Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

The bearded man said, “Good save, K.J.”

Kion and Kembara laughed uncontrollably.

Kyle-Jacques scrunched his face, jumped around, stood still as if abruptly sedated.

The bearded man said, “Okay, tribe, time to learn some science-Julie, we doing the full tribe or is Bunny-Boo still reluctant?”

“I’ll check.” Julie disappeared around the van, appeared seconds later holding the hand of a little towheaded girl.

Four-year-old Kristina wore a white blouse, a pink chiffon tutu, and sparkly sandals that said she’d picked her own outfit. She rubbed her eyes, yawned.

Julie said, “Still sleepy, Boo? Want me to carry you?”

She began lifting Kristina. The child resisted. Julie backed off. Kristina whimpered.

Julie said, “It’ll be okay, Boo, you just woke up-wanna see the turtles?”

Head shake.

“How about the ducks-remember the ones with the funny red heads?”

Silence.

Kristina sat down on the dirt.

Kion said, “Here we go again. Drama.”

Kembara said, “ Always drama with Boo.”

Kyle-Jacques resumed shadowboxing.

Julie said, “Sam?”

Sam shrugged. “If she needs to rest …”

Julie said, “Okay, Boo, you can rest in the van, I’ll take you back.”

Kristina began toeing the dirt.

Sam said, “Okay, remainder-of-tribe, Julie will deal with Boo and we will proceed to learn about protozoans and other good stuff.”

Julie kneeled by Kristina. The little girl ignored her. Let out an abdominal grunt of protest.

A woman appeared from around the van. Tall, thin, in roomy gray sweats and a broad-brimmed straw hat that shielded her face, she walked over to Kristina, bent her knees, held out her hand.

Kristina shook her head. The woman in the hat swooped her up. Kristina molded to her. The woman said something. Kristina didn’t respond. Then she giggled. The woman tickled her chin lightly. Kissed her cheek. Turned Kristina’s face gently and kissed the other cheek, the tops of the child’s eyelids.

She rocked the child. Said something else. Kristina nodded.

Kembara sang out, “ Draaa -maaa!”

Still carrying Kristina, the woman in the hat walked to the older girl, kissed her the same way.

Kembara said, “Ugh,” but she looked pleased.

The woman in the hat had tilted her face so I could see her jawline.

Clean and defined to begin with, tightened by a broad smile.

She placed Kristina down on the ground, took the girl’s hand.

“Time for you to learn, too, Boo. You’ll love it.”

Kristina considered her options. Nodded.

The procession began.

I’d eavesdropped half turning from the van and its occupants, outwardly focused on canine toilet behavior.

Blanche obliged by taking care of business in her usual dainty manner, sniffing the dirt to find a perfect spot upon which to bestow her natural resources. Upon finishing, she kicked up some dust. One of the strategic implements I’d retrieved from the backseat was a plastic poop bag and I used it to good effect. The nearest trash basket was right on the way. Karma.

Swinging the bag conspicuously, I sped up and passed the group. The woman in the hat was carrying Kristina again. Julie wheeled the suitcase, Sam toted the plastic bag.

As I got several paces ahead, one of the boys, probably Kyle-Jacques, said, “Cool dog.”

Kembara said, “Looks like a gremlin.”

“It’s a bulldog,” said Sam. “They were bred to fight bulls but that was a long time ago, now they’re just pets.”

Kyle-Jacques said, “That one couldn’t fight nothing.”

“Anything,” said a new voice, adult, female.

Familiar. In another context, sultry. What I heard now was gentle, maternal instruction.

Kyle-Jacques said, “Yeah, whatever.”

Blanche and I reached the pond with time to spare.

A couple dozen ducks swam and splashed. Concentric rings on the surface of the water betrayed the presence of fish. Turtles the size of dinner plates lazed on the banks. An old pittosporum tree in the process of dying, it roots decaying slowly, leaned precariously toward the water. A queue of turtles lined its wizened trunk. Half a dozen glossy shells stationed as precisely as marines at roll call, heads and limbs retracted. Arrayed that way, the reptiles looked like exotic pods sprouting from the wood.

Two benches at the far end of the pond were shaded by sycamores and oak. I selected one, placed my backpack at my feet, lifted Blanche and set her down next to me. Checking out the world beyond the Seville’s passenger window, walking, and pooping had pretty much exhausted her. She snuggled up tight against my thigh, placed her knobby little head in my lap, fluttered her eyes, and began to snore.

I stroked her neck until her breathing grew rhythmic and slow. Sweet dreams, Gorgeous .

The group arrived at the pond just as I retrieved the other strategic object I’d stashed in the pack: the current issue of The International Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry . The lead article was a survey of pediatric responses to hospitalization. An area I’d studied years ago. I’d been meaning to get to it.

As I alternated between reading and peeking above the top of the magazine, the party of seven stopped at the turtle-clad tree branch. Sam pointed and lectured, motioned to Julie, who did the same. The kids-including little Kristina-paid attention. Kion and Kembara stood still. Kyle-Jacques was a little jumpier and he moved toward the old tree to reach for a turtle.

Julie held him off with a hand on his arm.

He asked her something. Julie drew him closer to the amphibians, pointed to some detail of the turtle’s shell.

Kyle-Jacque nodded, backed off.

Sam opened the wheeled suitcase, removed a blanket, and spread it on the dirt. Extricating a stereoscopic microscope, he carefully placed the instrument in the center of the fabric. The scope was joined, in turn, by a fishnet, a ladle, and a plastic vial. Then a small wooden box whose contents glinted when Sam popped the lid. He held something up to the light.

Glass specimen slides.

Julie said something. The older three kids removed their backpacks, laid them down, began unzipping. Kristina held on to the hand of the tall woman in the hat.

I thought: Time for the latest whiz-bang e-tablets.

Out came three spiral notebooks and marker pens.

Wrong, Smart Guy.

About so much.

As Julie lectured and pointed, Kion, Kembara, and Kyle-Jacques sat cross-legged on the bank, sketching and jotting notes. Sam walked to the pond’s edge, steered clear of the inert turtles, and ladled water. Transferring the green liquid to the vial, he capped it and brought it back to the microscope on the blanket.

It took several attempts to set up a slide bearing a water bubble. By the time Sam was finished, Kristina’s interest had been piqued and she’d pulled free from the tall woman in the hat, stood next to the teacher. Sam focused the microscope, narrowed the eyepieces to fit the little girl’s face.

She peered. Looked up beaming. Peered some more.

The woman in the hat said something. Kristina joined her sibs. Julie gave her a pad and a green crayon.

The woman walked a few paces away, stopped, called out, “You okay, now, Boo?”

Kristina ignored her.

“Boo, I’m going to sit down over there.” Pointing to the free bench. “Go, Mommy!”

I continued reading as the woman sat down a few feet away. Out of her purse came a book. Happiest Toddler on the Block .

She read. I read. She snuck a few peeks at Blanche, now awake and serene.

I’d canted the journal cover to offer a clear view of the title.

The woman had another go at her book. Looked at Blanche, again.