“Just keep it,” Paul said, and led Josh away from the truck.
Len offered no thanks, returned to the driver’s seat, and steered the Tastee Truck farther down the street, the jingle heralding his presence to the neighborhood.
“I haven’t seen that guy before,” Paul said.
“Yeah, he’s new this summer,” Josh said. “There was a different guy last year.”
“I don’t think he knew who I was.”
“What are you talking about?” Josh asked.
“Never mind,” Paul said. “Let’s go back and watch a movie.”
_________________
JOSH HAD LONG WANTED TO SEE THE BATMAN FLICKS, WHICH PAUL felt were a bit too mature and intense for a boy of nine, not counting the Adam West version. All the ones made this century—well, they didn’t call him the Dark Knight for nothing—were violent and bleak and occasionally disturbing. But Paul was able to call up the 1989 one starring Michael Keaton, which, while bleak enough, was tamer than the more recent versions.
Josh was very quiet during the part where young Bruce Wayne’s parents were murdered in the alley behind a theater.
“I don’t think we should ever go out to a movie,” he said, leaning into his father on the couch as the final credits rolled.
“It’s okay,” Paul said, mentally kicking himself for forgetting that central part of the crime fighter’s backstory. “We don’t live in Gotham City. We live in Milford.”
“Bad things happen here,” he said. “A bad thing happened to you.”
He gave his son a squeeze. “I know.”
“I hope I don’t get nightmares,” he said.
Paul grinned. “You and me both, pal.”
Charlotte texted to report that she’d be late. Her clients had decided to put in an offer. Paul said he would say good night for her when he put Josh to bed. As he sat on the edge, about to turn off Josh’s bedside table lamp, the boy said, “I’m sorry about tomorrow.”
“That’s okay.”
“I don’t even care that much about basketball. But a lot of my friends do, and I wanted to be able to tell them I went to a game.”
“It’s okay. The next weekend, when you’re here longer, we’ll do something special.”
Josh reached for an iPhone and earbuds next to the bed.
“What are you listening to these days to help you get to sleep?” Paul asked.
“The Beatles.”
“Seriously?”
Josh nodded. “They’re pretty good. One of them’s about a walrus.”
“Don’t strangle yourself on the cords after you fall asleep.”
Josh put a bud into each ear, tapped the phone’s screen. Paul leaned in, kissed his son’s forehead, turned off the light, slipped out of the room, and closed the door.
As he came down the stairs to the kitchen he heard the front door open. Seconds later, a weary Charlotte appeared.
“Nightcap?” he said, opening the fridge.
“No, thanks,” she said. “I just want to go to bed.”
“Was the offer accepted?”
She shook her head, exhausted. “We spent nearly two hours on it, sorting out a closing date, inclusions, everything. And then, at the last minute, they got cold feet.”
He smiled sympathetically. “Run you a tub?”
She shook her head. “The second my head hits that pillow, I’m dead. How’s Josh?”
“We watched Batman.” He grimaced. “The part where Bruce Wayne’s parents die hit a little too close to home.” He hesitated. “A weird thing happened.”
“What?”
“We went out to the ice cream truck. Kenneth Hoffman’s son was driving it.”
“That’s Hoffman’s son? I’ve bought ice cream for Josh from him, too.”
“It just felt . . . strange. I don’t think he had any idea it was me. Not that he necessarily should have.” He looked down. “I tell myself I want to face this business head-on, but then I see Hoffman’s son and I can’t look him in the eye.”
“Coming to terms with what Kenneth did doesn’t mean you have to confront his boy. What do they say about the sins of the father shall not be visited upon the son?”
Paul grinned. “Actually, I think it’s the other way around.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “You get my point.”
“I do.”
Charlotte sighed, then trudged upstairs. By the time Paul had tidied the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the bedroom, Charlotte was under the covers making soft breathing noises.
Paul slipped under the covers stealthily, taking care not to wake Charlotte. He reached over to the lamp and plunged the room into darkness.
In seconds, he was asleep.
_________________
IT WAS JUST AFTER TWO IN THE MORNING WHEN HE HEARD THE sounds.
He became aware of them while he was still asleep, so when he first opened his eyes, and heard nothing, he thought he must have been dreaming.
There was nothing.
But then he heard it again.
Chit chit. Chit chit chit. Chit. Chit chit.
He immediately knew the sound. It was a new one to the household but instantly recognizable. One floor down, someone was playing with the antique typewriter in his cramped office.
He gently ran his hand across the sheet until he felt Charlotte there. So, it wasn’t her. As if that would have made any sense, her getting up in the middle of the night to mess about with her gift to him.
That left Josh.
Paul squinted at the clock radio on the table beside him. It was 2:03 A.M. Why the hell would Josh go down and play with the typewriter now? Or at all, given that he’d hurt himself on it and professed to hate the thing.
Paul gently pulled back the covers, put his feet down to the floor, and stood. Wearing only his boxers, he walked out of the bedroom and into the hall, not turning on any lights.
Chit chit.
He went straight past Josh’s closed door and down the stairs, keeping his hand on the railing. It wasn’t just because of the dark; he was not fully awake and slightly woozy. When he reached the kitchen, the various digital lights on the stove, microwave, and toaster cast enough light that he could see where he was going.
The door to his small study was closed, and there was no sliver of light at the base. He turned the knob, pushed open the door far enough to reach around and flip the light switch, then pushed the door open all the way.
Josh was not there.
No one was there. The chair was empty.
But the typewriter was there.
There was no paper in it. The single sheet with Josh typed on it remained on the desk.
Paul stared at the scene for several seconds, then glanced back into the kitchen. The way he figured it, Josh must have heard him coming, ducked out, hid behind the kitchen island, then scooted back upstairs the second Paul stepped into his office.
Sure enough, when Paul went back upstairs and peeked into Josh’s room, the boy was under the covers, eyes closed, buds tucked into his ears.
The little bugger.
Paul smiled to himself. He’d conduct a proper interrogation in the morning.
Eleven
Paul had been in his office for an hour, on his third cup of coffee and researching online what made supposedly good people do bad things, when Josh, still in his pajamas, came padding down the stairs to the kitchen.
Paul closed the laptop, came out, went to the fridge, and got out a container of milk. “Cheerios?” he asked his son.
Josh muttered something that sounded like a yes and sat at the table. Paul put a bowl of cereal in front of him, splashed on some milk, and grabbed a spoon from the cutlery drawer. Josh stared sleepily into the bowl as he scooped a spoonful of cereal and shoved it into his mouth.
“How are you this morning?” Paul asked, glancing at the wall clock. It was half past ten.
Josh made a noise that was little more than a soft grunt.
“You really slept in,” his father said.
Josh glanced for a second at his father. Paul noticed there was still some sleep in the corner of his eyes. “It’s Sunday.”
“True enough. But you seem a little more tired than usual.”
“I had bad dreams,” Josh said, going back to his cereal. “We shouldn’t have watched that movie.”
“Sorry. I should have picked something else, but the thing is, almost any movie can remind us of something bad that’s happened to us.”