Release Author: Six Rating: R, adult language Summary: Nick represents the interests of a teenage boy. ^^^^ "Fourteen-year-old boy with a knife wound to the stomach," Al said pushing a file folder against Nick's chest when he walked in first thing Monday morning. "Mom says she needs to get 'presentable' before she goes to see him at the hospital. He did it at school. That`s why Laurie called us." ^^^^ "Who are you?" one of two uniformed policemen asked as Nick approached the boy's hospital room. The cops were in conversation with a doctor in the hall. "Kid's guardian," he said extending his hand. "Nick Fallin. Mother here?" "Not yet. Guess she`s still primpin`." "I need to talk to him," Nick said, already moving between the threesome and into the boy's hospital room. ^^^^ The boy lay stiff in his hospital bed, eyes fixed somewhere out the window, hands bunching the sheet that partially covered his bandaged stomach. Laurie Solt sat almost invisibly, by choice, on a stool next to the window, sort of like a respectable finch making notes. He was a handsome boy, with cat-green eyes and a shock of black hair, but his face was flour-pale and his eyes held the look of a worn old man. "Hello there," Nick said politely as he stood near, but not next to, the bed, to avoid intimidating his space. "I'm Nick Fallin. I'm sure Laurie told you I was coming, and why." The boy did not move or acknowledge their presence. It wasn't new to Nick. Most kids these days didn't like talking to authority. "We want to talk to you before your mother comes." The boy didn't respond. Nick saw on his impala-grace throat what appeared to be three small healing burns or scabs. "I didn't get your name." The boy answered without looking at him. "Eric Bosch." "And your mother's?" "Rhonda." Even though Nick could easily get the info from Laurie's files, he wanted the boy to talk, even if it were just about boring details. The small-talk approach eventually bore fruit, but it was a boring and tedious process. Nick resisted the urge to cut to the chase, because he found that that tactic wasn't always the best when dealing with certain victims. Especially quiet kids. "Rhonda," Nick repeated. "Where do you and your mother live?" "Sixteen Boston Avenue." Nick`s brows went up. "Yeah? You play ball in that old sandlot next to the burned-out factory? I used to, before my…well, when I was a lot younger than you." Pay-dirt. Sort of. Eric's eyes skittered halfway toward Nick, but then went back to the window again. "Where does your mom work?" Nick pressed. "She doesn't. Gets a disability check." "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." "It's okay. She's depressed or something. Takes pills for it every day. She doesn't get out a lot. Just to the store or to the laundry. She just sorta lays around the house and watches soap shows. Except that I don't think she really watches. Mostly she just stares off at the TV." "You and your mother get along?" Eric nodded. "Mom got a boyfriend?" Nick felt the beginnings of impatience in his voice, and refrained. "No," the boy answered. "She's tired a lot." "Anybody else live with you?" Laurie finally asked from her perch. Nick couldn't help but stare at the boy's neck, and his bandaged middle. "Okay," he finally said. "No more ice-breakers. What happened to your neck?" The boy laughed a little, his hand going to the mark on his throat. "Curling iron. Haven't got the hang of it yet." "Sure, kid," Nick's sigh offered. "How did you get stabbed? Were you attacked?" "No." "Fight at school?" "No." "A gang?" "No. It was an accident." He laughed again, but this time was even less convincing than the last time. "I fell on it." A flicker in Nick`s eyes: "You expect me to believe that? If you want me to help you, you have to be straight with me." Eric's eyes avoided the lawyer's. "Okay, kid. I suppose you were just peeling an apple in the kitchen and all of a sudden you slipped and fell on the knife." Laurie's eyes watched Nick carefully. "Mr. Fallin, that may not be the best-" Nick held his hand up to shush her. "And your neck, Eric? Tell us how careless you were when you were curling your hair." Laurie, a little sharper: "Mr. FALLIN-" "Did your mother do it, Eric? Because if she did--" Eric draped an arm across his eyes to hide. A small sob escaped. Laurie went close to the bed to console the boy, while Nick stepped out into the hall. To the cops he said, "I think Mom did it. Or knows who did." He started down the hall toward the elevator, one of the cops following behind. "Did he say it was her?" the cop questioned. "He didn't tell us that." "Didn't tell me that either." ^^^^ Nick and the cop arrived at the Bosch home in the black and white. Mrs. Bosch, a plump woman in a housedress, was just coming outside, hitching her purse strap up onto her shoulder. "Mrs. Bosch," the cops said, "we're here to talk about your son." "I'm in a hurry," she said. "Can't you see he needs me?" "You weren't in much of a rush before," Nick said. "A few more minutes won't hurt." "Okay," she said shifting the purse