Part 15 (1/2)

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.

”G.o.d, 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 d.a.m.n 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 b.u.t.t-f.u.c.king our son!”

For a moment he looked as though she'd physically struck him. She saw Jake move away down the bar. Giving them s.p.a.ce, being discreet. But the men on either side of them had gone quiet.

”You're f.u.c.king 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 d.a.m.n 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 b.i.t.c.h! You want to visit? You want your f.u.c.king 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 G.o.dd.a.m.n hands off him, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, 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.”

”Bulls.h.i.+t. He hasn't said a thing, has he? This is all some c.r.a.p you dreamed up because you're p.i.s.sed 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 h.e.l.l out of here and leave me the h.e.l.l alone!”

”Glad to, Arthur. But you remember what I said. Never. Not once. Never again.”

”I'll take you to f.u.c.king court, you crazy b.i.t.c.h!”

”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 s.h.i.+rt was imperfectly ironed and open at the collar. Patchy tufts of thick brown hair gave his neck an oddly mottled look. His gla.s.ses were bifocals. She could see the line.

Right now Plymouth seemed impossibly rural to her. Smalltown, USA. When she needed experts, G.o.ddammit!