J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

“Why didn’t you come back and face what you did?”

“I couldn’t come back. I didn’t see a way to make it work.”

“Meaning you weren’t interested. Meaning you didn’t want to be asked to make any sacrifices in our behalf. Thanks a bunch. We appreciate your devotion. It’s typical.”

“Now, son, that’s not true.”

“Yes, it is. You could have stayed if you wanted, if we meant anything to you. But here’s the truth. We didn’t matter to you, and that was just our tough luck, right?”

“Of course you matter. What do you think I’ve been talking about?”

“I don’t know, Dad. As far as I can tell, you’re just trying to justify your behavior.”

“This is pointless. I can’t undo the past. I can’t change what happened back then. Brian and I are going to turn ourselves in. That’s the best I can do, and if that’s not good enough, then I don’t know what to say.”

Michael broke off eye contact, shaking his head with frustration. I watched him consider and discard a retort.

Wendell cleared his throat. “I have to go. I told Brian I’d be there.” He got to his feet, shifting the baby against his shoulder. Juliet swung her legs over to the side of the bed and got up, prepared to take Brendan from his grandfather’s arms. It was clear the conversation had upset her. Her nose was pink, her mouth swollen with emotion.

Michael shoved his hands down in his pockets. “You didn’t do Brian any favor with that fake jail release.”

“That’s true, as it turned out, but there was no way we could know that. I’ve changed my mind about a lot of things. Anyway, this is something your brother and I have to work out between us.”

“You’ve got Brian in worse trouble than he was in before. You don’t move fast, the cops’ll pick him up and throw him back in the slammer and he won’t see daylight ‘til he’s a hundred and three. And where will you be? Off on a fuckin’ boat without a care in the world. Good luck.”

“Doesn’t it occur to you that I’ll have to pay a price, too?”

“At least you don’t have a murder charge hanging over your head.”

“I’m not sure there’s any point in going on with this,” Wendell said, ignoring the actual content of Michael’s remark. The two of them seemed to be talking at cross purposes. Wendell was trying to reassert his parental authority. Michael wasn’t having any of that shit. He had a son now himself, and he knew how much his father had forfeited. Wendell turned away. “I have to go,” he said, holding one hand out to Juliet. “I’m glad we had a chance to meet. It’s too bad the circumstances weren’t happier.”

“Are we going to see you again?” Juliet said. Tears were spilling down her cheeks. Mascara had formed a sprinkling of soot beneath her eyes. Michael seemed watchful, his expression haunted, while grief poured from Juliet like water bursting through a wall.

Even Wendell seemed affected by her open display of feeling. “Absolutely. Of course. That’s a promise.”

His gaze lingered on Michael, perhaps hoping for some sign of emotion. “I’m sorry for the pain I caused you. I mean that.”

Michael’s shoulders hunched slightly with the effort to stay disconnected. “Yeah. Right. Whatever,” he said.

Wendell hugged the baby to him, his face buried in Brendan’s neck, drinking in the sweet, milky smell of the child. “Oh, you sweet boy,” he said, his voice tremulous. Brendan was staring fascinated at Wendell’s hair, which he grabbed. Solemnly he tried to put a fistful in his mouth. Wendell winced, gently extracting the baby’s fingers. Juliet reached for Brendan. Michael watched, his eyes pooling with silver before he looked away. Sorrow rose from his skin like steam, radiating outward.

Wendell passed the baby to Juliet and kissed her on the forehead before he turned to Michael. The two grabbed each other in a tight embrace that seemed to go on forever. “I love you, son.” They rocked back and forth in an ancient dance. Michael made a small sound at the back of his throat, his eyes squeezed shut. For that one unguarded moment, he and Wendell were connected. I had to look away. I couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to find yourself in the presence of a parent you thought was dead. Michael pulled back. Wendell took out a handkerchief and swiped at his eyes. “I’ll be in touch,” he whispered, and then let out a breath.

Without looking at them, he turned and left the room. His guilt probably felt oppressive, like a weight on his chest. He moved through the house, heading for the front door with me right behind him. If he was aware of my presence, he didn’t object.