“All right, all
“What, was it something I said? Something about my suit you didn’t like?”
The boy shrugged. “Nah, I was just bored.”
His mother patted the boy in a rough and rapid manner Megan suspected was not at all comforting. “We’ve been here since nine-thirty.”
“And you haven’t seen the judge yet?”
“Our lawyer hasn’t shown up. He keeps calling, making excuses. So we’re stuck waiting.”
Megan rubbed her hand against her brow. Been in this hellhole since nine-thirty? No wonder the kid was stir- crazy.
“Look.” Megan reached down to the bottom of her bag. “Ever seen one of these?” She pulled the ball-bearing contraption out and plopped it onto the kid’s lap.
“No.” He lifted one of the silver balls and let it crash down into the others, starting the chain reaction. “What does it do?”
“You’re doing it already.” Megan smiled at his mother. “Keep it. It may amuse him for a while.”
“Oh, we couldn’t possibly …”
“Please. I’ll be glad to get it off my hands.”
The mother reached for her own purse. “Then let me give you something.”
“That really isn’t necessary.”
The mother withdrew a large glass bottle filled with green liquid. “I got this last night at the office Christmas party. You know, one of those gag gift exchanges.”
Megan took the extra-large bottle of Listerine. “Boy, those gag gifts are some kind of funny, aren’t they?”
“I gave a giant-size roll-on Arrid Extra Dry.”
“That’s clever, too.” She dropped the mouthwash into her bag, which was now even heavier than before. “Well, thanks very much.”
The mother smiled and waved. “Merry Christmas.”
Megan waved back. “Ho, ho, ho.”
As it turned out, once they got in, the hearing took less than ten minutes. Judge Harris, a middle-aged career judge who knew her way around domestic law backwards and forwards, was particularly expeditious, in part no doubt due to the size of the horde outside. The judge would probably be on duty till midnight no matter what she did.
Megan put Bonnie on the stand to give a brief account of her nightmarish life since her breakup, of how Carl had stalked her and her son, threatened her, even tried to poison Tommy. Then, in a broken voice, barely able to speak, she told the horrific account of Carl’s visit to her home that morning, of punching her boyfriend and neighbor, of smashing his hand through the windowpane. Megan suspected Bonnie could’ve gotten her restraining order right then and there, but after Bonnie proceeded to recount Carl’s attempt to kidnap Tommy, there was no uncertainty about the outcome.
Just for good measure, Megan entered into evidence a copy of the police reports for each of the earlier incidents. And in return, she got an impressive-looking restraining order signed by the judge, prohibiting Carl Cantrell from coming near Bonnie, Tommy, or their home.
“I’ll schedule a formal hearing for three weeks from today,” Judge Harris said, marking the date on her calendar. “You’ll have to serve notice on her ex-husband before then.”
“I’ll take care of it, your honor,” Megan said, making notes.
“Do you have any idea where the man is?”
“No. But I’m hoping the police will find him. They do have his license-plate number.”
The judge nodded. “I hope so, too. For everybody’s sake.”
12
By the third round, Carl was drinking Scotch and water, hold the water. But the medicine was doing its work; the liquid comfort coursed through his veins, numbed his body. After a while he was able to forget the pain-the physical pain, at any rate. The only reminder came every time he bent his elbow, as the sharp stabbing agony reminded him that he had sliced up his arm only hours before.
He tossed back the remains of his shot glass, savoring the sensation of hot burning fluid hitting the back of his throat. Feel the burn, as the boys on the force used to say. Feel it washing away all the hurt, all the misery. It erased everything, Carl realized.
Everything except memory.
He couldn’t forget that it was Christmas Eve. He couldn’t forget that his son would be spending the day with some slimeball who wasn’t his father. He couldn’t forget that his wife would be spending the night with the same slimeball. And he couldn’t forget that he had failed to do a damn thing about it.
“I’ll have another round,” he said, marginally aloud. Was he slurring his words? Damn, he thought maybe he was. And maybe that was a good sign. He’d long since acquired the skill of drinking to excess and not letting the effects show. Maybe this meant he was crossing a new threshold, reaching a new peak.
Or maybe he was just becoming a sloppy drunk. Who the hell knew? Either way, he wanted another drink.
“Hey, Joe!” he shouted. “Hit me!”
The substantial, big-boned man with the white apron around his waist pivoted in Carl’s direction. “My name ain’t Joe.”
“Ain’t-” Carl slapped his forehead, a bit harder than he really intended. “Right, right. Joe tossed me.” He attempted a grin that he hoped might be something like charming. “And your name is-?”
“Mister Bartender to you. And I think you’ve had enough.”
“Aw, don’t start with that. I hate that.” He could tell he was weaving a bit, which could be dangerous on a bar stool. He cleared his throat, concentrated on controlling his body movement and diction. “Come on, please. I’m just getting started.”
“I could get my license yanked if-”
Carl spread his arms wide. “Hey, it’s Christmas!”
Mister Bartender whipped a Scotch bottle out from beneath the counter, a bitter frown on his face. “This is the last one, buddy. And I mean it.”
Carl scooped up the refilled glass and cradled it in his hands. “You’re a Christian saint, pal. A Christian saint.” The glass was mere inches from his lips when he heard a shrill beeping noise from somewhere nearby.
He jumped, almost spilling the precious contents of the glass. He focused his eyes, trying to stop the room from spinning. Was that some kind of fire alarm? Was there a raid?
He noticed that all the other patrons at the bar were looking at him. Did they know something?
The burly bearded man at the next stool leaned his way. “It’s your phone, you mook.”
He pressed his hands against his chest. Damn! His cell phone; he’d almost forgotten he had the thing. Not like anyone ever called anymore.
He whipped the phone out of his coat pocket. He hoped he had enough battery power to take the call; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d charged it. ’Course, at the moment, he couldn’t remember much of anything.
He flipped the lid open and pressed the Send button. He twisted away from his neighbor, finding some measure of privacy on the other edge of his bar stool. “Yeah?”
“Carl, is that you?”
Carl froze. His lips parted, but he didn’t know what to say, couldn’t think-
“Bonnie?” It was barely a whisper, as if he didn’t dare risk shattering the dream by saying her name out loud. “Is that you?”
“It’s me, baby. Can you talk?”
