I blow out a frustrated breath. “What?” He tugs a little harder on my arm until I stop completely and meet his eyes.
“Pop thinks there’s something wrong with you.” His eyes skitter around my face, and I wish my arms weren’t so full so I could pull the brim of my cap down a little. “Tell me there’s nothing wrong with you, Katie,” he says, his words as soft as a whisper.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” I reply, but even I can hear the warble in my voice.
“Would you tell me if there was?”
“Why would I, Jake?” I toss back. “I haven’t seen you in eighteen years.”
He stares at me. “Because I’m here and I’m asking, Katie.”
“There’s nothing wrong, Jake.”
“Are you certain?”
“Positive.”
He reaches out a tentative hand and lifts the corner of my ball cap. “Where’d you get that shiner?”
I laugh, trying for a whimsical sound. But it sounds more like I’m choking on my own regret. I pull the cap off and toss it onto the table. “Oh, that,” I say. “I ran into a cabinet door.” I set the plates down on the counter and fluff my hair with my fingertips. “It hurt like a mother–”
Jake reaches out and drags his thumb across the fading bruise. “Don’t lie to me, Katie.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Did your husband hit you?” he asks. “Tell me the truth, Katie, and I’ll never ask again. I just want to be sure you’re all right.”
“My husband would never hurt me,” I growl. He would never, ever lay a hand on me. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Jake.”
“You hit your face on a door. That’s all it was?”
“Yes. I hit my face on a door.” Technically, I’m telling the truth. Maybe that’s why it’s easy to lie to him. “It was stupid.”
Mr. Jacobson bellows through the door. “Jake! Better take the steaks up!”
“I had better get the steaks,” Jake says.
“You should.”
“Katie…”
“Go get the steaks, Jake,” I say sternly, using my mom voice, the one that the kids don’t even try to argue with.
He turns and walks away. And I’m glad he does, because if he’d stayed for one more moment or asked me one more time, I might have told him the truth, and that won’t help anybody.
11
Jake
She’s lying. I’m certain of it. You know how I know? She didn’t look me in the eye once when she was telling me about how she ran into the cabinet door. With her face.
She didn’t give herself that shiner.
I walk out of the cabin, trying to contain the rage that has suddenly built up within me. I want to punch something, preferably her abusive husband. Despite her vehement opposition to my question, I know someone has hurt her. She flinched when I touched her elbow. She flinched when I moved too fast in the kitchen.
I look over to the steps, where I see my dog lying with his head on Trixie’s lap. She has his paw in her hand and she’s painting his toenails a soft pink color. “I could have sworn that dog had a penis,” I say out loud.
Trixie looks down between the dog’s legs. “He does have a penis,” she says quietly. She nods solemnly at me. She points to the appendage. “He has a penis right there. See?” She stops painting long enough to wait for my response.
I sit down beside her on the step. “Then why are you painting his toenails pink?” I scratch my head.
Her delicate brow furrows. “Boys can like pink too.” Then she grins and swipes the tiny little paint brush down the dog’s toenail again. Sally’s head falls down in Trixie’s lap and he closes his eyes. He’s either decided to give up or he enjoys the attention. I can’t figure out which.
“You got a penis too, right?” she suddenly asks.
“Um…”
Then I hear a snicker from behind me. I turn around and find Alex standing right behind me, tossing his football up in the air and catching it over and over. “You’re not supposed to be asking people about their private parts,” Alex chides.
“Oh,” Trixie breathes out. She visibly deflates and I feel like a schmuck.
“Well, I’m a boy…” I say.
Alex laughs out loud this time. “How old are you again?” Alex asks.
“The same age as your mother,” I tell him. Our birthdays are just days apart. Mine is June tenth and hers is June fifth. I used to tease her unmercifully about her being the older woman.
Trixie sets Sally’s paw down and grins. “You want some pink fingernails?” she asks me.
“I had better not.” I’d never live that down at the precinct.
“Uncle Adam lets me paint his fingernails.” She blinks her pretty blue eyes at me.
“Uncle Adam is gay,” Alex says.
I can still remember the day that I learned that Katie’s uncle and her dad weren’t really an uncle and a dad. I remember when I went home and told my dad about it, he looked at me, grinned, and said, “That’s when I know I’ve raised a good man, when he learns something new and doesn’t judge.” Then he squeezed my shoulder and walked away.
12
Jake