“Not me. Me and my shitty guilt money know it’s too late.”
A teenager at the next table over shushed them.
“The chair of your department cares enough about you to insist on therapy. I’m sure they would agree to a leave of absence.”
“A leave isn’t an option,” Vivek said.
“I’m sure it is,” Liesl said. “They stop people’s tenure clock for maternity leave all the time; I’m certain an exception can be made in this case.”
He rubbed the nameplate with the sleeve of his coat until it shone.
“A maternity leave is a legitimate claim. Bringing a life into the world. Who would argue with that?” He stopped rubbing, satisfied with the sheen of the nameplate. “Liesl, drop this. I’m not going to stay. I can’t.”
“Please,” she said, veering close to a tone that begged. “I’m sure if you just asked for a leave.”
Vivek started to get up. “They offered me a leave.” He pulled his parka closed and turned to go.
“Take the offer!” Liesl said. It was unfair to him perhaps. Probably. But she felt she needed him near to complete her penance. “The idea of returning there must seem awful now, I know. But if you just give yourself some time to heal. And if you give me some time to fix all of this. I promise that I can fix this.”
He kept walking.
“I don’t have all the evidence yet, Vivek. I have to be responsible here. But I know it wasn’t Miriam, and I think I understand the rest of the pieces, and once I’m certain we can make it public and maybe even get an apology, maybe we can get the university to do something in Miriam’s name, something brilliant, so that she’ll be remembered for her brilliant work and not for this awful thing.”
He stopped at the top of the stairs.
“I don’t need her to be valorized. What we owe her is peace.”
“Justice for who did this, for the real thief, wouldn’t that give her peace?” Liesl asked. “Wouldn’t that give you peace?”
“It might. If I believed justice was at all possible.”
He continued down the stairs. And she let him. Because she didn’t have an argument that might convince him to stay.
18
After work she met Francis at a playground. It was packed despite the cold. Small children in bright parkas, shoving each other into snowbanks as they clamored to be next in line for the slide. There was a cluster of mothers in designer coats talking in a huddle. Liesl sat on a cold wooden bench next to Francis. The grandson he was babysitting was among the children. She didn’t see him.
A small band of slightly older boys—Liesl was never very good at guessing the ages of children, but these were larger than the preschoolers who occupied most of the playground—had climbed to the top of a play structure and were pelting with snowballs anyone who tried to approach. One of the boys had his navy parka unzipped, and his brown hair had sprung loose from its ponytail so that it haloed his frost-pink face. He let out a guttural scream that drew Francis’s attention enough for him to whistle and wave the boy over.
“Robespierre! Here!” Francis yelled.
He marched in their direction, the child who had screamed, with his brows knit and his chest pushed forward. He was ready for a confrontation.
“Do you really call him that?” she asked. “Or is it just Robbie?”
“Never Robbie,” Francis said as the boy approached. “He goes into a frenzy if you try Robbie.”
“Robespierre it is.”
“What is it, Grandpa?” the boy asked.
“The snowballs,” Francis said. “And the screaming.”
Freed by the absence of their tormentor, the small children had reoccupied the play structure. He looked back at it with regret.
“Is that all?” the boy asked.
“That’s all,” Francis said. The boy ran back in the direction of his kingdom, emitting another scream to let everyone know who was in charge.
“Sorry I didn’t introduce you,” Francis said.
“No. I’m quite glad you didn’t.”
“When they gave him a name like Robespierre,” Francis said, “did they think for a moment he would be a normal kid?”
“I’m glad you invited me.”
“Even though you’re terrified of my grandson?”
“I wanted a chance to apologize.” The playground was penance. Because Liesl had the soot of accusation on her and mere water couldn’t get her hands clean. Instead, she had insisted on accompanying Francis somewhere on his turf, even if it really meant Robespierre’s turf, to ask his forgiveness.