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Authors: Kelly Simmons
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Carrieâs true mood. The metallic tang in the air was an anodyne for her loneliness; today had been the first day in a long time she felt aligned with the universe. Not sunny. Not rainy. Just the dark, endless in-between.
âJohn, will youâ¦put him in the car seat?â
âUm, okay,â he said.
Even after the detailing incident, sheâd kept Benâs seat in her car, insisted. Fought John so bitterly over it that spit came flying out of her mouth. Heâd said it was downright ghoulishâlike keeping a sarcophagus in the backseat. And sheâd been furious at his use of that wordâwhen had he ever used it before? He wasnât killed in his car seat! sheâd screamed. He loved his car seat! But winning that battle and having the seatâthat didnât mean she could touch it. That didnât mean she trusted herself with this task.
John clipped in his son. Ben smiled at him, as if thanking him. He wasnât a boy of many words, but he had a million different smiles. Raising a child was like communicating with someone who spoke another language. It was all gestures, nuance, vibe. Almost like understanding a woman, John sometimes thought. He ruffled his sonâs hair, smiled back at him broadly, then got in the front seat.
It wasnât until they were at the bottom of their street, turning left onto Sugarland Road, that he realized, maybe, why Carrie had asked him to do it. Did she recognize that he was better at it? That she was simply too lackadaisical, too trusting? You would think that a latchkey kid would know the value of safety! But no, Carrieâs childhood had made her tough, invincible. There was a shell to Carrie that other women didnât have, and she had relied on it too much. She had believed nothing would happen, and then it had. But this, oh, this signaled a change, he thought. That perhaps she had finally put him in charge of safety.
âYou didnât have to adjust the straps,â she whispered.
âWhat?â
âOn the car seat. Heâs not taller,â she said.
John swallowed, said nothing.
At the second intersection, idling at the long stoplight, a man approached the line of cars, selling flowers. John tapped the lock on their doors, and Carrie jumped.
âBetter safe than sorry,â he said. âThatâs whyââ
She sighed. âJohn, I know how you feel about locking the doors. Butâ¦lightning doesnât strike twice.â
âYou know that reasoning doesnât wash with me, Carrie. I know too many guys whoâve broken both legs on the lacrosse field.â
Carrie looked out the window. She was tired of arguing about this. It was the same way she had felt when her mother left her to go work, always saying the same words: Lock up lock up lock up . But locking up hadnât kept her father from leaving. Locking up hadnât kept their money safe from his gambling debts. Locking up hadnât kept out anything that had hurt her mother.
âBut, John,â she said softly but firmly, âyou also have to know, to realizeâ¦if I had locked the house, Ben might not have been brought back.â
John bit the inside of his lip. So she hadnât locked the door when she went to church, despite all his warnings. She hadnât forgotten at all , which meant sheâd lied to the detectives! Was this the first time sheâd done that? Or merely the most recent? He continued driving and didnât look over at Carrie, even though he felt her eyes on him, begging for him to engage. But he couldnât. He just couldnât. Especially with Ben in the backseat.
In front of him, the sky was gray and white, not a trace of blue. It had been like this for days, threatening rain, warning them that autumn was on its way.
It took every ounce of willpower John possessed not to say the words bursting through his pores: If you had locked your car while you fed that goddamned meter, Ben never
âJohn, will youâ¦put him in the car seat?â
âUm, okay,â he said.
Even after the detailing incident, sheâd kept Benâs seat in her car, insisted. Fought John so bitterly over it that spit came flying out of her mouth. Heâd said it was downright ghoulishâlike keeping a sarcophagus in the backseat. And sheâd been furious at his use of that wordâwhen had he ever used it before? He wasnât killed in his car seat! sheâd screamed. He loved his car seat! But winning that battle and having the seatâthat didnât mean she could touch it. That didnât mean she trusted herself with this task.
John clipped in his son. Ben smiled at him, as if thanking him. He wasnât a boy of many words, but he had a million different smiles. Raising a child was like communicating with someone who spoke another language. It was all gestures, nuance, vibe. Almost like understanding a woman, John sometimes thought. He ruffled his sonâs hair, smiled back at him broadly, then got in the front seat.
It wasnât until they were at the bottom of their street, turning left onto Sugarland Road, that he realized, maybe, why Carrie had asked him to do it. Did she recognize that he was better at it? That she was simply too lackadaisical, too trusting? You would think that a latchkey kid would know the value of safety! But no, Carrieâs childhood had made her tough, invincible. There was a shell to Carrie that other women didnât have, and she had relied on it too much. She had believed nothing would happen, and then it had. But this, oh, this signaled a change, he thought. That perhaps she had finally put him in charge of safety.
âYou didnât have to adjust the straps,â she whispered.
âWhat?â
âOn the car seat. Heâs not taller,â she said.
John swallowed, said nothing.
At the second intersection, idling at the long stoplight, a man approached the line of cars, selling flowers. John tapped the lock on their doors, and Carrie jumped.
âBetter safe than sorry,â he said. âThatâs whyââ
She sighed. âJohn, I know how you feel about locking the doors. Butâ¦lightning doesnât strike twice.â
âYou know that reasoning doesnât wash with me, Carrie. I know too many guys whoâve broken both legs on the lacrosse field.â
Carrie looked out the window. She was tired of arguing about this. It was the same way she had felt when her mother left her to go work, always saying the same words: Lock up lock up lock up . But locking up hadnât kept her father from leaving. Locking up hadnât kept their money safe from his gambling debts. Locking up hadnât kept out anything that had hurt her mother.
âBut, John,â she said softly but firmly, âyou also have to know, to realizeâ¦if I had locked the house, Ben might not have been brought back.â
John bit the inside of his lip. So she hadnât locked the door when she went to church, despite all his warnings. She hadnât forgotten at all , which meant sheâd lied to the detectives! Was this the first time sheâd done that? Or merely the most recent? He continued driving and didnât look over at Carrie, even though he felt her eyes on him, begging for him to engage. But he couldnât. He just couldnât. Especially with Ben in the backseat.
In front of him, the sky was gray and white, not a trace of blue. It had been like this for days, threatening rain, warning them that autumn was on its way.
It took every ounce of willpower John possessed not to say the words bursting through his pores: If you had locked your car while you fed that goddamned meter, Ben never
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