The Lost - J. D. Robb [64]
It was getting dark when the car pulled up. Of course the engine didn’t sound any different, and of course the doors slamming were just doors slamming—but I knew before I heard Sam and Benny’s slow, draggy footsteps that something was wrong. My sixth sense. And as soon as I smelled them, I knew what it was. Me. The scent of Hope Springs was all over them.
Sam let Benny have a glass of milk in the kitchen. I thought they’d talk, but they didn’t. How was I? Worse—I must be. Or exactly the same; that would be just as bad. So this mutual dejection that hung in the air like smoke from a grease fire was only because they’d seen me. That was all. No change. Just another soul-eroding visit to Laurie.
Benny dawdled over his milk, but didn’t argue when Sam told him to go up and get ready for bed, it was late. I usually went with Benny at those times, because of the intimacy. My little boy was never more my little boy than when he was getting into his wonderful-smelling pjs or peeing in the toilet (and on the floor) or standing at the sink on tiptoe to brush his teeth. But now I stayed with Sam, followed him when he went into the den. I wanted to see his reaction to the principal’s message.
He played it twice. His face was turned away, but everything else about him answered my question. This was the first he’d heard.
His feet on the stairs sounded like doom to me; I could imagine what they sounded like to Benny. I wanted to trip Sam, block him at the door, do something to protect Benny—but the instinct to confront him was just as strong. Sam and I went into our son’s room side by side.
He was sitting on his bed, working a puzzle. He didn’t look up, even when Sam sat next to him. “Ben.”
No answer. Intense scrutiny of puzzle.
“Is there something you have to tell me?”
Head shake.
“Benny.”
Silence.
“Is there something you have to show me?”
Long pause, then Benny got out of bed, found his book bag on the floor, rummaged through it for about an hour, withdrew a sealed envelope. Handed it to Sam wordlessly and got back in bed.
Sam looked at the envelope for a while before opening it. Not to prolong the suspense, just to put things off a few seconds longer. I sympathized.
Leaning in, I tried to read over his shoulder, but the type was too small. The letter wasn’t very long, one or two paragraphs, signed in ink. Sam sighed when he folded it and put it back in the envelope. “Okay. Tell me about this.”
Wordless and sullen, Benny clacked wooden puzzle pieces together hard.
“We’ve never talked about fighting before, not much, you and me. Were you angry at this boy, this—Doug? It’s okay to get mad at people, you know that. It’s what you do about—”
“He’s a poop head. He’s a dummy. He’s—” Benny looked up from the puzzle, right into Sam’s eyes. “He’s an asshole.”
“Hey, now—”
“He is.”
“Why?”
Benny wouldn’t answer.
“What did he do? Did he hit you first? That’s—”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“I hit him.”
“Okay. Why? Did he say something?”
“He said—he said—” Tears welled and spilled over. “He s-said . . .”
“What did he say?” Very gently, Sam folded Benny in his arms. I sidled close, leaning my flank against both of them.
“He said Mommy . . .”
“What?”
“Is a . . .”
“What?’
“Vegetable.”
I made a choking sound, the closest to a sob I could come. They didn’t hear me; Benny was crying and Sam was crooning consolation. They were a tangle of arms and pressed-together faces, and all I could do was shove my snout into the places I could find skin.
“All right, listen. That kid was wrong.” He lifted Benny’s chin so he could look at him. “And you were right—he’s an asshole.”
“I know.” Benny wiped his slimy face on the sheet. “I told you.”
“But we don’t use that word, right? Well, except us, you and me. On rare occasions. We can say it to each other, but nobody