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It’s inevitable, this conversation, and I’m prepared. It’s a reoccurring line of questioning anytime we’re in the car together, which at this stage of life seems to be a lot. They want to know about the perp I am trying to catch. They want details on the case, or cases, I am working on.
More often than not, I offer them a made-up version, sometimes, but not always with a sliver of the truth. This allows me to insert my message, usually as a life lesson, into the cracks.Don’t talk to strangers. Stay away from dark alleys. Keep your friends close, enemies closer.That sort of thing.
On one hand, I’m glad they’re interested in my work as a private investigator. On the other, they’re getting to the age where my omissions are becoming more and more apparent. Not that this is inherently bad. I want them to ask good questions. I want them to understand when they’re being deceived. At the same time, I’m not sure I’m ready yet to let them know just what a scary place this world can be. Innocence is a beautiful thing, a thing that, once taken, cannot be handed back. And they’ve had enough taken as it is.
“Dad!” Kelsey screeches. “You promised.”
“Dad.” I feel Nick’s eyes burning holes in my back. “You did say.”
“Okay, okay, fine. Well, it’s not a badguy. It’s a badgirl. At least that’s what the police suspect.”
“Girls can’t be bad,” Kelsey says, her nose scrunched, eyes narrowed.
“Pffft,” Nick scoffs.
“I mean they can’t kill anyone.” The way she says it, I can tell exactly the point, somewhere around midsentence, where she starts to question her own logic.
“You’re such a child,” Nick says.
“They can’t! Right, Daddy?”
“Tell her,” Nick insists.
“Darling, I assure you, they can.”
“Is that what Uncle Max said?” Nick inquires. “That it was a woman?”
“He suspects it is, yes. But he doesn’t know for sure. That’s why he asked me to help.” This isn’t entirely true. Max is not actually my brother, and he didn’t ask for my help. Max works for the police department. As a favor and because he’s my friend, he feeds me information. Leaking crime scene photos and information central to an investigation is not only unethical, it’s illegal. But if it catches a murderer before he or she kills again, does it matter?
Probably. But that’s a problem for another day.
The chatter settles and the questions fade as I pull into the parking lot of their favorite pizza place. Every Wednesday is my night, according to the most recent court order. After the therapy session, we come here to Pike’s to unwind and to enjoy the combination of mediocre pizza and overpriced arcade games.
They could never get their mother in a place like this, so it’s a treat for all of us. Not to sound bitter. I may not like Bethany, but there’s a part of me that still loves her. Beth’s the type of person who’s easy not to like, but hard to hate. It doesn’t help that I see her for exactly who she is, the way one does when love and shared history erases the rest.
People contain a multitude of layers, and while my ex-wife may put up a hard front, deep down there’s more to it than that. Bethany is not a bad person, she’s just broken.
If she were going to move on and split our family in two, I would have preferred that she were at least happy about it. And that’s the crux. I don’t know what she thought she’d find—greener grass, perhaps—but clearly that is not the reality. That’s why she hates me so much, and that’s why she continues to blame me even though her life is the result of the choices she made. Except, of course, for the one thing, which was my fault, and it unraveled everything.
* * *
After I order the pizzas,the kids grab a table, and I feed dollars into the change machine. As my plastic cup fills with coins, the therapy session replays in my mind.
Once the children had been sent out into the waiting room to work on homework, I was met with a combined look of pity and disdain on the women’s faces. Bethany started in with her hemming and hawing immediately, and the therapist followed right along. The sound of disbelief was obvious in her voice, and the rigid set of her shoulders made her feelings known. It mattered not that I’d explained the situation forward and backward. That I hadn’t meant to be late had little effect.
Apparently, a traffic citation is not the same thing as a get out of jail free card nor did it work to my advantage. Instead of making it appear that I truly cared and hence drove like a bat out of hell to make the appointment on time, my tardiness had the opposite effect, making me appear reckless and ostentatious. This is why I will never understand women.
“You always did lose track of time,” Bethany remarked. “But this time is different, Ethan. As far as I’m concerned, this is the final straw.” She paused to look at the therapist for comfort or approval. “The kids were depending on you to be here. And once again you’ve let them down. You’ve let us all down.”
“I can’t control traffic.”
“Come on,” Beth huffed. “This isn’t about traffic and you know it.”
“What is it about?” the therapist asked, glancing from me to Bethany and back.
“It’s about the fact that he can’t move on and he’s punishing me.”
“That’s not true,” I lied.
