Terri’s eyes flickered to Elena, who was beginning a new tower with a child’s unselfconscious concentration. ‘Jennifer’s parents don’t know who your mom is?’
Carlo shook his head. ‘No.’
He looked down, silent for a moment. Terri decided to say nothing, just to wait. She sipped her wine.
‘The whole thing,’ Carlo said at last, ‘makes me feel weird. Like I’m hiding her. Like I’m hiding
out
.’
Terri glanced at her daughter. ‘Elena,’ she asked, ‘could you help Chris with the hamburgers? He’s all alone on the deck.’
Elena considered this. ‘How do I help him?’
Carlo smiled at her. ‘Tell him not to cook the hamburgers on high, because it makes them dry inside.’ He turned to Terri. ‘It drives me nuts.’
Terri looked at Elena. ‘It sounds like Chris needs help.’
‘Definitely,’ Carlo affirmed to the little girl. ‘Just tell him “no dry hamburgers.”’
Elena stood straighter, as if affirming the importance of her mission. ‘“No dry hamburgers,”’ she repeated, and scampered down the hallway.
Carlo grinned after her, clearly pleased at the notion of his father being instructed by an officious five-year-old, aware that Carlo was the source of her message. Terri smiled as well, and then realized with sudden guilt how glad she was that Richie had not come.
It had been awkward at first; Paget’s invitation had been for all of them, and what it had finally come down to was that Richie had asked Terri to refuse. Richie didn’t feel like it, he said; he’d be bored. Terri could only guess the deeper reasons: that Richie resented her friendship with Paget; that Richie was too proud to spend time with someone he could not impress; that Richie did not care for social settings that he could not control.
In this case, Terri at first had acceded to his wishes, and then their pointlessness had made her angry. The upshot was that Terri had pleaded business reasons to Richie; offered Paget a lame excuse for Richie’s absence; and come because she wanted to. Alone, she did not have to fear that Richie would try to solicit Paget as an ‘investor,’ or dread the exaggerated politeness on Paget’s face as he mentally took Richie’s measure and filed him away. But to be ashamed of Richie made her feel guilty; what made her feel better was the chance to talk with Carlo about something that mattered.
‘Don’t your friends,’ she asked him, ‘know who your mother is?’
He shook his head. ‘Not really. I’m in a new school this year, and she’s never around for people to know about.’ A pained expression crossed his face. ‘I mean, what do I say? Butt into the middle of some conversation and say, “Have I told you that Mary Carelli’s my mother?” Especially with all this stuff on television, and then the way some people at school talk about her . . .
I’m
not afraid, but I’d only make
them
feel bad.’
For a moment, Terri tried to imagine not telling people that Rosa Peralta was
her
mother, and then she saw that what divided her from Carlo was what he could not bring himself to say: that Mary as a mother did not seem real to him, so that claiming her would feel like pretense.
‘What
do
your friends say?’
Carlo reflected. ‘Some people don’t say a lot,’ he answered with irony, ‘because it’s my
dad’s
case. Other people feel sorry for her.’ He paused. ‘I guess a few think she did it.’
‘You “guess”?’
Carlo’s handsome features hardened. ‘One guy on the team said she was probably sucking him off and then Ransom just got out of hand.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You know – like she was going to let him beat her up too, only it got too real for her to like it.’
Terri watched his face. ‘Do you believe that?’
‘No.’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t know her, really. But she just doesn’t seem like that to me.’
Terri put down her wine. ‘Like what?’ she asked.
Carlo looked away, as if struggling for words. ‘Like someone who wants to be pushed around, or would even
pretend
to want that.’ He turned to her. ‘Look, I know there’s stuff I don’t know . . .’
What, Terri thought, do I say to that? For a moment all she wanted was to pass the buck to Paget, whose buck it rightfully was, and not make some snap judgment that might hurt both father and son. But that, she concluded, was the coward’s way out, and Carlo deserved better – even from her.
‘
I
don’t know,’ she answered evenly, ‘what you know or don’t know. But yes, I imagine there are things your mother and father haven’t told you.’
Carlo’s eyes turned stubborn. ‘I’m not some kid. I’m old enough.’
Terri nodded. ‘I understand, and so does your dad. But what makes you think that he’s protecting
you
?’
