Damaged (6 page)

As Mary approached the O'Briens' house, she glanced around for any police cruisers, but there were none. So she had arrived before the cops, which was good because she wanted to meet Patrick. She reached the O'Briens' and climbed up the front steps, glancing over at the concrete patio, which was completely empty of anything, like children's toys or bikes. She went to the front door and rang the buzzer.

The door was opened by Edward. “Mary, come in,” he said, motioning her inside. “Patrick is upstairs.”

“Thanks. What a nice home you have.” Mary stepped inside, glancing around the small living room, which was neatly furnished with a mint-green padded couch under a long wall mirror, across from a wood coffee table that held a newspaper and some pencils, an older television on a table. It was somewhat dark, owing to the fact that an air conditioner filled one of the windows, but it must've been set on low because it was warm inside. Again, the room was devoid of any children's toys.

“Thank you. My wife and I bought it in the eighties.” Edward shut the door behind her.

“Where does Patrick keep his toys and things? Where does he do his drawing?”

“Upstairs in his room. I don't like clutter.”

“I'd like to see that later, if I may.”

“Sure, right.” Edward glanced over her shoulder, with a slight frown. “While Patrick is upstairs, I need to tell you what the pediatrician said. Patrick was listening when I called you, that's why I couldn't tell you before.”

“Okay, what?”

“She said Patrick is healing nicely and he has no broken bones, or even cracked. She said he was lucky, he could have broken his orbital bone. That's the bone that goes around your eye sockets.” Edward demonstrated by touching his gaunt cheekbone with a gnarled index finger.

“What did she say about the cause of the injury?”

“She couldn't tell how it happened. It was too late. She said it was a bruise that could've happened by Patrick hitting his face on a desk or by getting hit in the face.”

“Understood.” Mary had expected that would be the result, which put them back at square one, a credibility contest.

“I know that's not good for our case. I'm sorry I didn't take him in when it happened. I should have.” Edward's frown deepened, but Mary patted him on the arm.

“Don't worry, you did fine. What did you tell Patrick about today?”

“What you told me to say, that a policeman was going to come and ask him a few questions about what happened in school.”

“Was he nervous?”

“A little, but okay.” Edward glanced over his shoulder again. “Should I tell him to come down?”

“Yes, please. I'd like to talk with him before the cops get here.”

“Okay.” Edward called upstairs. “Patrick, can you come down, please?”

“Coming!” Patrick called back, and in the next moment, a little shadow appeared at the top of the stairs, an adorably undersized silhouette.

Edward called out, “Patrick, come meet this nice lady! Her name is Mary!”

“Hi, Patrick!” Mary called up to him, smiling, but he didn't make eye contact with her or his grandfather, concentrating mightily on his feet as he bopped down the stairs, dragging his fingers along the wall. He had on a faded Phillies T-shirt that was too big for his frame, with plain gray gym shorts and oversized white tube socks that wrinkled like an accordion at the top of his no-name black sneakers.

When Patrick came into the light, Mary could see his features more clearly. He had very short reddish-brown hair and an inch-long fringe of bangs that framed a long, thin face, like his grandfather's. His ears stuck out and his two front teeth were oversized. Freckles dotted his longish nose, his eyes were set close together, and his right cheek bore the faint yellowish traces of a bruise, which got Mary's blood boiling all over again.

Patrick reached the ground floor, still without looking up, and Edward placed a hand on the boy's knobby shoulder. “Patrick, say hello to Mary.”

“Hi,” Patrick answered. He kept his face tilted down.

Edward frowned. “Patrick, you have better manners than that. Say hello to our guest—”

“No, that's okay,” Mary interrupted, not wanting to press him. She looked up at Edward. “Why don't we all sit down?”

“Right.” Edward motioned to the couch. “Can I get you something to drink, Mary? Some water?”

“No thanks.” Mary sat down in the chair, sensing Edward looked more tired than earlier this morning. He moved slower, vaguely ill at ease, undoubtedly due to the stress of the day.

