. Anne's. I pull into the parking lot
and get out of my car, avoiding the front walk to tiptoe,
instead, around to the back of the building. The rectory is
here, attached to the main body of the church. My sneakers
leave prints in the frost, the trail of an invisible man.
If I climb onto the ridge of a drainage well, I can
see into the window. This is Father Szyszynski's personal
apartment, the living room. A cup of tea sits, the bag still
draining, on a side table. A book – Tom Clancy –
is cracked open on the couch. All around are gifts he's
received from parishioners: a handmade afghan, a wooden
Bible stand, a framed drawing by a child. All of these
people believed him, too; I have not been the only sucker.
What I am waiting for, exactly, I don't know. But as I
stand there I remember the day before Nathaniel had stopped
speaking, the last time we had all gone to Mass. There had
been a reception for the two clergymen who'd come to visit,
a banner hung from the serving table wishing them a safe
journey home. I remember that the flavored coffee that
morning was Hazelnut. That there were no powdered sugar
donuts left, though Nathaniel had wanted one. I remember
talking to a couple I had not seen in several months, and
noticing that the other children were following Father
Szyszynski downstairs for his weekly storytime. "Go,
Nathaniel,"I'd said. He had been hiding behind me,
clinging to my legs. I fairly pushed him into joining the
others.
I pushed him into it.
I stand here on the drainage ditch for over an hour,
until the priest comes into his living room. He sits down on
the couch and picks up his tea and he reads. He doesn't know
I'm watching him. He doesn't realize that I can slide into
his life, just as surreptitiously as he has slid into mine.
· · · · · ·
As Patrick has promised, there are ten photos –
each the size of a baseball card, each with a
different"priest"portrayed on the front. Caleb
examines one. "The San Diego Pedophiles,"he
murmurs."All that's missing are the stats."
Nathaniel and I come into the room, holding hands.
"Well,"I say brightly. "Look who's
here."
Patrick gets to his feet. "Hiya, Weed. Remember
when I talked to you the other day?"Nathaniel nods.
"Will you talk to me today, too?"He is already
curious about the photos; I can feel it in the way he's
tugging toward the couch. Patrick pats the cushion beside
him, and Nathaniel immediately climbs up. Caleb and I sit on
either side of them, in two overstuffed chairs. How formal
we look, I think.
"I brought some pictures for you, just like I
said I would."Patrick takes the rest from the manila
envelope and arranges them on the coffee table, as if he is
going to play solitaire. He looks at me, and then at Caleb
– a silent warning that now, this is his show.
"You remember telling me that someone hurt you,
Weed?"
Yes.
"And you said you knew who it was?"
Another nod, this one longer in coming.
"I want to show you some pictures, and if one of
these people is the one who hurt you, I want you to point to
it. But if the person who hurt you isn't in one of the
pictures, you just shake your head no, so I know he's not
there."
Patrick has phrased this perfectly – an open,
legally valid invitation to make a disclosure; a question
that does not lead Nathaniel to believe there's a right
answer.
Even though there is.
We all watch Nathaniel's eyes, dark and boundless,
moving from one face to another. He is sitting on his hands.
His feet don't quite reach the floor.
"Do you understand what I need you to do,
Nathaniel?"Patrick asks. Nathaniel nods. One hand
creeps out from beneath a thigh. I want him to be able to do
this, oh, I want it so badly it aches, so that this case
will be set into motion. And just as badly, for the same
reasons, I want Nathaniel to fail.
His hand floats over each card in succession, a
dragonfly hovering over a stream. It lights, but doesn't
settle. His finger brushes Szyszynski's face, moves on. With
my eyes, I try to will him back."Patrick,"I blurt
out. "Ask him if he recognizes anyone."Patrick
smiles tightly. Through his teeth, he says,"Nina, you
know I can't do that."Then, to Nathaniel:"What do
you think,
Weed? Do you see the person who hurt you?"
Nathaniel's finger dips like a metronome, traces the
edge of Szyszynski's card. He hesitates there, then begins
to move the other cards. We all wait, wondering what he is
trying to tell us. But he slides one photo up, and another,
until he has two columns. He connects them with a diagonal.
All this deliberation, and it turns out he is only making
the letter N.
"He touched the card. The right one,"I
insist. "That ID's good enough."
"It's not."Patrick shakes his head.
"Nathaniel, try again."I reach over and
mess the pictures up."Show me which one."
