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He kissed her again, this time her forehead. She was a foot shorter and this portion of her face was a frequent landing spot for his lips. Her appearance was much the same as it had been when they’d met years ago … Her hair was now a bob, which had the curious effect of changing the shape of her face, emphasizing different angles. He liked her hair short, liked it long. She was beautiful to him and had always been. Always would be.
He was then aware that the accident had made him sentimental and he kickedthatemotion out the door.
“Lunch!” she called.
Seconds later, Martine and Brad descended the stairs like stunt-people. It was apparently a race, with older Brad beating Martineby a nose. Preteen fashion dictated hoodies, both light gray. And, of course, baggy shorts—plaid in Brad’s case, bright orange in his sister’s. She was always the bolder in fashion choices and had already—to Ron’s horror—wondered aloud if tattoos hurt.
The two children, both blond and dusted with Mom’s freckles, knew their mealtime tasks—pouring water and soda and milk and bringing out the serving dishes of cold cuts, potato chips, pickles, salad, sliced watermelon. Ron sat down in his customary chair, the one with arms. He didn’t do this because he was the head of the family. It was because it was the most uncomfortable chair of the dining set. He could buy a new one. Another thing he now had time to get around to.
They dished up, they ate, they talked.
Like, Donovan? Going to the Mets? And Boston. It’s going to suck … Totally. Can I go to the retreat? … Luis and Harvey’re going … Near West Point. They have a tour. There’s some military museum there. I’m tired of the flute … Morgan’s got a guitar. Her father bought her a Fender … Oh, where we went last summer, Lake George? … There’s this TikTok video … A cat … After dinner … The test? Yeah, it went okay …
The conversation jogged and flowed everywhere—except to the subject of why Dad would be staying home for a while. Children are ever curious and fiercely perceptive. Much of their life was their soccer teams, their virtual worlds, their hanging with friends, their texting—but they also had news feeds and forums and they were as conversant on the topic of their father’s suspension as anyone. Probably more than ninety percent of NYPD personnel.
And so, when the eating dwindled and plates were clean, Ron decided it was time.
“All right. Family meeting.”
A concept not regularly exercised in this household. His own father had convened get-togethers once or twice a year, and Ron and Tony, his twin brother, would sit down on the carpeted floorwhile their mother took her rocker and Dad would talk about downsizing and what a move to Queens from Brooklyn would mean or that Grandad Bill had passed or that the doctor had found something and he needed to be in the hospital for a while …
So Ron had understandably come to associate the idea of an official family conference with unhappiness and had never convened one.
Until now.
They moved to the living room.
He took an armchair so that Jenny couldn’t sit beside him, which, for some reason, he felt would magnify the gravity and upset the children more.
“You know a little about what’s going on. But I’m going to tell you everything.”
He explained to them about the crash, how he was going to be ticketed and maybe even charged for running a red light and hurting somebody. The person he’d hit was going to live. Because of the police department rules he had to take some time off.
He and their mother would make sure they’d be fine. This was just a temporary thing. Their lives would hardly change at all.
And there was no way to hide or buff it:
The drugs.
About which the children were, sadly, conversant, given the school’s health curriculum.
He’d explained about the sticky, potent nature of fentanyl. How he and their mother had never done anything recreationally except a little pot (tell them everything, just not too much of everything).
That part was a mistake. That part would get straightened out.
They nodded that they understood.
But did they wholly?
And, for that matter, how convincing could he be when he wasn’t sure that itwouldget straightened out?
The one part of everything that did not make it into the final version: that he might be arrested and go to jail.
A bridge to be crossed later, if required.
He asked if they had any questions.
Brad asked: “Are we going to have to move?”
