Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (11 page)

 
``He really is a turd,’’ Brant said when Jolly’s face had been wiped from the screen. ``An absolute turd.’’

 
``But didn’t you hear him? No services will be compromised. We will continue to serve the good people of Boston with the professionalism and commitment they’ve come to expect.’’

 
Clatterback moved his hands in a calculated manner as he matched the measured tone of Jolly’s voice. Brant and Malloy rolled their eyes.

 
``I’m hungry and it’s getting close to dinner. Anyone care to go across the road and get food?’’ she asked.

 
Brant looked at his watch. He hadn’t realized the time. Ben’s daycare would be closing in forty-five minutes. Miss the pickup and he’d have to pay for the extended session again.

 
``Crap,’’ he said reflexively. ``I’ve got to pick up my son. You girls go have your fun. But don’t get too carried away.’’

 
``What about the leads?’’ Clatterback asked.

 
``It’s quitting time, Junior. The leads will be there tomorrow. Keep Junior here on a short leash will you,’’ he said to Malloy with a glint of mischief in his eye. ``I don’t think he’s been housebroken yet.’’

 
Malloy offered a half-hearted salute as Brant grabbed his car keys and made for the door.
 

 
A uniform had turned the television back on and was surfing up and down the channels. The CBS affiliate was showing a rerun of Murphy Brown. Over on NBC, the star local political reporter was doing a standup outside the John Adams Courthouse off Somerset Street. Rolling across the bottom of the screen, the ticker counted down to the opening pitch of the evening’s game between the Red Sox and the Kansas City Royals.
 

 
Brant was thoughtful for a moment. One thing about Boston. It sure loved its sports teams, regardless of how fleeting the romance.

Benjamin Brant looked a mirror image of his father as he sat at a corner table balancing blue and yellow blocks on top of each other, forming a skyscraper that wobbled and collapsed in on itself. The boy frowned at the result but said not a word. Instead, he began rebuilding from scratch, placing the blocks atop each other with greater precision than before.
 

  
``You stay here, Benji. I need to speak with your teacher.’’

   
They were sitting in Ben’s classroom, a cheerful place of half-sized desks and chairs arranged semicircular around a red and blue rug. Along one wall, storage areas had been allocated for each of the twenty or so children in the class. Each cubby hole had been designated with its owner’s name and a collection of pinned up paintings and drawings. Books, toys and soft-cushioned animals tumbled from every corner and crevice. It was a good place, Brant thought, ruefully remembering his own childhood and the soulless classrooms of his youth.

 
He fell into a child’s chair near the front of the room, his knees almost touching his chin, his back protesting with a dull throb of pain. Ben’s teacher sat opposite. She’d laid out a half dozen drawings and paintings on the table in front of them.

 
``I believe you spoke with Mrs. Growski yesterday,’’ the woman said. ``I thought it was time we met for a talk.’’

 
Brant rolled his eyes, fighting to avoid looking at his watch.
 

 
Her name was Mirriam Evans. She was a heavy-set woman about 40 with thick black hair and eyes as sharp as any he’d ever seen. Despite her size, she moved with precision and grace as she flitted about the classroom like a bird.
 

``I ask the children to draw a picture, anything they want,” she said as she pointed to the artwork on the table. “This is what Ben did. I thought you might find it interesting.”

Brant sorted through the paintings, which were crude but child-like. One in particular drew his attention, a montage of what appeared to be a half-finished house surrounded by lifeless trees and stick figures with a smudge of black in the lower left corner that he took to be an animal. In the sky, thick white clouds streaked with black hung menacingly over the scene.

“It’s a house and family,” Brant said, placing the painting to the side.

“Notice the colors?”

“Nothing wrong with black.”

Mirriam Evans drew her face into a tight frown and shook her head. “There’s a message here, Mr. Brant. We need to listen to what Ben’s saying.”

“Ben doesn’t say much of anything these days. Not since his mother died.”

``He’s telling us something here.’’ Evans tapped her knuckle on the table for emphasis.
 

Brant considered the paintings again as he scanned the room, taking in the artwork. At first glance, the difference was obvious. Where Ben’s drawings where spartan and drab, the others were a profusion of colors populated by an overflow of animals, insects and people. Hearts, stars, trees and rainbows burst forth from the drawings and paintings in an almost giddy sense of joy and free spirit.

“We do a little exercise,” Mirriam Evans said, drawing Brant’s attention back to Ben’s work. “The children are asked to draw what the future might be like. This is Ben’s.”

From an oversized portfolio, Evans produced a second painting which she placed on the table for Brant to examine. She regarded him with a narrow gaze. The painting was unremarkable, a smattering of the same stick figures as before joined by a few crudely drawn cars, airplanes and buses. A blue line at the top of the painting seemed to denote the sky. Underneath, a parallel slash of green paint was the grass.

“His sense of color is getting better,” Brant said by way of a joke.
 

Mirriam Evans considered the comment. “I’m concerned,” she finally said. “Ben’s work shows a lack of imagination. He’s pulling in on himself, shutting out the rest of the world. He’s four years old, and he’s already showing some troubling signs. I’d like to get him evaluated.”

Brant started to shake his head.

“There’s more. He’s started to act up in class. He’s been fighting with some of the other boys, taking their toys and hitting some of the other children.”

“Look, I get it,” Brant finally said with more than a hint of irritation in his voice.
 

From the corner of his eye, he could see the back of his son’s head. His heart went out to the little guy. They’d both been through so much since Maggie’s death. The last thing Ben needed was trouble at school.

“So what is it you want me to do,” Brant asked.

