She said, “Then a second letter came. And a third.”
“The shoebox?”
“The shoebox. I finally told Ward and he suggested I read them.”
Dr. Ward Berteau was Ben’s shrink. Ben began suffering from nightmares and anxiety attacks after they went home, and Berteau helped mitigate his PTSD. Ben seemed fine now, but I only saw him two or three weeks each year. I didn’t live with them.
“Has Ben seen them?”
She took one breath and sighed it out.
“After I read them, we read them together with Berteau, there in his office.”
“Ben seems fine to me and he hasn’t mentioned the letters or his father.”
“He never mentions his father.”
“It must be painful.”
“He didn’t seem interested. It was very mechanical, as if he was detached.”
I didn’t know what she wanted from me.
“Are you looking for my opinion?”
“I’m just telling you. I’m concerned. Every few weeks, another letter arrived and we’d read it with Berteau. Ben finally refused to read them. He said if I made him read the letters he’d stop going to therapy.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, he didn’t want to read the letters. They probably make him sad or unhappy or angry. They probably hurt. I don’t blame him. He’ll read the letters if he chooses to read them or he won’t. He’s growing up. He’s almost grown.”
I ran out of gas and felt embarrassed.
Lucy did not move or react. She seemed to be watching me. She watched for a very long while. The right corner of her lips curved into a gentle smile.
She spoke so softly I barely heard her.
“Do you know what scares me?”
“Clowns?”
“What frightens me is the power Richard still has over Ben.”
“The father.”
“Ben put Richard into a box just as he was put in a box, and buried him so deeply he can’t even talk about him. Because he’s afraid. And now Richard is trying to wheedle his way back into Ben’s life. Ben needs to be stronger.”
“So you dug up this program at UCLA so you could ask me to help with Richard?”
“No. No. I dug up this program so Ben could spend more time with you. He loves you.”
“I love him, too.”
“I know you do. You’re a good, decent, wonderful man, and you’re good for him.”
Her eyes grew pink and blinked.
“Luce.”
She raised a finger, the finger saying she needed to keep going.
“The decisions I’ve made about Ben and myself and you and our moving back to Baton Rouge were made with good reason. What happened with Richard, yes, but there was Sobek and that time you were shot and almost died.”
This was old ground. The one time, a lunatic named David Reinneke tried to kill me with a shotgun. He came pretty close. Another time, the police found Lucy’s name and address at the home of a killer I was trying to find named Lawrence Sobek. We had talked these things to death.
“A miss is as good as a mile.”
“It was a nightmare.”
“Close, but no cigar?”
“Don’t joke. That’s what you do. You joke. These things happened.”
“You didn’t need to concoct a reason for us to be together. I’m here. I’ve always been here.”
She blinked faster, but the blinking didn’t stop her eyes from filling.
“Yes. Other men would’ve moved on.”
Lucy studied the ice in her glass, then set the glass on the counter.
She said, “I love you, you know. I’ve never stopped loving you.”
I nodded.
“I know. Me, too.”
We stood there in the kitchen, neither looking at the other, and did not move until Joe and Ben pulled up with beer we did not need.
19
We settled into a friendly, familiar rhythm as we cooked. The beer probably helped.
I grilled the meats and veggies, brought them inside to chop, and set out the chopped meats in separate bowls. Lucy and Ben added the veggies to the salad and made the dressing. Pike sliced limes, diced onions, and minced cilantro to top the tacos. Pike’s knife skills were impressive. Each slice of lime was identical. He transformed the onion into precise, uniform cubes.
I said, “Le Cordon Bleu–quality work.”
Pike said, “Yes.”
The cat came through his cat door, saw Lucy and Ben, and jumped sideways as if he’d been shot. He spat, his hair stood up, and he let out a deep, guttering yowl.