Page 68 of Playing With Fire

Silas had refused point-blank to bring the twins downtown into the council office. He would “address the issue” after the community supper. “This place is their sanctuary,” he’d added. “Don’t violate it.”

What was it with these folks?

Ricky fought back a fresh surge of frustration as he stared at his impressive culinary creation.

Didn’t the man understand what was at stake, and that Silas (and his foster children) had no choice in the matter? That Chief Leroy Browning would simply direct the local police to turn up and bodily remove the boys?

“You want to put that in here, hon?” Lottie materialized at Ricky’s shoulder with a large cardboard box. She blinked in surprise at the green-tinged potato mash. “My, that looks like something out of a cookbook. Smells great, though.”

“Excuse me?” Ricky wrenched his mind back on track. “Oh yeah. Thanks.”

His mom’s special hummingbird cake, glossy with cream cheese frosting, was already wedged into one end. He nestled the pie into a clean tea towel and packed it alongside.

He needed to get to the church hall, put on a cheerful face, and then face down Silas Beecham.

Coming home had been a mistake.

Ricky’s feet were lead balloons. And his heart, well, it felt as bruised and battered as it ever had been. The urge to throw his stuff into a bag and hit the road for New York City was almost overwhelming.

He’d demand his job back, stay at a motel until his sublet apartment was free. Lieutenant Ricky Sharp had complied with every single thing that the therapist and the counselor and the Fire Department had thrown at him. He was fit to return.

Lottie fixed him with all-knowing eyes. She closed the box flaps with deft movements and laid her hands on top. The joints were slightly swollen from decades of washing up and cleaning and cooking and baking.

When his mom spoke, her voice had the no-nonsense tone Ricky knew so well.

“I had Molly Caitens on the phone this morning, wanting us to go visit them at the retirement village for morning tea next week.”

Ricky grunted. He opened his mouth and closed it.

“Don’t you think we deserve to hear it from you, whatever it is?”

His father, who must have been lurking in the hall, materialized in the kitchen.

“Ah,” said Ricky weakly. He took a deep breath. Once underway, this train was unstoppable.

The icy lump in his chest, the anger and regret of a secret carried for too long, began to melt. And it hurt like hell.

“Okay. Though I don’t want you to think for a minute that I didn’t come home to help out and to spend time with you both.”

His mother made a pretend swat. Ricky smiled.

Home. God, it felt good.

He slumped into a chair with all the grace of the gangly teenager he had once been. His parents slipped into their familiar places at the table and waited.

“So,” Ricky began. “A few months back we got a call out to Hammels, the public housing block in Far Rockaway. Usual situation, smoke coming from the window. Some idiot has lit a candle, or dropped off to sleep with a cigarette, maybe turned the chip oil up too high ...”

***

Fifteen minutes later they were still sitting there. The cheesy fragrance of pie hung in the air.

Lottie was uncharacteristically silent.

“That must have been a mighty shock son,” said Herbie gruffly. His brown eyes were bright under bushy grey brows.

“Chrissie Caitens,” the older man continued. “You two were stuck on each other when you went away to college, but we never realized there was anything serious until you both up and headed for the city. It was Chrissie this, Chrissie that, when you were talking on the phone. And then one day it was just you coming home at Thanksgiving, not a whisper about Chrissie.”

Ricky flushed. He nodded. The relationship with Chrissie had always felt surreal, at least in the beginning. Parents invoked a humdrum, sensible reality that would come later. Parents would ask foolish questions about whether a shared house full of would-be artists was conducive to Ricky’s intensive training schedule, and how come he had time to attend all-night parties when he was too busy to come home for a weekend.

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