“Patrick. Go sit down.” Edward prodded Patrick with a hand in his skinny little back, then sat down on the couch. “Mary wants to talk to you.”

Patrick walked around the coffee table and sat in the middle of the couch. He still wasn't looking up, but Mary understood.

“Patrick, I want to tell you what's happening, so you'll understand. Your grandfather told me how smart you are, and I can see that, just from looking at you.”

“Thank you,” Patrick said politely, but still looking down.

“The police are going to come here and talk to you, but that doesn't mean you did anything wrong. They'll be wearing uniforms, and I'm not sure if there is going to be one or two of them, and they're going to ask you about what happened at school. Do you understand?”

“Yes. They're
investigating
. Like on
Law & Order
.” Patrick looked up suddenly, and his brown eyes flashed with pride in himself, at knowing a correct answer.

“Right, exactly.” Mary smiled. “All you have to do is answer their questions and tell them the truth. Do you understand?”

Patrick nodded, sucking on his lower lip, which disappeared under his two front teeth, and Mary remembered that she had teeth like that when she was little, which they used to call buck teeth. Or at least the bullies did. Mary's nickname had been Bucky Beaver, a laugh riot.

“Patrick, if you don't understand anything the police ask you, you can ask them what they mean. Don't be afraid of them, they're here to help us and to understand what happened. Got it?”

Patrick nodded, still sucking away on his lip, and Mary wondered if it was a way of comforting himself, almost like a pacifier.

“It will be easy and it won't take very long.” Mary paused. “Do you have any questions you want to ask me?”

Patrick didn't reply but shook his head, in the exaggerated way that Mary had seen little kids do.

“If you think of anything you want to ask me, you can say so later.” Mary figured she had some time before the police arrived. “Your grandfather tells me you're very good at drawing.”

Patrick brightened and stopped sucking his lip.

“Do you like to draw?”

“Yes!”

“What do you like about it?”

“It's fun!” Patrick smiled for the first time, showing missing teeth on the upper deck.

“What do you like to draw?”

“Oh I draw a lot of things, I can draw anything!” Patrick's voice sounded a new note of excitement, and Mary followed his enthusiasm.

“Like what?”

“Like
everything
!”

“Where do you do your drawings?”

“In my room.” Patrick nodded in his exaggerated way.

“Would you like to show me your drawings, right now, while we're waiting?”

“Okay!” Patrick popped up from the couch like a jack-in-the-box and scampered around the coffee table to the steps.

“Great!” Mary rose, catching Edward's eye. She wanted to go upstairs alone with Patrick, but she didn't have to tell that twice to Edward, who looked just as happy to stay behind, sinking backwards into the couch.

“Patrick,” Edward said, calling after him. “Take Mary up to your room and show her your drawings. I'll call you when the police get here.”

Patrick was already climbing the steps two at a time, trailing his finger pads on the wall, and Mary ascended behind him, keeping pace. He turned left at the top of the stairwell and ran down a short hallway until he got to the last room on the left, and Mary followed him inside, where it was uncomfortably warm.

“This is my room!” Patrick shouted, making a megaphone of his hands in a comical way, and Mary found herself liking him. He had a bright little spirit, with a surprising sense of humor, though it was hard to reconcile with his gruesome drawings.

“This place is great!” Mary said, glancing around the tiny room, which was remarkably orderly, and she was guessing that was how Edward ran the household. On the right side was a single bed, which had been made, the sheets folded over and a plaid coverlet at its foot. Next to the bed was a bookshelf of plain wood, its shelves filled with transparent containers of crayons, markers, pens, and pencils, and only a few thin children's books, a bunch of wrinkled comics, and a white copy of the Bible, with Patrick's name stamped on the spine. Posters of Spider-Man, Superman, and Ant-Man covered the walls, and there was a window that held a white plastic fan, but no air conditioner. Underneath the window was a blue Little Tykes table, its tabletop blanketed with drawings.

“This is my headquarters!” Patrick scooted to the table and began arranging the drawings into piles.

