Nora Roberts - Sacred Sins

“Ain’t it the truth?” With Ed’s help Ben managed to heft on his holster and the damaged jacket.

“You know, I just read this fascinating article about kidneys.”

“Save it,” Ben advised, and turned to Tess. “You going back to the clinic?”

“Yes, I left in the middle of a session.” It wasn’t until that moment that Tess fully realized she had put him ahead of a patient. “Speaking as a doctor, I’d advise you to go home and rest after you’ve filed your report. I’ll be home around six-thirty, and could probably be persuaded to pamper you.”

“Define pamper.”

Ignoring him, she turned to Ed. “Why don’t you come to dinner, Ed?”

Initially he looked perplexed by the invitation, then pleased. “Well, I-Thanks.”

“Ed’s not used to articulating to women. Come on over, Ed. Tess’ll fix you bean curds.” He stepped outside, grateful for the rush of cold air. His arm was no longer numb, but beginning to throb like a toothache. “Where are you parked?” He was already scanning the lot for the black and white.

“Just over there.”

“Walk the lady to her car, will you, Ed?” Taking her by the front of her coat, he kissed her hard. “Thanks for coming by.”

“You’re welcome.”

She waited until he’d started toward the Mustang before she turned with Ed. “You’ll look out for him?”

“Sure.”

Digging her keys out of her pocket, she nodded. “The man who stabbed Ben is dead?”

“Yeah.” He took the keys from her, and in a gesture she found sweet, unlocked the car himself. Tess looked at his face and saw, as clearly as if he’d spoken, who had fired the shot. Her values, the code she lived by, warred briefly with a new awareness. Putting a hand on his collar, she drew him down and kissed him. “Thanks for keeping him alive.” She got in the car, smiling up at him before she shut the door. “See you at dinner.”

Half in love with her himself, Ed walked back to his partner. “You don’t go to Thanksgiving dinner, you’re one dumb sonofabitch.”

Ben shook off grogginess as Ed slammed the car door. “What?”

“And you shouldn’t need her Uncle Joe to punch you in the ribs.” Ed started the engine with a roar.

“Ed, did you get a bad piece of granola?”

“You better start looking at what’s in front of your face, partner, before you end up tripping over the saw.”

“Saw? What saw?”

“Farmer’s sawing wood,” Ed began as he drove off the lot. “City slicker’s watching him. Dinner bell rings and the farmer starts moving but he trips over the saw. He just picks himself up and starts cutting wood again. Slicker asks him why he doesn’t go in to dinner and the farmer says, since he tripped over the saw, it’s no use going in. There won’t be anything left.”

Ben sat in silence for a full ten seconds. “That explains it. Why don’t you turn back around, we’ll go into the hospital and have them take a look at you?”

“The point is, if you fuck around when opportunity is staring you in the face, you miss it. You got a hell of a woman, Ben.”

“I think I know that.”

“Then you better be damn careful you don’t trip over the saw.”

It was just beginning to snow when Joey walked out of the back door. Knowing the storm door rattled, he pulled it carefully closed until it latched. He’d remembered to take his gloves, and had even pulled his blue ski cap over his head. Rather than changing to boots, he kept on his high tops. They were his favorite.

No one saw him leave.

His mother was in the den with his stepfather. He knew they’d been arguing about him, because their voices had been pitched low and had carried that thin, nervous tone their voices carried whenever they argued about him.

They didn’t think he knew.

His mother had roasted a turkey with all the trimmings. Throughout the meal she had chatted brightly, too brightly, about it being nice to have Thanksgiving with just the family. Donald had joked about leftovers and bragged about the pumpkin pie he’d baked himself. There’d been cranberry sauce and real butter and the little crescent rolls that popped up fluffy in the oven.

It had been the most miserable meal of Joey’s life.

His mother didn’t want him to have any problems. She wanted him to be happy, do well in school, and go out for basketball. Normal. That was the word Joey had heard her use in an urgent undertone to his stepfather. I just want him to be normal .

But he wasn’t. Joey guessed his stepfather sort of understood that, and that’s why they argued. He wasn’t normal. He was an alcoholic, just like his father.

His mother said his father was NO GOOD.

Joey understood that alcoholism was a disease. He understood addiction and that there was no cure, only a continuing period of recovery. He also understood that there were millions of alcoholics, and that it was possible to be one and live the normal life his mother wanted so badly for him. It took acceptance and effort and change. Sometimes he got tired of making the effort. If he told his mother he was tired, she would get upset.

He knew, too, that alcoholism could often be inherited. He’d inherited his from his father, the same way he’d inherited the NO GOOD.

The streets were quiet as he headed out of the nice, tidy neighborhood. Snowflakes fluttered in the beam of streetlights like the fairy dancers in storybooks he remembered his mother reading him years before. He could see the illumination in windows where people were eating their Thanksgiving meal or resting after the effort in front of the TV.

His father hadn’t come for him.

He hadn’t called.

Joey thought he understood why his father didn’t love him anymore. He didn’t like to be reminded about the drinking and the fighting and the bad times.

Dr. Court said his father’s disease hadn’t been Joey’s fault. But Joey figured if he’d gotten the sickness from his father, then maybe, somehow, his father had gotten the sickness from him.

He remembered lying in bed, knowing it was late, and hearing his father shout in that thick nasty voice he used when he’d been drinking a lot.

“All you think about is that kid. You never think about me. Everything changed after we had him.”

Then later he had heard his father cry, big, wet sobs which were somehow even worse than the temper.

“I’m sorry, Lois. I love you, I love you so much. It’s the pressure that makes me like this. Those bastards at work are always on my back. I’d tell them all to get fucked tomorrow, but Joey needs a new pair of shoes every time I turn around.”

Joey waited for a car to rumble past, then crossed the street and headed for the park. Snow was falling thickly now, a white curtain buffeted by the wind. The air whipped healthy pink into his cheeks.

Once he’d thought if he hadn’t needed new shoes, his father wouldn’t need to get drunk. Then he’d realized things would be easier on everyone if he just wasn’t there. So he’d run away when he’d been nine. It had been scary because he’d gotten lost and it had been dark and there’d been noises. The police had found him in a few hours, but to Joey it had seemed like days.

His mother had cried and his father had held him so tight. Everyone had made promises they had meant to keep. For a while things had been better. His father had gone to AA and his mother had laughed more. That was the Christmas Joey had gotten his two-wheeler and his father had spent hours running beside the bike with his hand hooked under the seat. He hadn’t let Joey fall, not even once.

But just before Easter his father had started coming home late again. Joey’s mother’s eyes had stayed red, and the laughter had stopped. One night Joey’s father had taken the turn into the driveway too wide and hadn’t seen the two-wheeler. His father had come in the house shouting. Joey had woken up to the swearing, the accusations. His father had wanted to get Joey out of bed and take him outside to show him what his negligence had done. His mother had blocked the way.