Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

She punched my chest, growled, rubbed her head against my shirt as if trying to grind her pain away.

“I should’ve known it was wrong when he came to get me and told me Chad didn’t look good. Didn’t look good! He was blue ! He was... I went in and found him lying there — just lying there, not moving. His color... it was... all... It was wrong! He never was the one to get up when they cried! It was wrong . It was wrong — I should have... I should have known from the beginning! I could have... I...”

“You couldn’t have,” I said. “No one could have known.”

“I’m the mother ! I should have!”

Tearing away from me, she kicked the fence, hard.

Kicked it again, even harder. Began slapping the boards with the flats of her hands.

She said, “Ohhh! Oh, God, oh!” and kept striking out.

Redwood dust rained down on her.

She gave out a wail that pierced the heat. Pushed herself up against the fence, as if trying to force herself through it.

I stood there, smelling oranges. Planning my words and my pauses and my silences.

When I got back to the car, Robin had filled the board with designs and was studying them. I got behind the wheel and she put them back in her folio.

“You’re drenched ,” she said, wiping sweat from my face. “Are you okay?”

“Hanging in. The heat.” I started the car.

“No progress?”

“Some. It’s going to be a marathon.”

“You’ll make it to the finish.”

“Thanks,” I said. Hanging a three-point turn, I drove away.

Halfway down the block I pulled over to the curb, jammed the transmission into PARK, leaned across the seat, and kissed her hard. She flung both arms around me and we held each other for a long time.

A loud “ahem” broke us apart.

We looked up and saw an old man watering his lawn with a dribbling hose. Watering and scowling and mumbling. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat with a ragged crown, shorts, rubber sandals. Bare-chested — his teats sagged like those of a woman wasted by famine. His upper arms were stringy and sunburnt. The hat shadowed a pouchy, sour face but couldn’t conceal his disgust.

Robin smiled at him.

He shook his head and the water from his hose arced and sprayed the sidewalk.

One of his hands gave a dismissive wave.

Robin stuck her head out the window and said, “Whatsamatter, don’t you approve of true love?”

“Goddam kids ,” he said, turning his back on us.

We drove away without thanking him.

Special thanks to Reuben Eagle, Allan Marder,

Yuki Novick, Michael Samet, Dennis Payne, and

Harry Weisman, M.D.