to her other shoulder. "What is it?" "Can we do this inside?" Nick asked. "I've been appointed Eric's temporary emergency legal guardian by a family court judge pending a thorough investigation. I'd like to take a look around your house." "The social worker's already been here. Are you implying that I hurt my son?" "Let's just go in," the cop said. "Fine. I have nothing to hide." "Just in case," the uniform said, "I'm going to read you your rights. You can have a lawyer of your own present." "I don't need a lawyer." ^^^^ The interior of the house was as plain and drab as Rhonda Bosch. No pictures on the walls, no flowers, only a couch, a chair, and a TV in the living room. The kitchen reflected the woman's depression. Stacks of filthy, mold- encrusted dishes filled the sinks and lined the greasy kitchen counters, and overflowed on the stove. Boxes, cans, and packages of half-eaten food were piled on the table, and even the chairs. Mouse droppings peppered the place mats, and roaches were feasting on the leftovers. "Mind if I look in here?" Nick said nodding toward the bathroom. "Be my guest." Rhonda lit a cigarette while the cop questioned her. Nick went to the small bathroom, which was filthy. The tub's dirty ring looked like it had been there forever, and the sink was full of scum. With a pencil he swung the medicine cabinet door open and viewed its contents. A stick of deodorant, a toothbrush, and bottles and bottles of prescription medicine. (She's depressed. She takes pills every day) Reading the prescription labels, Nick realized Mrs. Bosch was more than just depressed. Perhaps bi-polar, possibly borderline psychotic. He closed the door again and went to the next room. It had to be a bedroom because of the bed and dresser, but besides those two pieces of furniture, the room was bare. The bed had no sheets, the opened dresser drawers were empty, and no clothes hung in the closet. He went to the last room of the house. Another bedroom. Her bedroom. And maybe . . . (no, that couldn't be right, he's too old, too big, maybe, no way, maybe his bedroom too) A wave of nausea kept wanting to roll up his body, but he fought it. He had to. He had to see what he didn't want to see. Had to look at what he didn't want to look at. Had to understand what he saw before him: The clothes closet which held her clothes and his. The dresser which held her clothes and his. The bed with the rumpled, stained sheets. Her nightgown. His boxers. Her red hair on the pillows. His black hair. Pubic hairs in the KY Jelly on the bedside table. (What happened to your neck, Eric?) (Curling iron) (Sure it was the curling iron, Eric? Because after I see her bedroom here, after I see what she does to you, I don't think it was the curling iron, no, not at all, I think those marks on your neck are hickeys) (You couldn't tell, Eric, but you wanted somebody to find out, didn't you? You couldn't expose your mother yourself, turn her in, rat her out, because you still love her but God knows why, you still love her even though she's been sleeping with you for years, you probably thought it was a normal thing to do until now, until you got old enough to realize, old enough for puberty, for boy/girl stuff, for something to compare it to, to see how abnormal it all always was, and you felt shame, didn't you, you felt like you were a part of it, like there must be something wrong with you too, she told you she loved you, she told you she was your mother, that you could trust her, but you learned, somehow you learned that it was wrong, that mothers didn't sleep with their fourteen-year-old sons, that they didn't make you do things that were sick and unnatural, and you wanted someone to know, to find out and stop it, even though you couldn't say it yourself, you wanted the perversion to end, you wanted to stop the pain, stop her, stop yourself, and the only way to get people to notice, to look inside that nasty closet of yours, was to show us in a physical way how much you really hurt inside, you had to let the pain out, so you cut yourself open, didn't you, you stabbed yourself to let it all out, so someone would see) (Freud, you motherfucker, how did you know? Who fucked you when you were a kid?) "Bitch," Nick whispered, then went to get the cop. ^^^^ Nick and Laurie stood with Eric Bosch in the courtroom while the bailiff escorted her out in handcuffs. By the look in the boy's eyes, it was more like a funeral. He began to sob softly, hand to his forehead, shoulders hunching in grief. Laurie put her arm around the boy's shoulders and squeezed. "It's over, Eric. You'll be all right now." Eric whispered into his hands. "I still love her." Nick looked at Laurie, then at the boy and said, "She had the problems, Eric. Not you. She was full of poison and she spilled it into you." Eric wiped his eyes with the tie Nick had loaned him. "I've got nowhere to go." Laurie took a photo from the jacket of his black suit and handed it to the boy. "Yes, you do. This is your foster family. We'll drive you over there whenever you're ready." THE END