O'Farrell's Law

Ellen had talked about Nancy Reagan seeking pledges from nine-year-olds, O’Farrell remembered. He said, “What happened?”

“They sniffed something. Made them go funny, like I said.” The toy ceased being a spacecraft and was turned into a warrior so that it could attack from the ground.

“What happened to them?”

“They had to go to the principal. Now they’re in a program.”

“You know what a program is?”

“Sure,” Billy said, letting his warrior retreat. “It’s when you go and they keep on about you not doing it.”

It was a good enough description from someone so young. O’Farrell said, “You love me?”

Billy looked directly at him for the first time. “Of course I love you.”

“Grandma too? And Mommy most of all?”

“Sure. Dad too.”

What about Patrick? O’Farrell thought for the first time. He’d have to ask Ellen. “I want you to make me a promise, a promise that you’ll keep if you love us all like you say you do.”

“Okay,” the child said brightly. The warrior became a spacecraft again.

“If anyone ever comes up to you, at school or anywhere, and tries to get you to buy something that will make you go funny, you promise me you’ll say no and go at once and tell Miss James or Mommy? You promise me that?”

“Can I have another Coke? Just a small one.”

O’Farrell caught the waitress’s eye again and insisted, “You going to promise me that?”

“ ’Course I am. That’s easy.”

“And mean it? Really mean it?”

“Sure.”

O’Farrell felt a sweep of helplessness but decided against pressing any further. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried at all. He hadn’t suggested to Ellen that he should discuss it with the child; perhaps there was some established way of talking it through—something evolved by a child psychiatrist—and he was being counterproductive by mentioning it at all. He felt another sweep of helplessness.

O’Farrell considered stopping at the service station on the way back to Ellen’s apartment, but decided against it; there did not seem to be any point. The women were already home, hunched over more coffee cups at the kitchen table with the debris of a sandwich lunch between them.

“Steak for dinner, courtesy of Grandma!” Ellen announced as they entered.

“Great!” Billy said. “I got a new spaceship! Look!

“Gramps bought it for me. And a vanilla ice cream with a chocolate top!”

“Looks like our time for being spoiled, Billy boy,” Ellen said.

The child scurried into the living room to locate the previous toy and begin a galactic battle; almost at once there came lots of boom, boom, booms and a noise that sounded something like a throat clearing.

O’Farrell said, “Your car’s in the garage.”

“You had an accident!”

His daughter’s instant response caused a burn of annoyance. Never get mad, always stay cool, he thought. He said, “I could have. It’s a miracle you haven’t. That car’s a wreck: at least five thousand miles over any service limit! Didn’t you know that?”

“Been busy,” said Ellen. She spoke looking down, her bottom lip nipped between her teeth, and O’Farrell recognized the expression from when she’d been young and been caught doing something wrong.

“Darling!” he said, perfectly in control but trying to sound outraged despite that, wanting to get through to her. “On at least one wheel, possibly two, there are scarcely any brake shoes left at all. Which is hardly important anyway because there was no fluid in the drum to operate them anyway. Two plugs aren’t operating at all, your engine is virtually dry of oil, and the carburetor is so corroded the cover has actually split. Both your left tires, front and back, are shiny bald, and your alignment is so far out on the front that any new tire would be that way inside a month.”

“Intended to get it fixed right away,” Ellen said, head still downcast. “The brakes are okay, providing you know how to work them.”

“That car’s a deathtrap and you know it!” O’Farrell insisted. “So when was it last in the shop?”

“Can’t remember,” Ellen said, stilted still.

“It hasn’t been serviced, has it? Not for months!”

“No.”

There was a loud silence in the tiny kitchen. Remembering something else, O’Farrell said, “What about Patrick?”

“What about Patrick?” his daughter echoed.

“You told him about this scare at Billy’s school?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s all it is, a scare,” Ellen said. “Nothing’s happened to Billy.”

Don’t be sidetracked, thought O’Farrell. “Patrick’s got visitation rights, hasn’t he?”

“You know he has.”

“Tell me the custody arrangement.”

“You know the custody arrangement!” Ellen said angrily.

“Tell me!”

“Alternative weekends,” Ellen said. “Vacation by arrangement.”

“So Billy was with his father last weekend?”

“No,” Ellen admitted tightly.

“And the time before that?”

“No.” Tighter still.

“Why not?”

A shrug.

“Why not!”

“Patrick’s got problems; he got laid off.”

“From the loan company?”

Ellen shook her head. “That was the job before last. He was working on commission, with a group of guys, trying to sell apartments in a renewal development downtown.”

“But he got laid off?”

Ellen nodded.

“When?”

She shrugged uncertainly. “I’m not sure. Three months ago, maybe four. I’m not sure.”

Jill had been listening, her head moving backward and forward like a spectator’s at a tennis match. She said abruptly, “Honey, we’ve been up here twice in the last four months! Why didn’t you tell us?”

“My business,” Ellen said, little girl again.

“No, honey,” Jill said gently. “Our business.”

“It was all right at first. He kept seeing Billy and …” she trailed away.

“And what!” demanded O’Farrell, guessing already.

“And the payments,” Ellen finished.

“How much is he behind?”

There was another uncertain shoulder move. “Two months.”

“Alimony and child support?” O’Farrell pressed.

Ellen nodded. “Actually it’s three months.”

“And when did he last want to see Billy?”

“It’s not that he doesn’t want to see him! He and Jane have two kids of their own now; he’s got a lot of priorities.”

“You and Billy are his prior commitments!” O’Farrell insisted. “He married you first. He had Billy first. He owes