Nathaniel, angry that I've ruined his work, shoves at
the cards so that half of them fly off the table. He buries
his face on his bent knees and refuses to look at me.
"That was useful,"Patrick mutters.
"I didn't see you doing anything to help!"
"Nathaniel."Caleb reaches across me to
touch our son's leg. "You did great. Don't listen to
your mother."
"That's lovely, Caleb."
"I didn't mean it like that and you know
it."
My cheeks are burning. "Oh, really?"
Ill at ease, Patrick begins to stuff the pictures back
into the envelope. "I think we ought to talk about this
somewhere else,"Caleb says pointedly.
Nathaniel's hands come up to cover his ears. He
burrows sideways, between the sofa pillows and Patrick's
leg. "Now look what you've done to him,"I say.
· · · · · ·
The mad in the room is all the colors of fire, and it
presses down on him, so that Nathaniel has to make himself
small enough to fit in the cracks of the cushions. There is
something hard in Patrick's pocket where he's pressed up
tight to it. His pants smell like maple syrup and November.
His mother, she's crying again, and his dad is yelling at
her. Nathaniel can remember when just waking up in the
morning used to make them happy. Now, it seems that no
matter what he does, it's wrong. He knows this is true: what
happened happened because of him. And now that he's dirty
and different, his own parents do not know what to do with
him.
He wishes he could make them smile again. He wishes he
had the answers. He knows they are there, but they're dammed
up in his throat, behind the Thing He Is Not Supposed to
Tell.
His mother throws up her hands and walks toward the
fireplace, her back to everyone. She's pretending no one can
see, but she's crying hard now. His father and Patrick are
trying hard not to look at each other, their eyes bouncing
like a Superball off everything in the tiny room. When his
voice returns, it reminds Nathaniel of the time his mother's
car would not start last winter. She turned the key and the
engine groaned, whining and whining before it kicked to
life. Nathaniel feels that same thing now, in his belly.
That kindling, that croak, the tiniest bubble rising up his
windpipe. It chokes him; it makes his chest swell. The name
that gets shoved out is feeble, thin as gruel, not nearly
the thick and porous block that has absorbed all his words
these past weeks. In fact, now that it sits on his tongue,
bitter pill, it is hard to believe something this tiny has
filled all the space inside him.
Nathaniel worries no one will hear him, since so many
angry words are flying like kites in the room. So he comes
up on his knees, presses himself along Patrick's side, cups
his hand to the big man's ear. And he speaks, he speaks.
· · · · · ·
Patrick feels the warm weight of Nathaniel on his left
side. And no wonder; Patrick himself is ducking from the
comments Caleb and Nina are winging at each other; Nathaniel
has to be faring just as poorly. He slides an arm around the
child. "It's okay, Weed,"he murmurs.
But then he feels Nathaniel's fingers brush the hair
at his nape. A sound slips into his ear. It's not much more
than a puff of breath, but Patrick has been waiting. He
squeezes Nathaniel once more, because of what he's done.
Then he turns to interrupt Caleb and Nina. "Who the
hell,"
Patrick asks,"is Father Gwen?"
· · · · · ·
The logical time to search the church is during Mass,
when Father Szyszynski – a.k.a. Father Glen, to the
children like Nathaniel who cannot pronounce his last name
– is otherwise occupied. Patrick cannot remember the
last time he went on a hunt for evidence wearing a coat and
tie, but he wants to blend in with the crowd. He smiles at
strangers while they all file into the church before 9 AM;
and when they turn into the main nave of the church he walks
in the opposite direction, down a staircase. Patrick doesn't
have a warrant, but then this is a public space, and he does
not need one. Still, he moves quietly through the hallway,
reluctant to draw attention to himself. He passes a
classroom where small children sit wriggling like fish at
even smaller tables and chairs. If he were a priest, where
would he stash the Goodwill Box?
Nina has told him about the Sunday Nathaniel came home
with a different pair of underwear on beneath his clothes.
It might mean nothing. But then again, it might. And
Patrick's job is to overturn all the stones so that when he
goes to back Szyszynski into a corner, he has all the
ammunition he needs to do it.
The Goodwill Box is not next to the water fountain or
the restrooms. It's not in Szyszynksi's office, a richly
paneled vestibule stacked with wall– to–wall
religious texts. He tries a couple of locked doors in the
hallway, rattling them to see if they'll give way.
"Can I help you?"
The Sunday school teacher, a woman who has the look of
a mother about her, stands a few feet behind Patrick.
