stay as late as necessary, in the event Heather needed to put in a long
vigil at the hospital.
While Louie Silverman and Mae remained in the kitchen, Heather lowered
the sound on the television and told Toby what had happened. She sat
on the foot-stool, and after tossing the blankets aside, he perched on
the edge of the chair. She held his small hands in hers.
She didn’t share the grimmest details with him, in part because she
didn’t know all of them herself but also because an eight-year-old
could handle only so much. On the other hand, she couldn’t gloss over
the situation, either, because they were a police family.
They lived with the repressed expectation of JUSt such a disaster as
had struck that morning, and even a child had the need and the right to
know when his father had been seriously wounded.
“Can I go to the hospital with you?” Toby asked, holding more tightly
to her hands than he probably realized.
“It’s best for you to stay here right now, honey.”
“I’m not sick any more.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I feel good.”
“You don’t want to give your germs to your dad.”
“He’ll be all right, won’t he?”
She could give him only one answer even if she couldn’t be certain it
would prove to be correct. “Yes, baby, he’s going to be all right.”
His gaze was direct. He wanted the truth. Right at that moment he
seemed to be far older than eight. Maybe cops’ kids grew up faster
than others, faster than they should.
“You’re sure?” he said.
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“Where was he shot?”
“In the leg.”
Not a lie. It was one of the places he was shot. In the leg and two
hits in the torso, Crawford had said. Two hits in the torso. Jesus.
What did that mean? Take out a lung? Gutshot? The heart? At least
he hadn’t sustained head wounds. Tommy Fernandez had been shot in the
head, no chance.
She felt a sob of anguish rising in her, and she strained to force it
down, didn’t dare give voice to it, not in front of Toby.
“That’s not so bad, in the leg,” Toby said, but his lower lip was
trembling.
“What about the bad guy?”
“He’s dead.”
“Daddy got him?”
“Yes, he got him.”
“Good,” Toby said solemnly.
“Daddy did what was right, and now we have to do what’s right too, we
have to be strong. Okay?”
“Yeah.”
He was so small. It wasn’t fair to put such a weight on a boy so
small.
She said, “Daddy needs to know we’re okay, that we’re strong, so he
doesn’t have to worry about us and can concentrate on getting well.”
“Sure.”
“That’s my boy.” She squeezed his hands. “I’m real proud of you, do
you know that?”
Suddenly shy, he looked at the floor. “Well … I’m … I’m proud of
Daddy.”
“You should be, Toby. Your dad’s a hero.”
He nodded but couldn’t speak. His face was screwed up as he strained
to avoid tears.
“You be good for Mae.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“When?”
“As soon as I can.”
He sprang off the chair, into her arms, so fast and with such force he
almost knocked her off the stool. She hugged him fiercely. He was
shuddering as if with fever chills, though that stage of his illness
had passed almost two days ago. Heather squeezed her eyes shut, bit
down on her tongue almost hard enough to draw blood, being strong,
being strong even if, damn it, no one should ever have to be so
strong.
“Gotta go,” she said softly.
Toby pulled back from her.
She smiled at him, smoothed his tousled hair.
He settled into the armchair and propped his legs on the stool again.
She tucked the blankets around him, then turned the sound up on the
television once more.
Elmer Fudd trying to terminate Bugs Bunny. Cwazy wabbit. Boom-boom,
bang-bang, whapitta-whapittawhap, thud, clunk, hoo-ha, around and
around in perpetual pursuit.
In the kitchen, Heather hugged Mae Hong and whispered, “Don’t let him
watch any regular channels, where he might see a news brief.”