Delores had balked when David first mentioned the call from the county. “What do we know about raising a black child, David?” she’d protested. He had put up a brave front. “For crying out loud, Dee,” he’d said. “It’s 1991. If the Spelmans can adopt a child from China, why the heck can’t we foster a black kid for a few months? Until they figure out what to do with him?”
David ran his hand through his hair as he recalled how he’d gotten on his soapbox. He’d fed Dee some bullshit line about how it was time to walk the walk, how this was a chance for people like them, to whom so much had been given, to give back. The old noblesse oblige bit. He’d believed everything he’d said, but he had also felt a sense of unreality as he’d said the words. Delores had looked at him dubiously, her lower lip jutting out. But she hadn’t fought back. She rarely did anymore. He suspected she’d given in for his sake, thinking mistakenly that this was something he wanted. But he knew the truth—he was doing this for her. Giving her something she didn’t know she needed. Not that this could take the place of James, obviously. Nothing ever could. But here was the thing: Delores had been a fabulous mother. Fabulous.
David shook his head swiftly, unwilling to let the image of James’s mangled body nestle there. He wouldn’t think of his dead son. Not today. To the best of his ability, he wanted to go into this new venture clean, openhearted, and unburdened by the past. And above all, to do it for the right reasons. This was an opportunity to give a damaged kid a stable home.
He looked around for a phone, but there was none in the room. He would’ve liked to call his wife, to inform her that nothing had happened yet, that he wouldn’t be home for at least another hour or more. She would be anxious to know. She had promised to make dinner for tonight, something simple—salad, baked chicken, and potatoes. Ice cream for dessert. He had felt a twinge of excitement when he’d run to the store for ice cream this morning, and then a twinge of apprehension when he’d realized he had no idea what flavor the boy liked. He’d picked up a pack of the Neapolitan, deciding to hedge his bets.
He heard the door open and spun around to see the boy walk in with the social worker. Ernest had his arm around his young charge, but David was struck by the boy’s tentative posture. David took a few steps toward where the pair stood and, suddenly aware of his great height, stooped from the waist as he stuck his hand out. “Hi there,” he said gently. “You must be Anton. I’m David.”
“Hi.” The voice was weak, barely audible, and David felt a stab of disappointment. But then the boy tilted his head up, and David’s breath caught in his throat. Anton’s skin was golden, almost luminous. His large amber eyes dominated a beautiful, slender face. When those eyes landed on David, he felt—there was no other way to say it—privileged, as if some rare bird had alighted on his shoulder. But he was also acutely aware of the guardedness with which Anton Vesper was looking at him.
“It’s good to meet you.” David smiled. “Finally.”
Anton looked up at Ernest for guidance. The man gave the boy a slight nudge. “Go on,” he said, pointing to the couch. “The two of you can chat for a few minutes. I’ll be back to check on you soon, okay?”
David waited until Ernest had left the room to ease himself down on the couch beside the boy, who stared resolutely ahead, as if hoping David would disappear. David had seen defendants in court who had seemed less upset by his presence. And he’d never had to take one of them home.
“Was there a lot of traffic getting here?” he asked.
The boy shrugged. “Some.”
David nodded, unsure what to say, feeling ungainly and old. Again, he wished Delores was here. She’d know what to say to this boy, how to ease his apprehension.
“You know why I’m here, right?” David said. “You’re . . . I . . . we’re hoping you’ll come live with us for a while. My wife was sorry she . . .”
Anton turned toward him. “I wanna go home,” he said loudly. “To my home. To my mam.”
David had witnessed some version of this impulse for all the years he’d been in the legal profession. People seldom acted in ways you’d expect them to. Wives returned to abusive husbands, husbands forgave their cheating spouses, and children always, always loved their parents, no matter how shitty their behavior.
“I understand,” he said. “Of course you do. But . . . for right now, it’s not possible. So the real question is, do you want to go back with Mr. Brent? Or come home with us, where you’ll have your own bedroom and stuff?” He forced a laugh. “I should tell you, my wife’s a terrific cook.”
He waited for a response, but there was none. Anton simply stared ahead as if, now that he’d stated his intentions, he could withdraw into himself again.
“Anton.” David lightly touched the boy’s shoulder. “Listen. I can imagine how hard this is. And I understand how scary it must feel. But all I’m asking is that you give us a chance, okay? Let’s just—”
“Are you the guy who did it to my mam?”
“What? Did what?”
“Are you the judge who locked Mam away?”
“What? Oh. No. God, no.” The relief that he felt was palpable. And there was no way he was going to admit to his friendship with Bob Campbell, or the fact that he had run into Bob at the club just days after Juanita Vesper first appeared before him, and the older man had vented his disgust at the irresponsible, child-breeding vermin clogging his courtroom day after day. “No, no.” David shook his head. “Uh-uh. That was another judge. Not me.”
Under his hand, he felt Anton’s shoulder relax. “Well, can you let her out?”
David sighed. “Anton. I can’t. It’s not my case, you see.” He gave the boy a sidelong glance and decided to plunge ahead. “Also, your mommy did a bad thing. We need to make sure—”
“She made a mistake. She said she was sorry.”
David was about to respond when he thought the better of it. This is a young boy, he reminded himself, a scared, traumatized child about to go home with a stranger. A white male, to boot. Cut him some slack.
“So what do you like to do, Anton? You play any sports?” he asked.
Anton flashed him a look that he couldn’t decipher and fell silent.
“Basketball? Baseball? Soccer?” Eyeing the unresponsive boy, David felt a desperate need to get a response. “Cricket? Lacrosse? Polo?” he continued, hating himself for his meanness.
There was a brief silence and then Anton said, “I know what cricket is.”
David sat up. “You do? Wow.”
Anton nodded. “I saw a movie about it once, I think.”
“Really? What movie?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, I have a friend who is English. He can teach you, if you’re interested.” David had no idea why he was saying this. God help him if Anton remembered this conversation later.
“I hate the English.”
“You do? Why?”
“They bombed Earl Harbor.”
David opened his mouth and then shut it. Anton was talking to him. That was the main thing. The history lessons would have to wait.
“Well, then, I guess you’re not learning cricket. You have a favorite sport?”
Anton shrugged again. “I play soccer.”
“I bet you’re good.”