Family Honor

Chapter 3

“What was he like?” Julie said.

Behind Julie, the light was slanting into my loft from the South Boston waterfront. It came in through the big window at the east end, and splashed over my easel, making an elongated Ichabod Crane shadow on the floor. Just out of the shadow, in the warmest part of the sunlight, my bull terrier, Rosie, was lying on her back with her feet in the air and her head lolled over so she could keep an almond-shaped eye on our breakfast.

“Tall, cute little crow’s-feet around the eyes,” I said. “Great hair.”

“Nice?”

“A little impressed with himself.”

“But you liked him?”

“Not much,” I said.

Julie took a bite of her sesame seed bagel and a sip of her coffee.

“Money?”

“It would seem so. Huge house, servants, a croquet lawn, trap shooting, river view.”

“In South Natick?”

“There’s still land left there,” I said. “This is a very big property.”

Rosie got up and came over and sat the way bull terriers do with her tail balancing the back of her and her butt several inches from the ground. She looked steadily at me now, her narrow black eyes implacable in their desire for a bite. I broke off a piece of bagel and handed it to her.

“How about the wife?”

I had a mouthful of coffee and couldn’t answer so I just shook my head.

“We don’t like the wife,” Julie said.

I swallowed the coffee.

“No, we don’t,” I said. “Arrogant, impeccable, condescending.”

“God, I hate impeccable,” Julie said. “They get along?”

“Maybe not. I almost had the sense she was jealous of me.”

“Oh ho,” Julie said. “He seem interested in you?”

“He might have been.”

“Well, that’s not so bad. Tall, crinkly, rich, and interested.”

“And married.”

“That doesn’t have to be an obstacle,” Julie said.

“It is to you.”

“Well yes, but Michael and I get along,” Julie said. “And even if I wanted to cheat I’d have to get a babysitter.”

Julie was always eager for me to have an affair, I think, so she could hear about it afterward.

“How is life among the rug rats?” I said.

“Mikey has discovered that if he doesn’t eat I go crazy.”

“It’s good to have a resourceful kid.”

“The little bastard won’t eat anything but macaroni with butter on it.”

“So?”

“So it’s not balanced.”

“Oh hell,” I said. “People live quite well on a lot worse.”

“He needs protein and vegetables.”

“Maybe he sneaks some when you’re not looking. You’re the psychiatric social worker,” I said. “What would you say to someone about that?”

“That it’s one of the few areas where he can exercise control,” Julie said. “I can’t force him to eat.”

I nodded encouragingly.

“Like toilet training,” Julie said.

“Didn’t you have trouble toilet-training him?” I said.

“So what do I tell the pediatrician when she tells me he’s malnourished.”

“Tell her he’ll get over it,” I said.

“Oh sure. It’s easy... you haven’t got any children.”

“All I did was ask a couple of questions. Besides, I have Rosie.”

“Whom you spoil horrendously.”

“So?” I said. “Your point?”

Julie finished her sandwich. “I can’t wait,” she started.

And I finished for her, “Until you have kids!”

We both laughed.

“The mother’s curse,” Julie said. “How old is this girl you’re looking for?”

“Fifteen,” I said.

We were through breakfast and putting the dishes into the dishwasher.

“Pretty?”

“Come on down to the office,” I said, “I’ll show you her picture.”

The kitchen was in the middle of the loft. Behind it was my bedroom. The east end was where I painted. The west end was my office. Julie and I stood near my desk looking down at the picture of Millicent Patton. Rosie followed us and flopped down behind me. I knew she was annoyed. She never understood why I couldn’t just stay still near where she was sleeping.

“Well, at least she doesn’t have purple hair and a ring in her nose,” Julie said.

“At least not in the picture,” I said.

“If things are good at home,” Julie said, “kids don’t run away.”

“True,” I said. “But what defines bad at home will vary a lot from kid to kid.”

“So where will you start looking for this little girl?” Julie said.

“Do the easy things first,” I said. “Call the local police to see if they’ve picked up a juvenile that might be Millicent or found any unidentified bodies that might be Millicent.”

Julie shook her head as if to make the thought go away.

“Have you done that?”

“Yes. No one fits.”

“Good. Now what?”

“Where do young girls usually end up when they run away from home?”

“Prostitution,” Julie said.

I nodded.

“You say that to her parents?”

“No.”

“What if you find her and she doesn’t want to leave?”

“I’ll urge her,” I said.

“What if there’s a pimp?”

“There’s almost always a pimp,” I said.

“Maybe you should ask Richie to go with you.”

“I can’t do this work if I have to ask my ex-husband to protect me.”

In the quiet I could hear some of the trucks grinding along Congress Street in low gear as they hauled stuff to or from the new tunnel site.

“I have never understood why you do this work, anyway,” Julie said.

“I know,” I said.

“Maybe if you gave me a reasonable explanation...”

“It pays for my painting.”

“Shouldn’t the painting pay for itself?” Julie said.

“Day at a time,” I said. “It also pays for my MFA.”

“Which you’ve been pursuing since I was childless.”

“Night at a time,” I said.

“Sunny,” she said. “I’ve known you all my life and I don’t understand you.”

“At least you know it,” I said.

Julie looked at her watch.

“My God,” she said, “I’m late, late. I love you, babe, you know that.”

“I love you, too, Jule.”

We hugged. She left. I stared at Millicent’s picture for a while. Then I put Rosie in the car and went out to visit the Pinkett School.