restrained her anger. He makes a difference now , she'd said. The conversation now seems as if it took place in another lifetime.
Jack laughs a little, regretfully. "I did make a difference in that case, I guess. I'm just not too sure it was the difference people wanted."
"But it seems like you really care about what you do," Celeste argues. She doesn't understand. Can't understand. "I don't think many adults care much about what they do."
"Yeah," he agrees, softly. "I do care about what I do."
They're both quiet for a moment, and then he asks, "Do you really mean it, that you'd like to be an attorney?"
"Yes, but not the kind that sits at a desk all day. I'd like to be a prosecutor, like you, and be in a courtroom all the time."
Jack grins, suppressing a laugh. He's about to tell her that even prosecutors often sit at a desk and some other types of attorneys also go to court, but then she adds, "I want to protect people."
The statement gives him pause. He thinks again of the fear she expressed earlier. Maybe the two are unrelated, but his instinct tells him otherwise.
And this is when he makes his second mistake. In that instant, almost without realizing it, he decides he's going to cover for her, just as she's asked.
"Celeste?" Her big eyes look up at him.
"If you mean what you say, don't make it harder on yourself, okay?"
"What do you mean, Mr. H?"
"College and law school are tough enough without a kid in tow."
It takes her a minute, but then he sees it sink in. She's silent for a long time.
Then, so softly he has to strain to hear her, she says, "Okay." She nods vehemently and says it again. "Okay."
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN JACK GETS home, Michael is
flat on his back, asleep on the couch. The clock on the microwave in the kitchen announces that it's almost three a.m. Jack sits on the coffee table and studies Michael's sleeping face. It's one of the few times he sees it in a relaxed state, free of the pent-up anger Michael normally wears in his father's presence.
Michael's eyelashes are unusually long.
Both his and Jamie's are. Jamie still has the rounded cheeks of a baby, but Michael's face has grown strong and angular as he left childhood behind.
Peach fuzz still covers his jaw and chin—
it'll be a while before he needs to shave—
but still, he's more man than child. Claire says he looks just like Jack; everyone says that, really. Michael chafes at the comparison.
Jack wonders if Michael will ever let it go, if he'll ever forgive him. When Jack first moved back into the house—after a four month absence during which he hadn't seen his son but for one miserable Christmas visit—he tried to talk to him.
Even Claire tried to talk to him. He claimed he wasn't mad, but anyone can see that he is. He carries his resentment like an invisible shield, always holding Jack at arm's length.
For a brief moment, Jack considers waiting until morning, letting both of them get some sleep before they have this conversation, but he decides it shouldn't wait.
He touches Michael's shoulder once, lightly, and then a second time, giving him a little shake. He can't remember the last time he touched his oldest son, and just thinking about it makes his throat tighten. Two more years and Michael will be gone. Jack resolves right then and there to start hugging him again whether he likes it or not.
When Michael opens his eyes and sees him, he rolls to his side, giving Jack his back.
"Michael, wake up. Sit up." He doesn't say it harshly.
Reluctantly, Michael complies. He keeps his head down, though, his elbows resting on his thighs. He rubs his face with his hands.
"I want to talk to you about tonight."
Suddenly Michael jerks his head
toward the clock in the kitchen as if he just remembered why he's sleeping on the couch and his father has a coat on.
"Where have you been?" Michael asks, finally meeting Jack's eye. He says it as if he's the parent and Jack's the child.
"I took Celeste home, remember?" Jack regards him
Jack laughs a little, regretfully. "I did make a difference in that case, I guess. I'm just not too sure it was the difference people wanted."
"But it seems like you really care about what you do," Celeste argues. She doesn't understand. Can't understand. "I don't think many adults care much about what they do."
"Yeah," he agrees, softly. "I do care about what I do."
They're both quiet for a moment, and then he asks, "Do you really mean it, that you'd like to be an attorney?"
"Yes, but not the kind that sits at a desk all day. I'd like to be a prosecutor, like you, and be in a courtroom all the time."
Jack grins, suppressing a laugh. He's about to tell her that even prosecutors often sit at a desk and some other types of attorneys also go to court, but then she adds, "I want to protect people."
The statement gives him pause. He thinks again of the fear she expressed earlier. Maybe the two are unrelated, but his instinct tells him otherwise.
And this is when he makes his second mistake. In that instant, almost without realizing it, he decides he's going to cover for her, just as she's asked.
"Celeste?" Her big eyes look up at him.
"If you mean what you say, don't make it harder on yourself, okay?"
"What do you mean, Mr. H?"
"College and law school are tough enough without a kid in tow."
It takes her a minute, but then he sees it sink in. She's silent for a long time.
Then, so softly he has to strain to hear her, she says, "Okay." She nods vehemently and says it again. "Okay."
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN JACK GETS home, Michael is
flat on his back, asleep on the couch. The clock on the microwave in the kitchen announces that it's almost three a.m. Jack sits on the coffee table and studies Michael's sleeping face. It's one of the few times he sees it in a relaxed state, free of the pent-up anger Michael normally wears in his father's presence.
Michael's eyelashes are unusually long.
Both his and Jamie's are. Jamie still has the rounded cheeks of a baby, but Michael's face has grown strong and angular as he left childhood behind.
Peach fuzz still covers his jaw and chin—
it'll be a while before he needs to shave—
but still, he's more man than child. Claire says he looks just like Jack; everyone says that, really. Michael chafes at the comparison.
Jack wonders if Michael will ever let it go, if he'll ever forgive him. When Jack first moved back into the house—after a four month absence during which he hadn't seen his son but for one miserable Christmas visit—he tried to talk to him.
Even Claire tried to talk to him. He claimed he wasn't mad, but anyone can see that he is. He carries his resentment like an invisible shield, always holding Jack at arm's length.
For a brief moment, Jack considers waiting until morning, letting both of them get some sleep before they have this conversation, but he decides it shouldn't wait.
He touches Michael's shoulder once, lightly, and then a second time, giving him a little shake. He can't remember the last time he touched his oldest son, and just thinking about it makes his throat tighten. Two more years and Michael will be gone. Jack resolves right then and there to start hugging him again whether he likes it or not.
When Michael opens his eyes and sees him, he rolls to his side, giving Jack his back.
"Michael, wake up. Sit up." He doesn't say it harshly.
Reluctantly, Michael complies. He keeps his head down, though, his elbows resting on his thighs. He rubs his face with his hands.
"I want to talk to you about tonight."
Suddenly Michael jerks his head
toward the clock in the kitchen as if he just remembered why he's sleeping on the couch and his father has a coat on.
"Where have you been?" Michael asks, finally meeting Jack's eye. He says it as if he's the parent and Jack's the child.
"I took Celeste home, remember?" Jack regards him
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