"Oh, I'm sorry,"he says. "I didn't mean to
interrupt your class."
He tries to summon all his charm, but this is a woman
who is probably used to white lies, to hands caught in the
cookie jar. Patrick continues, thinking on his feet.
"Actually, my two year old just soaked through his
jeans during Father Szyszynski's sermon… and I hear
there's a Goodwill Box somewhere around here?"
The teacher smiles in sympathy. "Water into wine
gets them every time,"she says. She leads Patrick into
the classroom, where fifteen tiny faces turn to assess him,
and hands him a big blue Rubbermaid box. "I have no
idea what's inside, but good luck."
Minutes later Patrick is hidden in the boiler room,
the first place he finds where he won't readily be
disturbed. He is knee deep in old clothing. There are
dresses that must be a good thirty years old, shoes with
worn soles, toddler's snow pants. He counts seven pairs of
underwear – three of which are pink, with little
Barbie faces on them. Lining the remaining four up on the
floor, he takes a cell phone from his pocket and dials Nina.
"What do they look like?"he says when she
answers.
"The underwear."
"What's that humming? Where are you?"
"In the boiler room of St. Anne's,"Patrick
whispers.
"Today? Now? You're kidding."
Impatient, Patrick pokes at the briefs with one gloved
finger. "Okay,
I've got a pair with robots, one with trucks, and two
that are plain white with blue trim. Does anything sound
familiar?"
"No. These were boxers. They had baseball mitts
on them."
How she remembers this, he can't imagine. Patrick
couldn't even tell you what pair of shorts he has on today.
"There's nothing here that matches, Nina."
"It's got to be there."
"If he kept them, which we don't know he did,
they could very well be in his private quarters.
Hidden."
"Like a trophy,"Nina says, and the sadness
in her voice makes Patrick ache.
"If they're there, we'll get them with a
warrant,"he promises. He doesn't say what he is
thinking: that the underwear alone will not really prove
anything. There are a thousand ways to explain away that
kind of evidence; he has most likely heard them all.
"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. 100% 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.
– – – – – – –
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.
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 anything,"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 Lovin', 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.
She glances down at my hamburger, untouched.
"Maybe you can get a side of manners with
that,"she says, and twitches back to her ponytailed
partner on the stage.
When she's gone, the weight of Patrick's eyes rests
heavy on me.
"What?"I demand.
"Nothing."
"Clearly, there's something."
He takes a deep breath, lets it out. "You may not
ever forgive
Szyszynski, Nina, but you won't be able to move past
this… to help Nathaniel move past this… until
you stop cursing him."
I drain the rest of my liquor. "I will curse him,
Patrick, until the day he dies."
A new singer fills in the space that has fallen
between the two of us.
A heavyweight woman with hair that touches her ass,
she sways her considerable hips as the riff begins playing
on the karaoke machine.
You keep playing when you shouldn't be playing…
You keep thinking you just can't get burned…
"What is she doing up there?"I murmur.
"Yeah… she's actually good."
We both look away from the stage, and our eyes meet.
"Nina,"
Patrick says,"you're not the only one hurting.
When I see you like this… well, it kills me."He
looks down at his drink, stirs it once. "I wish
–"
"I wish too. But I could wish till the world
stops turning, and it wouldn't change a thing,
Patrick."
These boots were made for walking… And walking's
what they'll do… One of these days these boots are
gonna walk all over you.
Patrick laces his fingers with mine on the table. He
looks at me, hard, as if he is going to be quizzed on the
details of my face. Then, with what seems to be a great
effort, he turns away. "The truth is there shouldn't be
any justice for people like him. Fuckers like that, they
ought to be shot."
Clasped together, our hands look like a heart. Patrick
squeezes, I squeeze back. It is all the communication we
need, this pulse between us, my reply.
Thomas LaCroix is two inches shorter than I am, and
going bald. It makes no difference whatsoever, of course,
but I find myself shooting glances at Wally during this
meeting, wondering why he could not find the most perfect
specimen of a prosecutor; one polished on the outside as
well as the inside, so that no jury could possibly find
fault.
"We're turning this entirely over to Tom,"
my boss says. "You know we support you and Caleb, we're
a hundred percent behind you… but we don't want there
to be any problems on appeal. And if we're in the courtroom,
it might look like we're stacking the decks against this
guy."
"I understand, Wally,"I say. "No
offense taken."
"Well!"Wally stands, having done his job
here for the day. "We'll all be waiting to hear what
transpires."
