Penny Legend Page 5

  “Exclusively today, or like exclusively for months?”

  “Exclusively for months.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Marco.” I was getting a little itchy with stress hives, and it was starting to feel like anger, although I’m not great at anger so identifying it on the fly is dicey. “And it doesn’t matter.”

  “When does Marco get back?”

  “Next month sometime. I’m not exactly sure. It doesn’t matter. Did I say that already? It doesn’t matter.” I didn’t like his expression or his insistence that I talk about Marco. It wasn’t really his business. Well, unless he thought I belonged to him like a possession. Was this what it would be like to be married? Have someone questioning your phone calls and friendships? That wouldn’t go well for me. And yet I could put myself in Will’s shoes. If he’d gotten that phone call and the tables were turned I guess I’d be pretty jealous. And he had reason to be jealous because I still really liked Marco and I wasn’t sure I was forever-dedicated to Will.

  My stomach started to churn and I knew I’d need something to neutralize the coffee, which seemed to be taking an awfully long time to brew. I went to the freezer and pulled out some frozen bagels. They were precut but frozen solid so I pulled two out and started slamming one on the countertop hoping it would split. Will stomped back to the bedroom and I got out the big knife. For the bagel.

  I decided that morning was a good time to go on my second run. Maybe that’s why people take up running: to get out of the house when they’re married! It seemed plausible. The pain of running seemed less daunting in light of the uncomfortable situation at home.

  My second run was the same as my first—a minute run followed by a minute and a half walk—repeated eight times. It was a nice morning and there were a lot of runners out. There were runners with dogs, and solo runners, and couples. Running couples. People who wanted to spend more time together rather than less. I couldn’t imagine that I’d ever be a good enough runner to keep up with anyone but the fattest, most out of shape guy. Not one I would want to date.

  Will had once tried to get me to run with him but I was too shy about being slow and I didn’t want the extra pressure of knowing he was slowing down for me. I just wanted to stick with the nice lady on the app and do what she said. I tried to keep my head down. It was a good strategy to keep me from tripping on the uneven sidewalks anyway. But it seemed like everywhere I looked there were couples—couples holding hands, couples running, couples with babies.

  Babies. Will wanted babies. I wanted babies. But I wasn’t sure when I wanted babies or maybe I wasn’t sure if I wanted babies but I thought maybe I didn’t want them with Will right then. Or maybe I did and I was just scared. Or maybe I did and I just felt like it would be too self-indulgent to stop taking care of other people to take care of my own kids.

  I was completely out of breath by the third run-walk cycle, but knowing I’d done it once before helped and I kept going.

  I thought about the people I was trying to help. There was a young woman with an eating disorder, a middle-aged woman who had lost her husband, a guy going through a divorce, a guy with a gambling problem, a couple of people with drug addictions, a kid who was bullied a lot at school, a kid who had violent spurts, a depressed mother of three, and two women who were on welfare and trying to get back into the job market. That was only part of my week’s case load. Some of them truly wanted help. Some were referred for help and didn’t try at all. Any given day could easily tilt one way or the other so that I’d walk out feeling either like I was making a really positive difference in the world or like I was completely wasting my time. For every appointment there was a significant time investment in paperwork. I had to record everything about treatment plans, goals, clinical approaches. Because CCS was a private agency, we got a wide variety of clientele. I usually felt like I had the best luck with the children and teens. Maybe they were the most motivated to make changes or maybe I was just better at working with them. I’d had some great successes with adults, though, and I was fascinated by how some approaches worked well for some people but not others. I was always trying to figure out how to match the approach to the person with minimal trial and error.

  I was in the walking portion of my seventh round—almost back home—when I saw Will walk out of my building and head the other direction. He didn’t see me. Was he looking for me, or looking to get away before I got back? I checked my phone. No text. If he’d been looking for me I guessed he would have looked around and not just turned left with his head down. I didn’t think I could do the last run. My stomach churned.

  The app lady said to run and I ran. I wished the lady would tell me what to do about Will. I wished she would tell me how to keep Legend safe. I wished she would tell me if or when to get married, start a family. You know, there really isn’t an app for everything.

  After my shower I called Toryn and asked him to meet me for coffee. I took the T over to his south side neighborhood because I was too tired to walk. The breakfast rush was over, but the cafe was still full of conversation and clinking cups. The smell of cinnamon drew my attention to the bakery display, where gigantic coiled cinnamon buns waited, drizzled in icing, eager for a home. I got in line. Soon Toryn sauntered in and joined me. “Gonna do it?” he asked.

  “I think I am. Are you?”

  “I know I am.”

  “’Cause you don’t gain weight no matter what.”

  “I’m blessed in many ways,” he said and chortled.

  We took our coffee and cinnamon buns to a little table in back.

  “How’s Brent?” I asked.

