Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

“That’s okay.” Washing dishes gave her an excuse not to have to look him in the face. “I’ll take care of it.”

“No, honey,” he said, and gently nudged her aside. “I just need some wet paper towels.” She shrugged, stepped out of his way. He dipped a couple of sheets of paper towels in the running water, then used them to carefully pick up the broken pieces of glass. When he was finished, he rinsed the sink and dried his hands.

Then he said, “Can we talk?”

Her stomach dropped. Did he know something?

But then she noticed he was holding something small in his right hand.

She turned off the water, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned to look.

“What’s that?” she said. The thing he was holding was a short cylinder with a mouthpiece on it.

“Our son is vaping.”

“Like, smoking?”

“Marijuana.” Duncan looked like he was trying hard not to smile.

For an instant, Juliana felt an enormous sense of relief. Vaping? So Duncan didn’t know about Matías and Chicago? This wasn’t about that. This was a problem she could deal with. As he closed the door to the kitchen so Jake couldn’t overhear, she took in a deep, calming breath.

Duncan sat down at the kitchen table, and she sat down next to him.

“Was this what you were talking to him about tonight?”

“Yeah. He says he does it with friends, on the weekends, when they’re playing video games. He says he never gets high before school.”

“So you... You know, I wish we could have talked about this all together.”

Duncan nodded slowly. “I found the cartridge, the pen top, on the floor next to the washing machine, and I didn’t even think. I yelled for him, and we started talking. But I should have, you’re right.”

It was an old story. Her long hours at work often meant that Duncan played a kind of first responder to the kids.

“I don’t know what you said to him, but I really don’t want him smoking pot.”

“I don’t think we can stop him.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re not with him twenty-four seven. We have to be realistic about it. And, look, he’s self-medicating, that’s what’s really going on here. He does it to unwind, relax. He says he’s got all this anxiety about grades and getting into college and stuff, and this is how he copes. I mean, I smoke weed once in a while myself, right? I also take an SSRI. And you and I have our vodka martinis, our cosmos. I’m in no position to complain about his use of marijuana.”

On the counter she found a three-quarters-full bottle of pinot noir and uncorked it. She poured a glass for Duncan, took a sip, and handed it to him. “Dunc, how do we know it’s even safe for him?”

“Safe?”

“Given his — you know.” She didn’t even like saying it. “His health.”

Jake had been eleven when he noticed a lump on his neck. He’d been tired a lot. Juliana at first suspected something like strep throat, only his throat didn’t hurt. The doctor ordered a biopsy. They got the news a few days later: their son had Hodgkin lymphoma, stage 3.

The diagnosis hit them like a freight train. “Is it curable?” she asked the oncologist.

“Highly treatable,” the oncologist replied. They never said “cured.” No such thing. Juliana remembered feeling as if she were walking through fog. Her child had cancer; it was as plain and as horrible as that. They were now in a world of blood tests and chest X-rays and bone-marrow biopsies.

He was given three cycles of chemotherapy, a cocktail of drugs in an IV drip every two weeks that made him sick to his stomach. But it worked. He was in remission, the oncologist happily announced. “Thank God he’s cured,” Duncan said.

“Well, he’s in remission,” the doctor replied. “We don’t say ‘cured.’”

“Why not?” Duncan wanted to know.

“Relapse is always possible.”

“Jesus.”

“But most of the time the lymphoma stays in remission.”

Juliana, who had wept when she got the diagnosis, wept again at the good news. But life was never the same. Whenever he got a cold or a sore throat, whenever he complained about feeling tired, it was always there, like a shark’s fin in the water, the possibility of a relapse.

Now, she said, “There’s all kinds of reasons why he shouldn’t do this.”

“I don’t want him living like the boy in the bubble.”

“I just want him to stay well.”

“You think I don’t?”

“Of course not. But it’s illegal in Mass. Adults may possess and use marijuana. And he’s not an adult.”

Duncan nodded, shrugged.

She went on, “It’s like finding a fifth of vodka in his room. He shouldn’t be drinking booze either. The point is, he’s not allowed to use marijuana. First, because he’s still got a developing brain and it’s not good for him. Second, because we just don’t know if it’s safe, given his history. And third, I’m a judge, and I... I’m not going to let my son use weed as long as he’s living in our house.”

“As long as it’s not interfering with his schoolwork and he’s not getting high during school hours, it doesn’t bother me.”

“Well, it bothers me . And I think it is interfering with his schoolwork. Look at his grades. If he’s got anxiety, he should... I don’t know, do a sport. Row. Get back on the crew team.” She could feel herself falling back into the old patterns. They’d dealt with it in couples therapy. She sometimes tended to be... judgy . That was the word Duncan and Jake used. Which was perfectly appropriate for a judge, she thought. Whereas Duncan tended to be hands-off, easygoing, permissive. “How did you leave things with him?”

“I said I had to talk to you.”

“Okay,” Juliana said. “Because we obviously have a problem.”

Duncan carried his wineglass to the bedroom — he’d opened a new bottle and poured himself some more. He appeared to be a little tipsy. He laughed louder than usual. He was telling a story about his dean, a man he took keen pleasure in mocking. She listened, making grunts of agreement, laughing at the right places, not hearing what he was saying, thinking all the while of Matías and his threats, her mind racing. Meanwhile she got undressed, and so did he.

She was lost, thinking about Matías, and must have missed a cue, because he said, standing naked with his arms folded across his chest, “Earth to Jules?”

“Sorry,” she said. “Long day.”

He came up from behind her and put his arms around her. He kissed the back of her neck, the hollow at the clavicle.

“You know,” he said softly, “I was looking at you earlier when we were talking, and I couldn’t stop thinking what a beautiful woman you are.” She could feel his hot breath tickling her neck. He caressed her shoulders, his hands then moving down slowly along her arms and then brushing, gently but purposefully, against the sides of her breasts. She flushed, tasted something sour coming up from her stomach.

Then she gave him a kiss, quick and brisk. Turning him down, but gently. She thought of the trap she’d walked into and felt sick. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “I need to get to sleep.”

Being a judge was a kind of performance art, Juliana had often reflected. Every word you said was being recorded, so you had to be absolutely fair and make sure to sound that way. You had to act and talk with dignity. You had to look and sound engaged.

You wore a costume: a black silk robe — actually 100 percent polyester and made by a company that provided caps and gowns to graduating seniors in high school and college. No one could see what you were wearing underneath the robe. At least she didn’t have to wear a white wig, as they still do in France and the UK. When she had first started as a judge, she walked out into the courtroom a number of times without her robe, forgot to put it on. On some level she disdained the formalities. But eventually she decided there was a purpose to the robe. It showed respect for the legal process. That was important.