‘Because he always does. Too much, sometimes. It’s like he
worries
about me so much.’
Terri could imagine too well how a seven-year-old who spoke of killing himself would tear Paget apart; the painstaking years of care when Paget battled the boy’s self-hatred; the constant habit of watchfulness, too ingrained for Paget to dispel. Could see perhaps better than Paget that, whatever his lingering wounds, Carlo no longer was that fragile boy and had no conscious memory that he ever had been. And that without this understanding – which Paget would never wish to give him – Carlo might feel weakened by a primal sense of his father’s fears for him.
‘Do
you
,’ she asked Carlo, ‘tell your
dad
everything you do? Or think, or feel?’
Carlo shook his head emphatically. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Absently, he began putting blocks back in their box; his fingers seemed to know from memory where each piece fit. ‘Because,’ he answered, ‘there’s some stuff you don’t want anyone to know – especially a parent. I don’t know how to explain why something feels private – it just does. Not even ’cause you feel ashamed always, or even embarrassed. It’s just
yours
, that’s all, and it’s important not to talk about it unless it’s even more important that someone know.’
‘But what’s the test for when that is?’ Terri spoke more quietly. ‘That’s the problem
I’ve
always had.’
Carlo looked up from the blocks. ‘I don’t know. I guess when talking will help you more than hurt you – that is, if you really need to talk. And when the other person is a person who needs to
know
and won’t be too hurt by what you say.’
Terri gazed at the shadows from the palm tree, falling across the room. ‘What makes you think,’ she finally said, ‘that your father’s any different? Suppose he hasn’t told you everything he knows, or everything he’s afraid of. That doesn’t mean that he lacks confidence in you or doesn’t think that you’re adult. All that may mean is that he’s protecting your mother, or even himself. Sometimes, adults need privacy even more than teenagers – they’ve had a lot more time to do things they’re embarrassed about or ashamed of. And as far as your mother goes, it’s not your dad’s place to talk about her life. Or mine.
She
makes those calls, and we all have to respect that.’
Carlo stood, turning to the window, hands in his pockets as he stared out at the palm. The stance was so much like Paget’s that Terri wondered, not for the first time, about the line between genetics and simple emulation. Once again, she tried to imagine the seven-year-old boy as Christopher Paget had found him.
Carlo turned to her. To Terri, his face looked suddenly older. ‘I want to go to the hearing,’ Carlo said at last. ‘To be with them. But I’ve been afraid to ask.’
Surprised, Terri felt she had exceeded her limits, searched for the temporizing question. ‘What about school?’
‘They’re my father and mother, and she’s on trial for murder. That’s a little more important than school.’ His voice became intent, persuasive. ‘I wouldn’t find out any more by being there than anyone else who’s there, and isn’t even in this family. But it would mean I’m there for her, instead of hiding out in school. What either of them tells me about their lives is up to them.’
Terri watched him, suddenly sure that – at this moment – Christopher Paget would be proud of his son. And, Terri hoped, could also manage to be somewhat proud of himself.
‘All you can do,’ she said simply, ‘is ask him. Silence isn’t fair to either one of you.’
Carlo considered that. ‘He’s just so sure he’s right, sometimes.’
Beneath Carlo’s plaint, Terri felt the tension in Paget that was making him seem peremptory, even to her. But she could not tell Carlo about Paget’s fears that Sharpe would find the second tape; or the days in which Johnny Moore had not found a single witness; or the nights Paget spent trying to find a way to cross-examine Monk and Shelton; or the mock courtroom session in which Paget had torn Mary’s testimony apart until her eyes blazed with anger; or the endless pressure of trying to give interviews that would do more good than harm.
‘That’s just how it looks,’ she finally answered. ‘You know the strain he’s under. In a week, we’re going to court.’
‘I know.’ Carlo shifted from one foot to another. ‘But this case seems to be changing him.’
‘How so?’
‘He’s got a really short fuse with me.’ Carlo hesitated. ‘I think part of it is my mother. He never really says anything. But somehow I don’t think he’s very fair to her. Really, I don’t know why he ever wanted to defend her.’
