Susan was quiet
“He hasn’t got any strengths,” I said. “He’s not smart or strong or good-looking or funny or tough. All he’s got is a kind of ratty meanness. It’s not enough.”
“So what do you think you’ll do about it?” Susan said.
“Well, I’m not going to adopt him.”
“How about a state agency. The Office for Children, say, or some such.”
“They got enough trouble fighting for their share of federal funds. I wouldn’t want to burden them with a kid.”
“I know people who work in human services for the state,” Susan said. “Some are very dedicated.”
“And competent?”
“Some.”
“You want to give me a percentage?”
“That are dedicated and competent?”
“Yeah.”
“You win,” she said.
We turned onto Route 128. “So what do you propose,” Susan said.
“I propose to let him go down the tube,” I said. “I can’t think of anything to do about it.”
“But it bothers you.”
“Sure, it bothers me. But I’m used to that too. The world is full of people I can’t save. I get used to that. I got used to it on the cops. Any cop does. You have to or you go down the tube too.”
“I know,” Susan said.
“On the other hand I may see the kid again.”
“Professionally?”
“Yeah. The old man will take him again. She’ll try to get him back. They’re too stupid and too lousy to let this go. I wouldn’t be surprised if she called me again.”
“You’d be smart to say no if she does. You won’t feel any better by getting into it again.”
“I know,” I said.
We were quiet. I turned off of Route 128 at the Smithfield Center exit and drove to Susan’s house.
“I’ve got a bottle of new Beaujolais,” Susan said in the kitchen. “How about I make us a couple of cheeseburgers and we can eat them and drink the Beaujolais?”
“Will you toast my hamburger roll?” I said.
“I certainly will,” Susan said. “And who knows, maybe later I’ll light your fire too, big fella.”
“Oh, honeylips,” I said. “You really know how to talk to a guy.”
She handed me the bottle of wine. “You know where the corkscrew is,” she said. “Open it and let it breathe a little, while I do the cheeseburgers.”
I did.
CHAPTER 7
Patty Giacomin called me in April on a Tuesday afternoon at four o’clock. I hadn’t heard from her in three months.
“Could you come to the house right now,” she said.
I had been sitting in my office with my feet up on the desk and the window open sniffing the spring air and reading A Distant Mirror by Barbara Tuchman. I kept my finger in my place while I talked on the phone.
“I’m fairly busy,” I said.
“You have to come,” she said. “Please.”
“Your husband got the kid again?”
“No. He’s not my husband anymore. No. But Paul was almost hurt. Please, they might come back. Please, come now.”
“You in danger?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe. You’ve got to come.”
“Okay,” I said. “If there’s any danger, call the cops. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
I hung up and put my book down and headed for Lexington.
When I got there Patty Giacomin was standing in the front doorway looking out. She had on a white headband and a green silk shirt, a beige plaid skirt and tan Frye boots. Around her waist was a wide brown belt and her lipstick was glossy and nearly brown. Probably just got through scrubbing the tub.