He pats my shoulder as he exits. When he leaves, it is
just the three of us left – Caleb, myself, and Thomas
LaCroix. Like a good prosecutor – like me – he
jumps right into business. "They're not going to
arraign him until after lunch because of all the
publicity,"Tom says. "Did you see the media when
you came in?"
See it? We had to run the gauntlet. If I hadn't known
a service entrance into the court, I never would have gotten
Nathaniel inside.
"Anyway, I've already talked to the bailiffs.
They're going to clear the other prisoners off the docket
before they bring in Szyszynski."He checks his watch.
"We're scheduled for one o'clock right now, so you've
got some time."
I flatten my hands on the table. "You will not be
putting my son on the stand,"I announce.
"Nina, you know this is just an arraignment. A
rubber stamp process. Let's just –"
"I want you to know this, and to know it now.
Nathaniel isn't going to be testifying."
He sighs. "I've done this for fifteen years. And
we're just going to have to see what comes to pass. Right
now, you know better than I do right now what the evidence
is. You certainly know better than I do how Nathaniel is
faring. But you also know there are some pieces of the
puzzle we're waiting on – like the lab reports, and
your son's recovery. Six months from now, a year from
now… Nathaniel might be doing a whole lot better, and
taking the stand might not be as much of a hardship."
"He is five years old. In those fifteen years,
Tom, how many cases with a five–year–old witness
ended up with a perp in jail for life?"Not a single
one, and he knows it. "Then we'll wait,"Tom says.
"We have some time, and the defendant is going to want
time too, you know that."
"You can't hold him in jail forever."
"I'm going to ask for $150,000 bail. And I doubt
the Catholic Church will post it for him."He smiles at
me.
"He's not going anywhere, Nina."I feel
Caleb's hand steal into my lap, and I grab onto it. I think
he is supporting me, at first, but then he squeezes my
fingers nearly to the point of pain. "Nina,"he
says pleasantly,"maybe we should just let Mr. LaCroix
do his job right now."
"It's my job too,"I point out. "I put
children on the stand every day, and I watch them fall
apart, and then I watch the abusers walk. How can you ask me
to forget that, when we're talking about Nathaniel?"
"Exactly – we're talking about Nathaniel.
And today he needs a mother more than he needs a mother who
is a prosecutor. We need to look at this in steps, and today
that step is keeping Szyszynski locked up,"Tom says.
"Let's just focus, and once we clear this hurdle, we
can decide what to do next."
I stare into my lap, where I've nervously pleated my
skirt into a thousand wrinkles. "I know what you're
saying."
"Good, then."
Lifting my gaze, I smile slightly. "You're saying
the same thing I do, to victims, when I really don't know if
I have any chance of securing a conviction."
To his credit, Tom nods."You're right. But I'm
not trying to con you. We never know which cases are going
to work out, which cases are going to take a plea, which
kids will make a turnaround, which kids will heal to the
point where a year from now, they're able to contribute in a
way they can't that first day."
I get to my feet. "But you said it yourself, Tom.
Today I'm not supposed give a damn about those other
kids. Today I just care about my own."I walk to the
door before Caleb even has risen from his seat. "One
o'clock,"I say, and it is a warning.
· · · · · ·
Caleb doesn't catch up to her until they are in the
lobby, and then, he has to pull her aside to a small nook,
where reporters will not find them.
"What was that all about?" "I'm
protecting Nathaniel."Nina crosses her arms, daring
him to say otherwise.
She seems shaky and unsteady, not at all herself.
Maybe it is just the truth of this day. God knows, Caleb
isn't faring all that well either.
"We ought to go tell Monica that there's a
delay."But Nina is busy putting on her coat. "Can
you do it?"she asks. "I need to run to the
office."
"Now?"Alfred, and the superior court
building, is only fifteen minutes away. But still.
"It's something I have to give to Thomas,"
she explains. Caleb shrugs. He watches Nina walk out the
front steps. The flashes of several cameras strike her like
bullets, freezing her in time as she jogs down the steps.
Caleb sees her brush off a reporter with no more effort than
she would use to wave away a fly.
He wants to run after her, hold Nina until that wall
around her cracks and all the pain spills out. He wants to
tell her that she doesn't have to be so strong around him,
because they are in this together. He wants to take her
downstairs to the bright room with alphabet squares on the
floor, sit with their son between them. All she has to do is
take off those focused blinders; then she will see that she
isn't alone.
