Stranglehold. Part 15

She'd left it there for the time being.

She had Arthur to deal with. While the wound was fresh.

His bar was crowded. There was a country tune on the jukebox-something about the twentieth century being almost over. Almost over. Almost over. She saw him standing at the end of the bar saying something to Jake, his barman. Jake had been with him since the place opened and Lydia knew him and liked him. She also knew he was interested in her in a somewhat less than casual way. She'd caught his glances plenty of times.

Well, this would interest him too.

She walked over.

"I want to talk to you," she said. "Do you want it here or in the office?"

She knew what she looked like. She could barely contain her fury now that they were standing there face-to-face. He simply looked annoyed.

"G.o.d, Lydia. What now?"

"You want it here, then? Fine."

She was aware of Jake and of the customers on either side. It didn't matter a d.a.m.n to her what they heard.

"Look, I know I was late. I lost track of the time. I'm sorry, okay? It won't happen again."

"I'll just bet you lost track of the time! What were you doing that you lost track of the time, Arthur? What were you doing with my son?"

He looked at her. Really looked at her finally. And saw in her face what she needed him to see. She watched it dawn on him.

"My office," he muttered.

"No, I don't think so. I changed my mind. I decided I like it here. Or is Jake too sensitive to hear about you b.u.t.t-f.u.c.king our son!"

For a moment he looked as though she'd physically struck him. She saw Jake move away down the bar. Giving them s.p.a.ce, being discreet. But the men on either side of them had gone quiet.

"You're f.u.c.king crazy!"

There it was. The denial.

It wasn't as satisfying as it should have been. She couldn't read guilt on his face and she wanted guilt. Just anger and outrage.

He was too d.a.m.n good an actor.

She'd never known him.

It wasn't satisfying at all.

"I'm not crazy, Arthur. But you are, if you think you're ever going to see that boy alone again. I'm telling you-you'll never, never touch my child again, you perverted son of a b.i.t.c.h! You want to visit? You want your f.u.c.king visitation? You can have your visitation. You can come to the house and I'm going to be standing right there in the room with you to make sure you keep your G.o.dd.a.m.n hands off him, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and won't that be great fun for all three of us?"

"You can't do that."

"I can't? Watch me."

"Look, I never did anything to that boy. Has he said I did?"

Somehow he already seemed to know the answer to that one. She wondered how.

"He doesn't need to."

"Bulls.h.i.+t. He hasn't said a thing, has he? This is all some c.r.a.p you dreamed up because you're p.i.s.sed off over the divorce. If you wanted more money why didn't you just say you wanted more money? Why don't you just get the h.e.l.l out of here and leave me the h.e.l.l alone!"

"Glad to, Arthur. But you remember what I said. Never. Not once. Never again."

"I'll take you to f.u.c.king court, you crazy b.i.t.c.h!"

"Not if I take you first. You're a sick man, Arthur. You need help. I hope you get some. For Robert's sake."

She turned and walked away from him through the bar and out the door.

The cold air, at least, felt good.

Otherwise, furious or not, she felt surprisingly much like crying.

Robert lay in bed and thought, He promised me he wouldn't anymore but he did again anyway and every time he does he hurts me, like he doesn't care, Daddy doesn't care, like he just wants it I think there's something wrong with him, like it's crazy that he doesn't care if he hurts me or not, but if I tell he says he'll do to my mom what he did to that rabbit, and even though he was smiling he absolutely positively meant it, I know he did. I'm sure he did.

I can't tell. I can't make him stop.

I can't do anything right.

I wonder what I did to him.

I wonder what I did.

Fourteen.

Initial Responses

Bromberg was supposed to be the best in the area but that didn't mean she had to like him.

Or even think he was any good.

He sat behind his desk in the toy-cluttered room, wearing a cheap off-the-rack blue suit that made him look more like a balding, middle-aged bank teller than a child psychologist. The white s.h.i.+rt was imperfectly ironed and open at the collar. Patchy tufts of thick brown hair gave his neck an oddly mottled look. His gla.s.ses were bifocals. She could see the line.

Right now Plymouth seemed impossibly rural to her. Smalltown, USA. When she needed experts, G.o.ddammit!

But Owen Sansom said it had to be done today. At the moment she guessed the best in the area was the best she had.

"Your lawyer is aware of all this?" he said when she was finished.

"He's the one who told me to make the appointment. You and a proctologist. What we need is for you to talk to Robert and establish exactly what Arthur did and that Arthur was the one who did it. The proctologist he has to see for the obvious reasons."

"He won't speak to you about it?"

"No."

He frowned and sighed and leaned heavily across the desk.

