I waited.
"I was just hoping," he started. "I don't know what I was hoping."
"What did you find, Garret?" Julia asked, kindly but firmly.
"A cat," he said, looking up at her.
"A cat," I repeated, intuiting the rest, but hoping I was wrong.
"I was on my way to the stream." He looked at me. "There's a stream in the woods, way in back of the guest cottage. I go there sometimes, to think. So does Billy. And I found this cat."
"Dead," I said.
Garret nodded.
Julia's face fell. I instinctively reached for her hand again, but she quickly pulled it away, flashing me a look that reminded me to keep our intimacies under wraps.
"Maybe it just died," Garret said. "I mean, you never know."
"Sometimes you do," I said.
"I'm glad you told us," Julia said. "Thank you."
"Sorry," he said, more to me than his mother.
I shook my head. "Nothing to apologize for," I said, giving him the best smile I could muster. "You did the right thing. We didn't get Billy out of prison to watch him get himself put back in."
The door to Billy's bedroom was closed. I knocked. No response. "It's Frank," I said. Still, nothing. I gently tried the door. Locked. "Billy, let me in," I said. A few seconds passed, then the springs of his mattress creaked. A few seconds later the door opened-a little.
"What?" he said, without looking at me.
"Got a couple minutes?" I asked.
He turned around and headed back toward his bed. But he left the door open.
I walked into his room. He was seated on the edge of his bed, arms crossed, rocking slowly back and forth. "This is so unfair," he said bitterly.
I sat down next to him. "I think it is fair," I said.
He stopped rocking and looked at me as if I were betraying him.
"I don't think there's any way for the Sandersons to get inside your head and figure out why you were staring at their daughter," I said.
He looked down.
"And I think you went way beyond defending Jason," I said. "I think you exploded."
He shook his head, swallowed hard, as if he was about to cry again.
I put a hand on his shoulder. "You blacked out. It's lucky you didn't kill one of them."
"What do we do?" he asked, holding back his tears.
I felt as though he had opened the door the rest of the way. "I want to talk with a friend of mine who runs a place called the Riggs Center."
"A fucking psych ward again?" he said.
"It's not a psych ward. It's a place, like a retreat, out in western Mass. "
"Oh, sorry," he said. "My mistake. A funny farm."
"The medical director is a personal friend. He…"
"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Leave me alone."
I hadn't planned to bring up the cat Garret had found, but I needed to convince Billy to help himself, without destroying all hope for a relationship between the boys. "I found a cat in back of the guest cottage," I lied. "On the way to the stream?"
Billy looked at me, blinking nervously.
"A dead cat," I said.
The blinking stopped. "And?" he said.
"And that worries me, too," I said. "It should worry you."
"Why?" he said. "You think I killed it?"
I didn't respond, which Billy and I both understood to be my answer.
Something went out of Billy's eyes, something I hadn't fully seen until it was gone-his faith in me. What I couldn't know was whether it was anything more than the faith of a sociopath who had counted on me never to break ranks with him. He stood up. "Leave," he said, obviously trying to control himself. His hands balled up into fists.
"Billy-"
"Please," he said, the muscles in his arms twitching.
I stood up. "Think about what I suggested," I said. "It's the right thing to do." I walked past him and out of his room.
When I went to sleep, just before 3:00 A.M., lights were still burning in the main house. At 3:45 a.m. someone knocked on my front door. For some reason I assumed it would be Julia, up worrying about Billy, wanting to talk things through. I pulled myself out of bed, pulled on my jeans, and went to let her in. But when I looked through the glass door, I saw Billy standing there. For the first time, seeing him made me picture where my Browning Baby handgun was tucked away-in the nightstand drawer. I opened the door.
"I didn't want this to wait until the morning," he said, sounding apologetic.
"It is morning," I said with a wink.
"Right," he said. "I guess it is."
I thought about inviting him in, but thought again. "What's up?"
He looked straight at me. "I didn't kill any cat."
"Okay…" I said.
"But I'll go to that Riggs place."
I nodded. One step at a time, I thought to myself. Part of me was glad Billy was at least shamed enough by destroying a defenseless animal to deny having done it. If he went through with treatment, he could take the step of admitting what he had done later. "What changed your mind?"
"Garret."
"Garret?" I said.
"We talked-really talked-for the first time," Billy said. "About being adopted and living with Darwin and the beatings and everything. How I got the worst of it." He shrugged. "Garret feels like he let me down."
Maybe it had taken another crisis to start another phase of healing for the Bishops-this one a healing of the divide between Garret and Billy. "I'm glad for you," I said. "Both of you. It would be wonderful if you ended up being close."
"I told him what you wanted me to do, and he said I should do it. He asked me to do it. For him."
I would have preferred Billy fully accept that he needed help. But I wasn't going to turn down the gift from Garret. "I'll set it up," I said.
"Good," he said. He looked away, then back at me, almost shyly.
"What?" I asked.
"Would you take me there? To Riggs?" he said. "You know the doctor who runs it. If you were hanging out nearby, he might let you visit me during the first week or two."
"Sure," I said.
"That was Garret's idea, too. So if it's asking too much, or…"
"It's a great idea," I said.
Monday, July 22, 2002
By 9:30 a.m., Ed Shapiro had cleared Billy for a July 25 admission to Riggs, cutting the usual four-month waiting list to four days. It pays to have friends in quiet places.
Garret and Billy actually took a turn making breakfast for Julia, Candace, and me, whipping up waffles and sliced fruit like the pros do. I had to remind myself again of Billy's pathology in order to see past the goodwill filling the house to all the hard work it would take to keep Billy safe.
We planned to charter a sailboat and spend a lazy day together as a family. I stopped back at the cottage to grab a few things. A large manila envelope was sitting in the woven straw basket that hung next to my door. I picked it up and saw that it had been sent by Dr. Laura Mossberg from Payne Whitney, postmarked July 18.1 figured she had finally sent along one of the old medical records on Billy I had asked her for.
I opened the envelope on my way into the cottage, then sat down on the couch to read the cover letter:
Dr. Clevenger:
Herewith, records of urologic care rendered Mr. Darwin Bishop, which only reached my desk today. I would normally be prohibited from sharing these materials with you, but your visit to the unit was preceded by Mr. and Mrs. Bishop signing our standard (and blanket) release covering all family medical records at Cornell Medical Center/Payne Whitney Clinic. I do not know if the enclosed materials would have had any bearing on your investigation.
Unfortunately, I have not received prior treatment records for Billy Bishop from other facilities.
I would be happy to hear from you in the future.
All good, Laura Mossberg
P.S. I have also enclosed a copy of I Don't Want to Talk About It, a very good book on men and trauma. I hope you won't take offense (and that you might even take the time to read it).