Page 59 of What Boys Learn

From the hallway, Benjamin cleared his throat. Curtis rose halfway from his kitchen stool, grinning. “Glad you’re coming to join us! We’ve got an entire pad thai for you.”

Benjamin slinked in slowly, served himself, and took a seat on a kitchen stool, which surprised me. I thought he would escape back to his room or the couch.

After a few awkward minutes during which every fork scrape was audible, Benjamin said, “So you’ve heard we have a convict in the family.”

Without looking up, Curtis said, “Not so unusual, given incarceration rates in America. You like to keep in touch with him, then?”

Benjamin looked down at his own plate. “Would that be a problem?”

“Not for me. It might worry your mom, I imagine, if she’s left out of the conversation.”

“I’m done having conversations with my mom. Ever.”

I pushed down the hurt, trying to focus on the good thing that was happening, even if I wasn’t the one steering it.

“That’s okay,” Curtis said, glancing up quickly, then down again, like he was doing his best not to frighten a skittish animal away. “Most of us go through phases where we can’t talk to our parents. It’s the reason we find other people—friends, mentors, adults we can trust. I imagine you don’t have many men in your life that you can talk to?” He smiled warmly. “Ones who aren’t behind bars?”

“I don’t want a therapist.”

“Well, that’s convenient, because I don’t want a client.”

Benjamin looked surprised.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Robert. I let the call go to voicemail.

Curtis continued, “However, I’ve heard about your run-in with the law, and it’s not unlikely that they’re going to subject you to some psychological tests, if you’re formally charged. It’s in your interest to have a friendly expert conduct those tests first, or at least to develop some opinions about your state of mind and your ability to accept guidance. Your mother already told me that your lawyer agrees. He says these next few weeks matter. Some record of treatment, no matter how brief, and some signs of cooperative behavior could go a long way.”

Curtis waited for Benjamin to nod, adding, “Impressions matter. And the first label often sticks. I’d hate to see another therapist label you.”

“So that’s what you’re offering. Tolabelme.”

My phone buzzed again. Texts now. Incoherent fragments with misspellings intact, because Robert disabled his autocorrect. I recognized the rhythm. He was drunk.

“What I’d like to do first,” Curtis said to Benjamin, “is just talk. Privately. No agenda. About anything you’d like to talk about.”

“Meaning without my mom.”

“Completelywithout your mom.”

I swallowed hard, trying to loosen the lump in my throat. Benjamin needed to see me calm. I could do this for him. I had to.

When Robert called again, I hesitated before darting down the hallway into the bathroom. Door closed, I answered, “Jesus, Robert. Again?”

“What do you mean, again? I’ve never been fired before.”

“You didn’t tell me you were fired.”

I couldn’t believe the department would get rid of him for borrowing a diary. Cops shoot innocent people without getting fired, at least not immediately.

“Whose voice was that in the background?” he asked.

“Have a few more beers, go to sleep, and call me next week when your bender is finished and you’ve talked to your union rep.”

“Do you have a man over?”

“Oh, Robert. For fuck’s sake. That’s none of your business!”

“You worry too much about Benjamin, Abby. Even if he spent a night in jail. That’s just . . . it’s okay, Abby.”