  “You already know I’m in love,” he said. “He’s got to be the smartest, funniest, sweetest hottie alive. We love the same music, we eat the same things, we laugh at the same things.” He smiled at his cinnamon bun and took a bite. “You know, when other guys are at my place I’ve always enjoyed having them around for a while but then I’m ready for them to leave. But with Brent, well, I just want him to stay. It’s as if he belongs there and the place is empty without him.”

  “Dear God, you’ve got it bad.”

  “It’s terrifying.”

  “Totally.”

  “So how are you and Will doing? Is he still here?”

  “He is here and we’re doing terrible today.” I told him the story.

  “Ah, Marco. Yep, that would warrant a jealous reaction from most men!”

  “It isn’t like he’s seen Marco.”

  “No, but he saw your face. You’re pretty transparent when it comes to the Marco attraction. Totally understandable. He’s hotter than vinyl car seats on a hundred-degree day.”

  “He is.”

  We sipped our coffee and finished our cinnamon buns. I watched a toddler at a table nearby. Her mom was in constant motion picking up things off the floor, keeping drinks from spilling, and otherwise managing the little girl’s constant motion.

  “Here’s what you need to do,” Toryn said. “Apologize for the interruption to your Saturday morning and tell him that you didn’t understand how much it upset him. Tell him that Marco is just a friend and that you understand how he could be jealous and you’re sorry. Tell him you should have realized that it would be upsetting, but because Marco really is just a friend, you just weren’t in the headspace to see the problem. Your bad.”

  “Really? I need to apologize for everything? Should I apologize for even having friends?”

  “Turn it around, honey. You’re in his bed, a woman calls on Saturday morning. You never knew she existed, but he dated her last winter. His face lights up for the conversation. You can tell he’s managing his responses carefully and you get the impression she wants to get together. Does it make you a little insecure?”

  I fiddled with my coffee mug and thought about that. I wanted the answer to be no. If you’re married do you have to give up friends you once
dated? I would be down to like three friends!

  “Yeah,” I said, “I guess it would worry me a little.”

  “It doesn’t make you flawed, Penny. We’re programmed like that or something. So men know which babies they fathered or whatever. Even stupider that it applies to gay men too, but I do think we’re a little more flexible.” He smiled.

  Yes. My gay friends were definitely more flexible.

  “So you’ll make him dinner, or take him out or whatever, and apologize.”

  “I hope this isn’t the first of a lifetime of apologies for having friends.”

  “Try not to worry.” He put his mug on his plate and stood. “I’ve gotta go. Brent is taking me parasailing!”

  “Perfect. I can worry about your neck instead.”

  I didn’t handle the makeup with Will exactly the way Toryn told me to. He was at the apartment when I got home, sulking on the couch in front of the TV.

  “Sorry I blew up,” he said before I could launch into my apology. “It wasn’t the right thing to do.”

  “No. It wasn’t.” Ouch. This wasn’t sounding like an apology from me. I needed to apologize. I understood why. I really did. “I want to be able to have my friends—even if I dated them once upon a time.”

  He shifted more toward me on the couch and I sat down. It was time for me to say that I understood how the call had made him uncomfortable and that I would try to communicate better about things so we wouldn’t have misunderstandings.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t hear myself accepting his apology or making my own. I waited. A few things went through my head—how the couch was getting too squishy with age, how the afternoon light cast crooked rectangles of light on the floor, how the dust motes floating in that light would soon gather in communion, along with Ranger’s discarded fur, and morph into giant dust bunnies under the couch.

  I brought my mind and my gaze back to Will. He was too nice. That was the problem. It was like I almost turned into a bully in my thoughts when he was this nice. I wanted him to push back on me. I was wrong, right? Why was he apologizing? Why didn’t he tell me I was wrong and I didn’t handle it well and I should be more thoughtful? I took a deep breath because in that moment I understood. I didn’t know the solution, or whether there was one, but I understood the dynamic that was keeping me from making this right. And because I understood, I could watch and try to figure it out. And in the meantime I could patch it up because being uncomfortable wasn’t helping either of us.

  “Thanks for being so sweet about it, Will. I’m sorry I wasn’t clearer about the fact that Marco is no threat to you. I guess I knew that in my head and expected you to just know it too.”

  He moved toward me on the couch and opened his arms to hug me.

  “Hang on, let me hit the shower. I’m super sweaty from walking home.”

  He frowned a little and I relented and hugged him.

  “I hope I don’t stink,” I said. “Should we go stand in line at Giacomo’s after I clean up?”

  Conner was at my office first thing Monday morning and he didn’t have his charm turned on. He slammed two photos onto my desk.

  “When do you see the kid next?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Show him these. Have him tell you who shot James.”

  I just looked at him. I had a million things running through my head to start a fight—well, continue the fight he started—but we’d been there and it wasn’t that fun.

  “Tell me you’ll do it. I’ll make an appointment to see you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll try.” I meant it. If Legend was feeling okay maybe he’d be ready to get stuff off his chest. If not, he could just not tell me. At least he wouldn’t have Conner pressuring him.

  I had a stash of blankets and pillows ready, but when Legend came for his session, he went right to the window and tried to climb up on the sill.

