J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

“What?”

She moved back toward the bedroom. “Would you just one time do like I ask? The baby pooped his pants and I’m out of Pampers. I told you that twice.”

Michael got up obediently, his eyes still pinned to the television screen. Another commercial came on, and the shift seemed to break the spell.

“Sometime tonight, okay?” she said, hefting the baby on one hip.

Michael reached for his windbreaker, which he snatched from a pile of clothes on the floor. “I’ll be right back,” he said to no one in particular. As he hunched into his jacket, I realized it would be the perfect opportunity to talk to him.

“Why don’t I go, too?” I said.

“Fine with me,” he said with a look at Juliet. “You need anything else?”

She shook her head, watching a crew of cartoon bite-’ems demolish grunge from a dinner plate. I would have bet money she hadn’t gotten the hang of washing dishes yet.

Once we were out on the street, Michael walked rapidly, head bent, hands in his jacket pockets. He was easily a foot taller, with a loose-limbed gait. The approaching storm had darkened the sky overhead, and a tropical breeze sent leaves scuttling along the gutters. The paper had warned that the system was weakening and would probably bring us little more than drizzle. The air was already turbulent, erratic, and humid, the sky charcoal blue where it should have been pale. Michael lifted his face, and the promise of rain seemed to buffet his cheeks.

I found myself trotting to keep up with him. “Could you slow down a little bit?”

“Sorry,” he said, and cut his pace by a third.

The Stop ‘N’ Go was at the corner, maybe two blocks away. I could see the lights ahead of us, though the street itself was dark. Every third or fourth house we passed would have the porch lights on. Low-voltage lamps picked out the path of a front walk or an illuminated ornamental shrub. Supper smells still lingered in the chill night air: the aroma of baked potatoes and meat loaf with a barbecue sauce on top, oven-fried chicken, sweet-and-sour pork chops. I knew I’d already eaten supper, but I was hungry anyway. “I’m assuming you know your father might be heading back to town,” I said to Michael, trying to distract myself.

“Mom told me that.”

“You have any idea what you’ll do if he gets in touch?”

“Talk to him, I guess. Why? What am I supposed to do?”

“There’s still a warrant out for his arrest,” I said.

Michael snorted. “Oh, great. Snitch on your dad. You haven’t seen him for years, first thing you do is call the cops.”

“It does sound shitty, doesn’t it?”

“Doesn’t just sound like that. It is.”

“Do you remember much about him?”

Michael lifted one shoulder. “I was seventeen when he left. I remember mom cried a lot and we got to stay home from school for two days. I try not to think about the rest of it. I tell you one thing, I used to think, ‘Hey, so my old man killed himself …what’s the big deal,’ you know? Then I had my son, and it changed my attitude. I couldn’t leave that little guy. I couldn’t do that to him, and now I wonder how Dad could have done it to me. What kind of turd is he, do you know what I mean? Me and Brian both. We were good kids, I swear.”

“Sounds like Brian was devastated.”

“Yeah, that’s true. Brian always acted like it didn’t matter, but I know he took it hard. Most of it rolled right offa me.”

“Your brother was twelve?”

“Right. I was a senior in high school. He was in the sixth grade. Kids are mean at that age.”

“Kids are mean at any age,” I said. “Your mother tells me Brian started getting into trouble about then.”

“I guess.”

“What sort of things did he do?”

“I don’t know, petty stuff…skipping school, marking on the walls with spray paint, fistfights, but he was just messing around. He didn’t mean anything by it. I’m not saying it was right, but everybody made such a goddamn big deal out of it. Right away they’re treating him like a criminal or something, and he’s just a kid. Lot of boys that age get in trouble, you know what I mean? He was horsing around and he got caught. That’s the only difference. I did the same thing when I was his age and nobody called me a ‘juvenile delinquent.’ And don’t give me that junk about ‘a cry for help.’”

“I never said a word. I’m just listening.”

“Anyway, I feel sorry for him. Once people think you’re bad, you might as well be bad. It’s more fun than being good.”