“Very cool!” Mary tried to catch sight of the drawings as he shuffled them around.

“Which do you want to see first?” Patrick looked up at her, directly, his brown eyes alive with animation, and Mary could see that his demeanor had changed completely from downstairs. He was freer, happier, more talkative, and even more confident.

“What are my choices? It looks like you made three piles.”

“So this pile, the first one, is nature scenes, and the second pile is window scenes.” Patrick pointed out the window to the rowhouses across the street. “See? Those are new people that moved in, and I drew pictures of them with their moving van. It was
big
! And they had two cats. Two! One gray and one black and white.”

“I heard you like comic books.”

“That's
this
pile!
Bam!
” Patrick smacked his palm down on the third pile. The drawing on top was of a Transformer with shoulders like NFL shoulder pads, drawn in black Sharpie like the gruesome drawing had been.

“I want to see the third pile. I like comic books, too.”

“Which comic books?” Patrick looked up, interested, his head still thrown back.

“Betty and Veronica.” Mary didn't add that she was Betty. Every woman she knew was Betty. Or maybe Anne Murphy, from work, was Veronica.

“They're for girls.” Patrick rolled his eyes, goofing around.

“Probably.” Mary smiled, then glimpsed the bright red color from some bloody drawings at the bottom of the third pile. “What's that one? Is that blood?”

“Yes.” Patrick yanked out one drawing, which was of a boy, just like the one on the drawing Machiavelli had shown her. The boy was stabbing the air, and in the distance was a large male figure.

“What's that?” Mary asked, keeping her tone light.

“That's Knife Boy killing a bad guy.”

“Knife Boy?” Mary hid her concern. The drawing looked so much like the one Machiavelli had shown her, it could've come from the same series.

“Knife Boy is a superhero and he stabs bad guys with a knife, and sometimes he can turn himself
into
a knife.” Patrick spoke more rapidly, with growing excitement, and he shuffled the drawings to show her another one, a boy shaped like a bullet, flying through the air. “This is Bullet Boy and he's like a bullet that gets shot out of a gun but sometimes he
has
a gun. He can either
be
a gun or be a bullet, whenever he wants to be. He can do whatever he wants to, to fight the bad guys. Same with Fog Boy, he is a poison fog like a ghost but a hero. He's like a hero ghost. I make up lots of stories about him.”

“I see.” Mary kept her tone noncommittal to keep him talking. “Is he a good guy or a bad guy?”

“Oh, he's a good guy, definitely! My superheroes are good guys and they fight bad guys.” Patrick nodded, flipping through his drawings, and Mary could see him becoming absorbed in the fantasy world he had created, almost forgetting that she was there.

“And these are all superheroes that you invented?”

“Yes, and they are heroes like Spider-man and Superman and Iron Man and Ant-Man, he's my favorite because he's so funny and little and he can disappear
inside
pipes and motors and no one can see him, none of the bad guys.”

“Ant-Man sounds cool.” Mary guessed that Patrick identified with Ant-Man, probably the same way she identified with Betty.

“I love Ant-Man and Captain Merica, those are my favorites.”

Mary realized that Patrick meant Captain America, but didn't correct him. Children who had dyslexia sometimes missed the beginning and endings of words.

“Those are the Marvel heroes but I make my own heroes and I am going to put them in comic books and be a comic-book artist when I grow up—oh, look at
this
one!” Patrick yanked out one of the drawings from the middle of the pack, which showed a boy as round as a bowling ball, with a cartoony string fuse coming out of his head. “This is Bomb Boy!”

“Wow! What does he do?”

“He rolls himself into the bad guys and he blows them up! But he doesn't die, he never dies, he lives forever, he just keeps coming back and back to fight bad guys.”

“I see.” Mary eyed the drawing, then the other ones. “Who are the bad guys?”

“Just bad guys,” Patrick answered, as he looked at one drawing, then the next, lost in his imaginary world.

“Are they ever real people, in your life?”

“No, they're jus', like, they're evil terroris' or robbers or killers on
CSI
. They're just
bad
.”