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“Nope. Just lost some skin. They bounce back, that age.” She glanced at the kettle. He made good pasta.
“That’s a relief.” The kitchen was hot and six-foot-three-inch Graham Boyd rolled his sleeves up, showing strong arms, and two small scars of his own. He wore a watch with much of the gold plate worn off. His only jewelry was his wedding band, scratched and dull. Much like Bry
Graham opened cans of tomatoes. The Oxo’s sharp round blade split the lids decisively under his big hands. He turned down the flame. Onion was sizzling. “Tired?”
“Some.”
She’d left the house at five-thirty. That was well before the day tour started, but she’d wanted to follow up at a trailer park, the site of a domestic dispute the afternoon before. Nobody’d been arrested and the couple had ended up remorseful, tearful and hugging. But Bry
Nope, Bry
After the predawn start she was pla
Ten minutes later she was in the emergency room with her son.
She now puffed out her tan Sheriff’s Department uniform blouse. “I’m stinky.”
Graham consulted the triple shelves of cookbooks, about four dozen of them altogether. They were mostly A
“Ouch. I forgot the cheese,” Graham said, rummaging futilely in the pantry. “Can’t believe it.” He turned back to the pot, and his thumb and forefinger ground oregano into dust.
“How was your day?” she asked.
He told her about an irrigation system gone mad, turned on prematurely April first then cracking in a dozen places in the freeze that surprised nobody but the owner, who’d returned home to find his backyard had done a Katrina.
“You’re making headway.” She nodded at the tile.
“It’s coming along. So. The punishment fit the crime?”
She frowned.
“Joey. The skateboard.”
“Oh, I told him he’s off it for three days.”
Graham said nothing, concentrated on the sauce. Did that mean he thought she was too lenient? She said, “Well, maybe more. I said we’ll see.”
“They oughta outlaw those things,” he said. “Going down railings? Jumping in the air. It’s crazy.”
“He was just in the school yard. Those stairs there. The three stairs going down to the parking lot. All the kids do it, he said.”
“He has to wear that helmet. I see it here all the time.”
“That’s true. He’s going to. I talked to him about that too.”
Graham’s eyes followed the boy’s route to his room. “Maybe I should have a word with him. Guy-to-guy thing.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. I don’t want to overwhelm him. He got the message.”
Bry
“Thought I might.”
She nodded as she watched him roll meatballs with his large hands.
“Honey,” a voice called. “How’s our boy?”
“Hey, Mom.”
A
“Just a few scrapes, a few bruises.”
Graham said, “He was skateboarding down stairs.”
“Oh, my.”
“Three steps. Not ‘stairs.’” Bry
Graham asked A
“Oh, I’ve got stories.” But she told none of them.
“I’ll take him paintballing or something,” Graham suggested. “Cha
“That’d be a good idea.”
Graham ripped up lettuce with his hands. “Spaghetti okay, A
“Whatever you make’ll be lovely.” A
Bry
“I sealed it off with plastic. Took it down after I was done.”
He hesitated then rinsed them anyway.
“Can somebody take me over to Rita’s tonight?” A
“How’s she doing?” Bry
“Not good.” A
“I’ll take you,” she told her mother. “Sure. What time?”
“Sevenish.” A
The phone rang. Graham answered. “Hi, Tom. How’s it going?”
Bry
“The boss,” he whispered, offering the handset then turning back to di
“Tom?”
The sheriff asked about Joey. She thought he was going to lecture her about skateboards too but he didn’t. He was explaining about a situation up in Lake Mondac. She listened carefully, nodding.
“Need somebody to check it out. You’re closer than anybody else, Bry
“Eric?”
Graham lit a burner on the Kenmore stove. Blue sparks ascended.
“I’d rather it wasn’t him. You know how he gets.”
Graham stirred the pot. It was mostly the contents of cans but he still stirred like he was blending hand-diced ingredients. In the family room a man’s voice was replaced by Katie Couric’s. A
Bry
Which turned Graham’s head.
Dahl put on another deputy, Todd Jackson, who gave directions. Bry
She hung up. “Might be a problem up at Lake Mondac.” She looked at the beer. Didn’t drink any more.
“Aw, baby,” Graham said.
“I’m sorry. I feel obligated. I left work early because of Joey.”
“But Tom didn’t say that.”
She hesitated. “No, he didn’t. The thing is I’m closest.”
“I heard you mention Eric.”
“He’s a problem. I told you about him.”
Eric Munce read Soldier of Fortune magazine, wore a second gun on his ankle like he was in downtown Detroit and would go prowling around for meth labs when he should have been Breathalyzing DUIs and encouraging kids to get home by 10 P.M.
From the doorway, A
“I guess I can take you,” Graham said.
Bry
Her husband paused, smiled then said, “It’ll keep. Anyway, with Joey being hurt, better to stay here, keep an eye on him.”
She said, “You guys eat. And leave the dishes. I’ll clean up when I get back. It’ll be a couple hours is all.”
“Okay,” Graham said. And everybody knew he’d clean up.
She pulled on her leather jacket, lighter weight than her Sheriff’s Department parka. “I’ll call when I get up there. Let you know when I’ll be back. Sorry about your game, Graham.”
“Bye,” he said, not looking back, as he eased the jackstraws of spaghetti into the boiling pot.