| doing?” “How’s Nathaniel?” I repeat. “How the hell do you think he is? His mother’s been arrested for killing so meone!” I close my eyes. “Caleb, you need to listen to me. I’ll explain everything wh en I see you. Have you talked to the police?” “No-” “Don’t. Right now, I’m at the jail. They’re holding me here overnight, and I ‘m going to be arraigned tomorrow. There are tears coming. I need you to c all Fisher Carrington.” “Who?” “He’s a defense attorney. And he’s the only person who can get me out of thi s. I don’t care what you have to do, but get him to represent me.” “What am I supposed to tell Nathaniel?” I take a deep breath. “That I’m okay, and that I’ll be home tomorrow. Caleb is angry; I can hear it in his pause. “Why should I do this for you, aft er what you just did to us?” “If you want there to be an us.” I say, “you’d better do it.” After Caleb hangs up on me, I hold the phone to my ear, pretending he is stil l on the other end of the line. Then I replace the receiver, turn around, and look at the correctional officer who is waiting to take me to a cell. “I had to do it,” I explain. “He doesn’t understand. I can’t make him understand. Y ou would have done it, wouldn’t you? If it was your kid, wouldn’t you have do |
I pat my lap with one hand, and snap my fingers. “Dog,” I say, and as if I’ve cued it, our retriever comes r unning. Nathaniel’s lips curve as I shove the dog away. “No, Mason. Not now.” He t urns in a circle beneath the wrought-iron table, settles on my feet. A coo l October wind sends leaves parachuting our way-crimson and ocher and gold . They catch in Nathaniel’s hair, bookmark themselves in the pages of the sign language manual. Slowly, Nathaniel’s hands creep out from beneath his thighs. He points to hi mself, then extends his arms, palms upright. Curling his fingers in, he draws his hands close. I want. He pats his lap, tries to snap his fingers . “You want the dog?” I say. “You want Mason?” Nathaniel’s face goes several shades sunnier. He nods, his mouth gaping wide in a grin. This is his first whole sentence in nearly a week. At the sound of his name, the dog lifts his shaggy head and pokes his nose into Nathaniel’s belly. “Well, you asked for it!” I laugh. By the time Nath aniel has managed to push Mason away, his cheeks are flushed with pride. We have not learned much-the signs for want, and more, and drink, and dog. Bu t we have made a start. I reach for Nathaniel’s tiny hand, one I have fashioned into all the letters o f the American Sign Language alphabet this afternoon… although soft, smal l fingers don’t stay tangled |