Caleb goes so far as to open the glass door, to stick
his head outside. By now she is a dot, far across the
parking lot. Her name hovers on his lips, but then there is
an explosion that blinds him – a newspaper
photographer, again. Backing inside, he tries to shake the
double vision, but it is a long time before he can see
clearly; and so he never witnesses Nina's car leaving the
courthouse lot, turning in the opposite direction of her
office.
· · · · · ·
I'm late.
I hurry through the front door of the court, around
the line of people waiting to go through the metal detector.
"Hey, Mike,"I say breathlessly, slipping behind
the familiar bailiff, who just nods. Our courtroom is to the
left; I open the double doors and walk inside.
It is filled with reporters and cameramen, all lined
up in the back rows like the bad kids on the rear seats of a
bus. This is a big story for York County, Maine. This is a
big story for any place.
I walk to the front, where Patrick and Caleb are
sitting. They have left a seat on the aisle for me. For a
moment I fight my natural inclination – to continue
through the gate, and sit at the prosecutor's table with
Thomas LaCroix. That is why we"pass the bar"
– we are allowed, by virtue of that test, to work in
the front of the courtroom.
I don't know the defense attorney. Probably someone
from Portland. Someone the diocese keeps on retainer for
things like this. There is a cameraman set up to the right
of the defense table, his head bent close to the machine in
preparation.
Patrick notices me first. "Hey,"he says.
"You all right?"
As I expect, Caleb is angry. "Where have you
been? I've tried –"
Whatever he is about to say is interrupted as a
bailiff speaks. "The Honorable Judge Jeremiah Bartlett
presiding."
The judge, of course, I know. He signed the
restraining order against Caleb. He instructs us to sit
down, and I try, but my body has gone stiff as a board and
the seat does not fit me. My eyes take in everything and
nothing all at once.
"Are we set for the arraignment on State vs.
Szyszynski?"the judge asks.
Thomas rises smoothly. "Yes, Your Honor."
At the defense table, the other attorney stands.
"I'm representing Father Szyszynksi, and we're ready,
Your Honor."
I have seen this a thousand times before; one bailiff
moves forward toward the bench. He does this to protect the
judge. After all, the people brought in as defendants are
criminals. Anything could happen. The door to the holding
cell opens, and the priest is led out. His hands are cuffed
in front of him. Beside me, I feel Caleb forget to take his
next breath. I hold my purse on my lap, a death grip. The
second bailiff leads the priest to the defense table, the
inside seat, because he will have to stand up in front of
the judge to enter his plea. He is close enough, now, that I
could spit at him. I could whisper, and he might hear me.
I tell myself to be patient.
My eyes go to the judge, then to the bailiffs. They
are the ones I am worried about. They stand behind the
priest, make sure he sits down. Move back. Move back move
back move back.
I slide my hand into my purse, past the familiar, to
the heat that leaps into my hand. The bailiff takes a step
away – this defendant, scum of the earth, still has
the right to privacy with his own attorney. There are words
moving around the courtroom like small insects, distractions
I do not really notice.
The minute I stand up, I've jumped off the cliff. The
world goes by in a haze of color and light, my weight
accelerates, head–over–heels. Then I think,
Falling is the first step in learning how to fly. In two
steps, I am across the aisle of the courtroom. In a breath,
I hold the gun up to the priest's head. I pull the trigger
four times. The bailiff grabs my arm but I won't let go of
the weapon. I can't, until I know that I've done it. There
is blood spreading, and screams, and then I'm falling again,
forward, past the bar, where I am supposed to be.
"Did I get him? Is he dead?"
They slam me onto the ground, and when I open my eyes,
I can see him. The priest lies with half his head missing,
just a few feet away. I let go of the gun.
The weight on me takes familiar shape, and then I hear
Patrick my ear. "Nina, stop. Stop fighting."His
voice brings me back. I see the defense attorney, hiding
under the stenographer's table. The press, their cameras
flashing like a field of fireflies. The judge, pushing the
panic button on his desk and yelling to clear the courtroom.
And Caleb, white as snow, wondering who I am.
"Who's got cuffs?"Patrick asks. A bailiff
hands him a pair from his belt, and Patrick secures my hands
behind me. He lifts me up and bustles me toward the same
door through which the priest entered. His body is
unyielding, his chin firm against my ear. "Nina,"
he whispers to me.
"What did you do?"
Once, not long ago, standing in my own home, I had
asked Patrick this same question. Now I give his own answer
back to him. "I did what I had to,"I say, and I
let myself believe it.
