before it. Bless me, Father, for I am about to sin. He glanced around, then one by one he turned the statues around so they would see nothing, Mary, Joseph, the Magi, a donkey, two sheep, a family of very pious and awestruck Bakelite bunnies. He would leave no witnesses. When he’d rearranged the others, he lifted the baby Jesus out of His straw bed. “Now who left you out here in just a diaper?” he asked the child, who stared back with a conspiratorial beatific smile. He tucked the statue under his arm like a football and strolled off, his sneakers crunching in the snow.
There was a soft knock and Amy, still in her work dress, went to the door. “Who is it?”
“The Strangler.”
“Very funny. What do you want?”
“Um, to strangle you? That’s, you know, what I do.”
“Sorry, not interested.”
“Come on, just a little?”
“I said no. Go strangle yourself.”
“That’s how I got through high school. Come on, help me out.”
She opened the door a crack to see Ricky posing cheek to cheek with the statue of the Christ child. “Oh, Jesus,” she said.
“Precisely.”
“Does this mean I’m dying?”
“No, no. He just came to visit.”
“Oh, thank God. I mean, thank You.” Amy stood back to let him pass. “I suppose you have an explanation.”
“Yes. I found Jesus.”
“Ha, ha. Let me guess. That’s the one Joe is supposed to be watching.”
“Exactamente.”
“And what do you intend to do with…Him?”
“I’m not exactly sure. I thought maybe you could hold on to Him for a while.”
“Like a hostage.”
“No, like a good-luck charm. That’s His job, you know.”
“You’ll rot in hell for this.”
“Anything for a scoop, Aim. You want the story? I’ll give you an exclusive: ‘Jesus Statue Stolen; Brazen Theft Right Under Dumb-Ass Cop’s Nose.’ Now, if that doesn’t move paper, then I give up.”
“You know, you Daleys aren’t nearly as fascinating to anyone else as you are to yourselves. Why don’t you leave poor Joe alone? He’s got enough trouble.”
“Come on, this is news. The public has a right to know.”
“Sorry. We’re a family newspaper. We don’t blaspheme.”
Ricky wandered over to the dining room table, which was covered with papers, manila folders, handwritten notes, photos of women bloody and contorted. “What’s all this?”
“It’s work. Try it sometime.”
“Hey, I work.”
Amy sniffed.
“Since when are you covering the Strangler thing?”
“They assigned the story today. We’re reviewing it, me and Claire.” Claire Downey was the other girl reporter at the Observer. The paper liked to team them up. They were good, and the two-girl byline was a novelty, especially on crime cases.
“Hasn’t that story been written to death? What’s the new angle?”
“Between us?”
“Between us.”
“The angle is that BPD screwed up the investigation.”
“Did they?”
“All I know is I’m looking through these reports and even I can see the mistakes. The crime scenes, the interviews, the leads they’ve missed-it’s a disaster, Ricky. Well, you can read it in the paper, same as everyone else.”
He picked up one of the photos and examined it idly. It showed a room, a stained carpet, various marks and arrows drawn on it. “Maybe you’d better keep this little guy. You might need Him.” He propped the statue on a counter.
“Just take it with you. I’m not stashing your stolen property.”
“Now that’s blasphemy.”
“No, that’s your…work. I wish you wouldn’t bring it here.”
Ricky frowned. But he was feeling buoyant at the thought of Joe and the empty manger, and he did not want to argue. Ricky was determined not to acknowledge her sour mood, not to become snarled in it. He shuffled to the refrigerator. A few eggs, a block of American cheese, a loaf of Wonder bread. “You know what you need, Miss Ryan? A wife.”
“The job’s yours if you want it. You know that.”
“Maybe just for tonight.” He came to her and put his arms around her waist. “I’ll be the wife. You can be the Fuller brush salesman.”
She forced a smile but it faded.
“What?”
“You know what.”
He groaned.
“Don’t worry, Ricky, we won’t talk about it. It’s late.”
“It’s not that late. Come on, let’s go somewhere. Down to Wally’s. We’ll have a drink, hear some music, take your mind off things.”
“Ricky, some people have to get up for work.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yeah, that.”
“Maybe I should go.”
“No.” She laid her head on his chest. “You can stick around if you want.”
Ricky blinked uncertainly. He was not used to seeing Amy unnerved. He was not used to-and had no interest in-comforting her. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“The Strangler stuff? Those pictures?”
She shrugged.
“Come on. Did you read the paper today? The police commissioner says the odds of getting attacked by the Strangler are two million to one. Two million to one! The whole city’s in a panic-for what? You’re more likely to get run over by a car.”
“I know, I know.”
She felt his collarbone against her forehead. Under her hands, Ricky’s lower back was hard as a shell. He had a little boy’s wiry body. It felt unbreakable.
“Ricky, maybe we could just stay in tonight.”
“Nah, I need to get out. Come on. One beer. You can sleep when you get old.”
Amy felt with the tips of her fingers for the furrow at the center of Ricky’s back. She traced the backbone as it rose to the flat of the coccyx, and her anxiety receded.
“I never thought you were a worrier, Aim.”
“I’m not a worrier. I don’t care about the Strangler.”
She felt Ricky tap her shoulder blades in mock comfort. The gesture conveyed there, there and at the same time stop hugging me, let me go. A little chill went through her. Ricky was a consummate faker, but tonight he could not even be bothered to fake for her. He just wanted a playmate. Maybe that was all there was to Ricky, at least that was as much of him as Amy would ever have. Was it enough? A sentence repeated in her mind: I don’t know if I can do this anymore. But she did not say it. Probably she never would say it. She would never possess
