“In her life, in her marriage.”
“She’s married?” This was a piece of new information. His aunt had said nothing during the intake interview, and the boy had been silent on the subject until now.
“Of course. I assumed you saw the ring.” He frowned at me. “Really, Watson, you need to pay closer attention to the details.”
“Tell me about your uncle.”
“He drives a semi truck. He’s gone most days of the week, but usually makes it home for the weekends. It’s better when he’s not around. He’s got a mean streak in him.” He glanced at his watch. “She should be coming out any minute now.”
There she was, right on time, pushing out the front door of the apartment building at six-fifteen sharp. She crossed the street and got into the old sedan I’d seen her driving before.
“Follow her,” the boy said.
I pulled out and stayed behind her for the next ten minutes.
“Now watch,” the boy said. “This is where it gets interesting.”
The street ran past a large entertainment center called Palladium Pizza. On the big sign out front was a neon Ferris wheel and below that a lit marquee that proclaimed: FOOD, FUN, AND GAMES FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY. The parking lot was quite full. The place was clearly a popular enterprise. The boy’s aunt pulled into the lot and parked. I pulled in, too, but stayed well away. She left the sedan, glanced at her watch, then stood looking expectantly toward the double glass doors of the establishment.
Lo and behold, a clown appeared. He wore a big red wig and his nose was tipped with a little red ball. His clothes were a ridiculous burlesque of elegant evening wear, complete with a large fake flower on his lapel that I was certain shot water. The shoes on his feet were a dozen sizes too big. His mouth was elongated with red face paint into a perpetual and, I thought, rather frightening grin. He approached the woman. To my amazement, they kissed.
“Who’s that?” I asked. But no sooner had I spoken than the light dawned. “Moriarty.”
The boy gave a single, solemn nod. “Moriarty.”
They walked arm in arm to a van at the other end of the parking lot. The vehicle was decorated with brightly colored balloon decals, and floating among them were the words “Marco, the Magnificent: Magic and Buffoonery for All Ages.” They got in, the van pulled onto the street, and it quickly disappeared amid the traffic.
“Your aunt is having an affair with a clown?”
“With Moriarty,” the boy said.
“Your uncle doesn’t know?”
“Clueless.”
“Okay,” I said. “If this is Moriarty, what’s he up to?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it, Watson? I hope to have an answer soon.”
He continued to stare down the street where his aunt and the clown had gone.
“Did you see his face? The painted smile? Such a grotesque mockery of good will.” His eyes narrowed in a determined way and he said grimly, “Pure Moriarty.”
When his aunt dropped him off for his next session, I caught her before she rushed away and asked to speak with her privately a moment. She seemed a bit put out, but stepped into my office while Oliver waited outside.
“You’re seeing someone,” I said.
She was clearly startled. “What do you mean?”
“Marco the Magnificent.”
“How—” she started, then her eyes shifted to the office door. “Oliver.” She looked at me again, and I could see that she was trying to decide on a course of action. She finally settled on what seemed to me the truth.
“I don’t love my husband anymore. Morrie makes me feel special. Makes me feel young. Makes me laugh.”
“Morrie? That’s his name?”
“Morris Peterson.”
“When did Morrie enter your life?”
“A while ago.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Just before Christmas.”
“About the time you gave Oliver the volume of Conan Doyle stories. Look, I believe your nephew is threatened by Morrie. He’s lost his parents. I think he might be afraid of losing you, too. You’re all the family he has now.”
“He’s never said anything.”
“You’re having an affair. What could he say? But it comes out in this fantasy of his that he’s Sherlock Holmes. He uses it to justify his feeling of being threatened. And also, I believe, as a way of trying to have some control over the situation.”
She looked again at the door, beyond which her nephew sat, a lonely, orphaned boy dressed in a deerstalker hat and matching cape. I saw the pain in her eyes. But I went on, laying it all out for her.
“Although your nephew claims to understand that he is not, in fact, Sherlock Holmes, I think that deep down he really believes he is. He’s not just emulating that literary creation, he sees himself as the flesh-and-blood incarnation. He can rationalize it all he wants, but he’s not acting truly rational.”
“And I’m responsible?”
“No. Or at least, not entirely. But your current situation certainly isn’t helping.”