  I pulled out the mini trampoline, unfolded the legs, and bounced on it a little.

  “Do you want to try? It’s fun.”

  He got on and bounced for a while, then hopped off and sat on the couch. He looked at me expectantly. I was ready. I had a basket of little dolls, dollhouse stuff, and various small toys. I pulled out the grown-up male and female dolls and a little kid doll and handed them to him, then pushed the basket over to him.

  I’d cleared all the fidget toys off the table before he came so there would be room to play. He looked at me and picked up the grown-up figures. He tossed the man down the table. He took some furniture out of the basket and started playing house with the mom and the child.

  I sat back to let him play the scene out, hoping he’d ignore me. I didn’t really understand everything about the story he was telling with the toys, but it looked pretty mundane from what I could tell. Eating, bouncing as they faced each other (talking?), sleeping and waking. Legend would fish into the basket and come out with additions to his scene—a little dog, more furniture, a car.

  I debated whether to ask some questions. I was getting bored.

  Then Legend drove the car down the table and right over the man. He drove it back, parked it, and kept on playing.

  I didn’t know who he called “daddy,” if anyone, so the questions that came to my mind didn’t really work.

  “You know if you want to talk, you could talk to just me and I wouldn’t tell anyone. You could stay quiet with other people if you want, and you could talk as little as you want. It would be safe with me—just between us.”

  He looked up and gave me a long blink. His lips parted just a little. He closed his mouth and his eyes filled with tears. I knew in that instant that he was afraid that if he started talking everything would spill out and he couldn’t risk that.

  He returned his attention to the toys and I let him play until our time was nearly out. I still had to do Conner’s bidding or risk Conner doing it himself.

  “Legend, I have a couple of pictures I want to show you. I think you’ll recognize these people.”

  I set the picture of Martel in front of him, then the picture of Tasha.

  “I showed him the photos,” I said before Conner could ask. “His face reacted to both of them, and why wouldn’t he? They’re both pretty freaky. You said Martel is crazy and I’ve met Tasha.”

  “Did you ask him who shot James—who shot him?”

  “I did, and he got up and hid behind the couch. Messed up all the progress I’d made.”

  “Shit, Penny. That doesn’t help.”

  “I told you it wouldn’t. Now, how about you do your job and I do mine?”

  “I’m doing my job.”

  “Well, I need you to stay out of mine.”

  “That’s not gonna happen. Does Desiree trust you?”

  “I doubt it—why would she?”

  “Because you’re looking out for Legend.”

  I shook my head slowly to be clear with him, but it was to no avail.

  “I want you to go visit Desiree without Legend,” he said. “Tell her you’re worried about Legend’s safety and need to know who the shooter is.”

  “If she thought Legend was in danger she would have already told us.”

  “Maybe. So tell her you’re worried about his mental health. It isn’t healthy keeping this bottled up, and his silence is lasting too long—affecting his life and his education.”

  “No.”

  “It isn’t really that kind of a request,” he said with his stern voice.

  I was learning not to be too scared of his tough act. “Oh? What kind of request is it?”

  “One you need to do.”

  “As in a command?”

  “As in stronger than a suggestion.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I may need to take Legend into protective custody for his own safety.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “The school says Legend’s failing.” Maggie called and launched in without a hello. “His teacher wants to meet tomorrow.”


  I sort of suspected why she was telling me this but I hoped I was wrong. The extra hours involved in supporting Legend’s care had put me more behind than usual on my paperwork and I was very aware that I was still on probation.

  “Okay…” I said.

  “I can’t go,” she said. “Darek has to go to the eye doctor and Jeremy doesn’t have school tomorrow.”

  “Well, I do have a lot of appointments scheduled.”

  “It’s at seven thirty a.m. Do you have appointments that early? The teacher’s name is Linda Horton.”

  I was at Legend’s school at 7:15 the next morning. No coffee, no breakfast, and a bit of nausea that was competing with a headache for my attention. Legend’s teacher was an older woman, who I thought might be due to retire. At least I hoped so.

  “He doesn’t talk,” she said, as if it were news.

  “I know,” I said, trying not to let my irritation show. “He’s been through a lot of trauma.”

  “Well, I can’t see into his brain to see if he’s learning, so if he doesn’t start to perform we’ll have to hold him back next year.”

  “But the year’s almost over. How has he done until now?”

  “He started to slip a few weeks back,” she said. “And our assessments are now. In second grade there’s only so much they can do written.”

  “Aren’t there some learning specialists who can help him?”

  “He hasn’t been qualified for special services,” she said.

  “So can you qualify him?”

  She chuckled. “It’s a process, Ms. Wade—a long process. It’s too late in the year now.”

  “He met with the school counselor,” I said. “Did she have any academic suggestions?”

  “That’s not her job.”

  I started getting hot. The classroom air seemed sick and oxygen deficient. “Are you telling me that you don’t have any solutions to suggest?” I noted my voice was getting louder. “Have you thought about what it would do to his self-esteem if he’s held back?”