“Spend more time with him, read to him, talk to him. Try to be a family again.”

  
``Well, that’s the hard part, isn’t it?’’

 
He went to his son. Ben wore a short-sleeved shirt emblazoned with racing cars. The knees of his jeans had been worn away. Paint had worked its way under the boy’s fingernails, into his hair and onto his cheeks. He smiled broadly as his father approached.
 

“Daddy!”

“Hey, Benji. Ready to go home?”

“Can we go on the bus?”

“I brought the car.’’

 
Ben frowned. The little boy reached for his Thomas the Tank Engine knapsack of books.
 

``I like the bus,” Ben said.

``I know you do,’’ Brant said. ``But tonight we’re going to take the car.’’

 
``The bus is more fun.’’

 
Brant sighed. He was irritated as hell. Love his son as he might, the kid could push his buttons the wrong way sometimes. Didn’t help he could be stubborn and difficult. Without warning, Brant felt like slapping some sense into the kid, caught himself, then reached out and took his son’s hand in his own.

Dinner was a burger and fries on Boylston Street near their place in Back Bay. The restaurant was in the basement of a period building erected in the late 1800s. Trinity Church was a stone’s throw away.

 
Brant felt guilty and slightly ashamed for his earlier reaction to Ben’s insistence they take the bus. He’d been tired and on edge, but that hadn’t been an excuse. He’d called Mrs. Rodrigues and told her they’d grab something on the way home. She’d thanked him before cutting the line.

 
``How was your day, Ben?’’

 
The child dipped a french fry into ketchup and shoved it into his mouth. Still chewing, he began to answer.

 
``We played store.’’

 
``And how did that go?’’

 
``We sold chocolate bars.’’

 
``Really? That must have been interesting. Did you make a lot of money.’’

 
``Only boys could buy them.’’

 
``Sorry, what was that, Ben?’’

 
``Only boys. Girls can’t buy them.’’

 
Brant shook his head, incredulous. Reflexively, he looked from table to table, scanning the other diners to see whether any had heard what his son had just said.

 
``Jesus, Ben. You know that’s not proper, right?’’

 
Ben shrugged as he stuffed a second french fry into his mouth while still chewing the first.

 
``Where did you learn that, Ben?’’

 
``Stevie says girls can’t do things boys can do.’’

 
Brant took his son’s hand and looked him in the eye.

 
``Tell me you know that’s not correct.’’

 
Ben attempted to wriggle free of his father’s grasp. Brant squeezed harder.

 
``Ben! Tell me you won’t listen to Stevie. Mommy was a girl and she could do anything Daddy can. Do you understand me?’’

Brant continued staring directly into Ben’s own gaze. The boy opened his eyes wide in a mocking gesture intended to show his displeasure with his father’s admonition. The boy knew he’d said something wrong but failed to understand what had set his father off.

 
``Mommy’s dead,’’ Ben finally said.

 
``Yes, yes she is.’’

His sister was waiting in the foyer of their townhouse when they’d finished dinner and made the short drive to Back Bay. She had a pizza in one hand and a bottle of white wine in the other. The wine was a Trimbach Riesling, 2007, and expensive. More than $100 a bottle expensive. Brant whistled in appreciation as he read the label. Marcellus Brant knew how to make an entrance. He’d give his sister her due.

 
``I’m celebrating,’’ she said when they’d put Ben to bed.

 
``What’s the occasion?’’

 
``I’ve left him, Jonas. Gone. As of tonight, I’m a free woman.’’

 
Marcellus popped the cork and poured herself a generous glass of wine into one of the Waterford crystal glasses she’d given Jonas and Maggie for their wedding.

 
``Don’t talk crap, Marcellus.’’

 
``No, really. This time is it. Finished.’’

 
Marcellus handed him a glass of wine. The pizza remained in its box on the counter of the island separating the kitchen from the dining area.
 

 
``Here, toast me and my new life.’’

 
Brant shot her a skeptical look. They’d been through this charade before. Marcellus had left her husband twice in the previous five years. She’d gone back to him each time in the space of a few days. No reason to think this time would be different. He told her so.

 
``Aren’t you going to have some pizza?’’ she said, eyeing the opened box.

 
``Ben and I ate.’’

 
``You told me. That hamburger place on Boylston. Nice restaurant. Terrible burgers. This is pizza to die for. Thin crust. Sun dried tomatoes. Made by a true artisan from Milan. Go ahead.’’

 
Brant wasn’t hungry but took a slice nonetheless, if only to keep his sister quiet. The pizza was good. More than good. It was great. Maybe the best he’d ever tasted. His mouth watered as he picked up a second piece, folded it and bit.

 
``See, what’d I tell you?’

 
Brant wiped his mouth with a napkin and took a gulp of wine. It, too, was more than good. Taste receptors on his tongue fired in rapid succession.

 
``Yeah, it’s good. But you want to tell me what’s going on or are we gonna sit here all night drinking wine, eating pizza and ignoring the elephant in the room?’’

 
Marcellus’s face took on a look of petulance.
 

 
``I caught him with the fucking secretary at his practice, Jonas. How cliched is that?’’

 
Brant sighed. He’d known about his brother-in-law’s infidelities, but he’d been reluctant to confront his sister. Marcellus lived in a truth distortion field of her own sometimes. She was like Steve Jobs that way. Steve Jobs without the talent or creativity. That was his sister in a nutshell.

 
``So what are you going to do about it?’’

 
``I told you, I left him.’’

 
Brant peered back at his sister as he played with his wine glass.

 
``You’re not going to leave him, Marcellus.’’

 
``No, and why not?’’