“I love my son,” she said quietly.
“I know you do.”
“I just wanted... want... what’s best for him.” Now she looked at him. “You left him to me. To my care. But he didn’t need a mother.”
“Of course he did.”
Her full lips turned into two tight lines. “That’s not what I mean. He needed you, a father, and you were too busy trying to get that stupid free clinic up and running for... for whoever... and didn’t give Richard the attention he needs.”
He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was soft. “You’re not wrong. I’m trying to make up for it now.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Better late than never?”
His voice came back, not soft: “Would it have been so hard for you to set up your precious art studio at home? And be with him? A boy like that needed us, not a nanny, not shrinks and ‘developmental’ experts. He’s not a genius, okay, but so what? I see him as a normal boy.”
She lowered her head and her eyes bore into him like a bull considering a matador. “And your idea of ‘normal’ is to put him in public school, with their ‘special education’ classes... our son, taking the ‘short bus’!” She shuddered, hugged her arms to herself, as if the fire wasn’t enough. “It’s just your lazy way of keeping him off your hands while you see your precious patients.”
“That’s how you look at me, is it? Tonight, for example. You really thought I was capable of staging, of faking, some threat to Richie just to buy some time in your father’s next legal assault on my son and me?”
She shook her head, sighing. “Why not? You’re capable of anything, Roy. You talk a good game, but really? The only thing you’ve ever thought of is yourself.”
“Just because I busted my ass working—”
Her eyes and nostrils flared. “Working to help who? Not us. You had to be some bleeding heart. Free clinic! You just did that to stick a finger in Daddy’s eye!”
Roy leaned across the cushion divide. “Wasn’t it bad enough that I lowered myself to taking a handout from your father—”
“Handout!” Her eyes showed white all round. “Running a damn clinic was a handout?”
“Putting me in charge, right out of medical school? Damn well told! So the least I could do was give something back—”
Her eyes narrowed now. “You didn’t have anything to give back that my family didn’t give you in the first place.”
She returned her eyes to the fire, arms still folded.
In every discussion like this, between a husband and wife, one of two things must happen: somebody walks out of the room; or somebody changes the subject. Roy decided to change the subject.
“If you’re going to stay here for a while,” he said, “you’ll need to have some things sent up from Atlanta. Till then, the bathroom near the south guest room has enough toiletries for you to get by.”
She shook her head, the blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders just a little. “Not necessary. I have an overnight bag in the car.”
He eyed her warily. “You were already figuring for an overnight stay?”
A shrug. “I didn’t know how long this... negotiation was going to take.”
He frowned, genuinely confused. “What negotiation?”
Another shrug. “Getting you to come to your senses and share custody.”
He huffed a laugh. “What did you have in mind, a seduction job?”
Her chin crinkled, but then irritation turned into amusement, despite herself.
“You wish.” She shifted on her couch cushion. “I think we’ve explored this thoroughly enough for now. I have a motel reservation to cancel. And we have a lot of talking to do, starting tomorrow. This isn’t over — it’s just beginning.”
“Hell,” he said, lifting a shoulder and setting it back down. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”
A voice between them, high-pitched but male, said, “Are you really staying, Mom?”
Peeking over the center of the couch from in back of them was the bright-eyed face of ten year-old Richard Ryan. That he looked so much like Helen’s father was a bitter irony they’d both long since gotten past.
“I’m staying,” she confirmed. “Have you been listening long, honey?”
“No. What’s a suh-duck-shun job?”
His parents looked at each other.
“If Spider-man’s over,” Roy said, ignoring the question, “you should get up to your room, and get yourself in bed.”
“Who’s gonna tuck me in? Maybe Mom?”
“Sure,” she said. “Go on up and brush your teeth and climb under the covers. I’ll be right up.”
Richie did neither of those things, instead scrambling around to plant himself between them on the couch. The boy looked at his mother like Christmas was coming, and soon. “If you’re staying? Can we go on the rides at the park? Maybe go on the pond in a boat? Can I row?”
“Well...” she started.
“Maybe the park in a few days,” Roy finished for her. “For now we have to stay inside.”
The boy frowned. “Because you’re sick?”
“What makes you think I’m sick, son?”
“You have the flu, don’t you?”
How long had the boy been listening?
“Well, I am sick...” Roy began.
“I’ll say,” Helen muttered.
“...but it’s not serious. We’re just going to stay in, here at the house, till we’re sure you and Mom haven’t caught this bug.”
“Like a quarantine,” the boy said.
His parents exchanged looks again — this kid, so under-estimated, came up with the damnedest words sometimes.
“Like that,” Roy said.
Richie frowned, curious. “Is that why those policemen are out walking around?”
“Uh, yeah. That’s right.”
The boy’s head tilted to one side. “Is that for keeping somebody from getting in? Or for us getting out?”
“They’re just protecting us.”
He winced in thought. “What about school?”
“I’ll let your principal know. You’ll do homework here.”
Richie jerked a thumb toward his mother. “Is Mom staying to be your nurse?”
She mouthed You wish at Roy, who said, “If we need her to. But mostly she’ll just be Mom. You two can catch up — you haven’t spent much time together lately.”
“I know!” Richie turned to her. “Can we play games?”
“Sure,” Helen said.
“Like Operation? I think it’s funny when the tweezers make it buzz.”
“Me, too,” Roy said. “But real operations aren’t so funny.”
“I know! You’re a real doctor. This is just pretend.”
“Right.”
“I’m going to be a doctor someday. I still have what you gave me! That old stethoscope.”
Another mouthful the kid managed, and remembered.
The boy was saying, “I’m gonna get it out and be your doctor, Dad!”
He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Why not? But for now, doctor’s orders are Richard Thomas Ryan needs to get himself to bed. Mom will be up soon.”
“And you, too?”
“Sure.”
The boy scrambled away and went up the stairs — slow and careful, as he’d been taught, then scrambling again when he reached the top.
“Why do you encourage him?” Helen asked. Suddenly she seemed on the verge of tears.
“What are you talking about?”
“Telling a boy like Richard he can be a doctor someday. What is wrong with you?”