How, Terri wondered, to be fair to Christopher Paget and still conceal the facts? It made her appreciate the painful intersection of Paget’s lawyering for Mary with his parenting of Carlo, in which the truth could not be spoken. ‘It’s easy to misread your dad – especially when he spends more time looking out for other people than caring how he looks to them.’ Terri paused. ‘But there are two things that I’m sure of. The first is that he desperately wants to win this case. The second is that he loves you very much.’
‘I love him too, and I respect him a lot.’ Carlo paused, as if to say more, and then chose to end with a throwaway line. ‘I just don’t want it to go to his head.’
Terri watched him, realizing that Carlo had said all he cared to say. She decided to join his attempt at levity. ‘It won’t go to his head. Not with Elena deflating him. I can imagine her out on the deck, saying “No dry hamburgers” like a talking parrot. Your poor father.’
Carlo smiled back. ‘You’d better go save him. I’ll clean up the blocks to preserve his sense of order.’
When Terri came to the deck, she was surprised to find Elena sitting on Paget’s lap, alternately monitoring the hamburgers and gazing out at the bay, blue-gray with failing light.
Standing behind them, Terri decided that the backs of their heads made a nice picture: Elena’s straight brown hair next to the copper waves at the edge of Paget’s collar. They did not see or hear her.
‘What do you do at home?’ Paget was asking.
Elena thought. ‘Play,’ she announced. ‘With toys. Sometimes Daddy’s there and Mommy’s not. On vacation days from school.’
‘You go to school?’
‘Course. Mommy takes me to Explorer Preschool. It’s good except for Janie.’
Paget turned to her. ‘What’s Janie’s problem?’
‘She pulls my hair.’ Elena’s voice turned indignant. ‘The teacher made her take two time-outs the other day.
Two
.’
Paget smiled. ‘Bad day for Janie.’
‘Bad day for the
teacher
, you mean. She said she had a headache.’ Elena paused. ‘Sometimes Mommy gets headaches. Daddy says she worries too much.’
The two of them looked out at the bay. It was past five, and the sun had begun setting behind the Golden Gate; the bay was silver, the sailboats were flecks of white. ‘What
I
think,’ Paget said, ‘is that your mommy works very, very hard. Sometimes people who work hard get headaches.’
Elena considered that. ‘My mommy’s not home, always. But Daddy’s home.’
Paget seemed to reflect. ‘That’s because your mommy works with
me
,’ he answered, ‘so she can make money for food and clothes
and
your house. Sometimes that happens in families – one person takes care of everyone else.’
Elena looked at the hamburgers. ‘Mommy cooks dinner too.’
‘Then maybe sometime you and your dad can cook it for your mom.’ Paget smiled. ‘Because your mom is very nice, and both of you are lucky to have her.’
‘It’s true,’ Terri interrupted, smiling. ‘I
am
wonderful, and the whole wide world is lucky I was born.’
Paget turned, surprised. ‘I was going to cover that,’ he said. ‘But the hamburgers would have turned to carbon.’
‘Hi, Mommy,’ Elena said. ‘Chris says you’re nice.’
‘But I only say that behind her back,’ Paget told Elena. ‘It’s easier that way.’
Although Elena did not understand, she knew that Paget had made a joke and that she was included in the spirit of it. Elena smiled up at her mother, as if she were a third adult. ‘That’s right,’ she told Terri. ‘You’re nice. It’s easier that way.’
Terri laughed. ‘You know what’ll be nice, Elena? Dinner. But only if you go to the bathroom first. Better go ask Carlo where it is.’
Elena ran back down the hallway, happy to have a question to ask Carlo.
‘Thank you,’ Terri said to Paget.
‘For what?’
‘For telling Elena that her absentee mom is not so bad.’
Paget gazed at her. ‘Someone else,’ he said, ‘should be doing that job.’
Terri gazed past him, at the bay.
‘What I meant,’ Paget amended quietly, ‘is that sometimes it’s hard to speak for yourself. Especially in families.’
Terri turned to him. ‘Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about. If you have time after dinner, can Carlo watch Elena for a minute?’
‘Sure.’ Paget hesitated. ‘If it’s about going on TV, you don’t have to do that. Let Johnny keep digging for a witness. After all, it’s
his
job.’
Terri paused a moment; the hearing was so much on Paget’s mind that, much more than usual, he had begun projecting his thought onto others. ‘TV’s okay, really. But this isn’t about that.’