"You know, he's not saying much to me either. We use a form of play-therapy here as you know and it usually opens them up after a while. A child gets relaxed, he normally starts speaking. But Robert's mostly been playing. Playing period. I got him to address how he feels about the stuttering and he's told me a nightmare or two now and then-though I honestly think he embellishes them-you know, makes up something he thinks might be interesting to just throw in there. Some fantasy. Unhelpful, to say the least. But nothing on soiling the bed and nothing on the diapering."

He got up and started pacing back and forth behind the desk. Tapping his chin with his fingertips. It was his professorial mode. He was going to make a speech now. She'd seen it before and it annoyed her.

"It does fit together, though," he said, "doesn't it. Certainly the nightmares, his generally nervous disposition, the clumsiness, the shyness. It would definitely account for the soiled bed and the position he takes when you try to diaper him. I haven't heard of child molestation leading directly to stuttering before but I suppose that kind of trauma could be a strong causal factor. I'm particularly interested in the clumsiness in light of this. It would be a form of punishment."

He turned to face her.

"To tell you the truth, I'd almost expected as much."

"What?"

"Well, it didn't strike me as whatsoever impossible."

"That Robert was being molested didn't strike you as impossible?"

"I'm afraid I thought it somewhat likely."

"And you didn't say something? You kept this ... this likelihood to yourself?"

She could easily strangle the man. Easily.

He sighed again. He seemed impatient with her.

"Mrs. Danse, child abuse is not the kind of thing one discusses lightly. Particularly not-and I must say this to you-with one of the child's potential abusers."

"Wait a minute," she said. "Let me get this right. I bring my son in to see you, with all these questions about his behavior, and you think that I might be responsible for abusing him?"

He shrugged. "It's been known to happen. The parent knows the child won't tell, threatens him perhaps. Then, in case it should somehow come to light, brings him to a therapist as a smoke screen. Using exactly the same argument you're using now. Why would I do this if I were the guilty party? Or perhaps there is an unconscious wish for the child to reveal the truth, a need to be punished that the parent feels, but he or she is unable to confess directly and hopes the child will do it for him or her. You must admit, Mrs. Danse, that even now, I only have your version of events. For all I know, you may still be the abuser. Though obviously I find that highly unlikely. But the key, of course, is Robert. It has always been Robert. Only the child himself can tell me with any degree of reliability."

The man was amazing. The supercilious little s.h.i.+t. It was clear he'd enjoyed his little speech. She wanted very much to walk out of the room and never have to lay eyes on him again.

But she needed him.

Much as she'd like to, there wasn't any point in alienating the man.

That could wait until later.

"When can you see him?"

He made a point of checking his calendar book, peering through the bottoms of his bifocals.

"I can see him at three-thirty tomorrow."

"It has to be today. It can't wait. My lawyer says today." He looked a bit annoyed with her. Good, she thought. Be annoyed. Just do it.

"I can slip him in at four-thirty," he said. Then he shook his head and sighed again. "I really wouldn't expect too much, though, if I were you."

"I won't," she said without irony.

For a while after seeing the proctologist they drove in silence, she not knowing what to say, Robert seeming lost in thought.

Dr. Hessler appeared to be a kind man and certainly he was good with Robert, rea.s.suring him right off the bat that nothing he was going to do would hurt him, then changing the subject immediately to whether or not they'd seen Jungle Book II yet of all things.

They hadn't seen it. As a matter of fact they'd tried twice already but had been turned away at packed houses. But the doctor had chosen wisely. Since the movie opened it was all the kids talked about. Robert listened, rapt, as the doctor described several scenes in detail-with surprisingly boyish enthusiasm for a man who had to be in his sixties-ushering him into his examining room and closing the door behind them.

Hessler's report was as expected.

But still it hurt her to hear it.

A dilated sphincter and soreness and irritation of the surrounding rectal tissue.

Consistent with a.n.a.l penetration.

a.n.a.l penetration. At age eight. G.o.d.

And yes, he'd go to court and swear to it.

They needed to know that. Owen Sansom had outlined the court process to her earlier in his office.

"I've already filed a complaint with the Superior Court to seek termination of all visitation rights which were granted by the divorce, on the basis of child abuse," he said. "You'll be seeing someone out at the house tonight who'll investigate. So you'd better prepare Robert for still more questions. How's he holding up?"

"He cried a little when I told him all we had to do today. I certainly can't blame him for not looking forward to it. He's doing all right I guess, under the circ.u.mstances."

Sansom looked somewhat disheveled. Like he'd been running his hands through his thinning hair all morning. There were spots on his gla.s.ses. The lapels of his jacket turned inward slightly as though he'd hung it on a chair the night before instead of in a closet.