The Fireman's Son. Tara Taylor Quinn

something under his breath, Elliott took the cooler from her, put it on his board and stood sullenly by the door, waiting for her to unlock it and set him free.

      * * *

      SUNDAY DIDN’T GO much better. He didn’t think he should have to make his bed because Sundays were days of rest.

      “Making your bed keeps the sheets clean for when you climb back between them,” she told him. Sara had told her to set boundaries, to give him rules and chores—not too many, but enough—and then to stick to them. To build a source of security, and also a sense that she meant what she said. That her word was something upon which he could rely.

      But it was Sunday. After spending the day before utterly alone at the beach watching her son in the water, watching him sit on his towel several feel from hers while he ate his sandwiches and walking behind him back to the car, she was tired.

      She didn’t want to fight with him, and an unmade bed wasn’t a big deal.

      But keeping her word was.

      “Bed made before breakfast,” she said. “Come on, Elliott, you know the rules.”

      “Yeah, like you think beds aren’t dirty.” The words were soft. Barely reaching her. But their slap took her air.

      He’d heard her say words Frank had made her say. She hadn’t known then. She did now. More, Frank. I’m a dirty girl in a dirty bed.

      Turning her back so he wouldn’t see the sudden flood of tears, she said, “I’m making pancakes. When your bed is made, you can join me for breakfast. If you choose not to make it, you will not be eating this morning.”

      He was in the kitchen before the first pancake was off the griddle.

      He didn’t apologize. An hour later, when she was back in the kitchen and once again packed and ready for a day at the beach, he picked up the bag with the drinks and paper towels and put it on his boogie board. He left the cooler for her to carry.

      Faye didn’t thank him, didn’t say a word. She didn’t want to push him to the point where she’d be forced to make them stay home. The idea of spending all day cooped up in their apartment with him was too much to contemplate.

      She could force him to go shopping with her but knew that if she did, he’d very likely just make rude comments to and about her the entire time—loud enough for others to hear.

      With the blanket bag on one shoulder and her purse on the other, Faye picked up the cooler. She walked a couple feet behind her son when they arrived at the beach. Kept an equal distance when she ate her sandwiches. He ate every bite of his.

      She watched him play. He made friends with a couple of brothers that were about his age and laughed so loud in the waves she could hear him from her spot on the beach.

      And Sunday night, as she waited for him to climb into bed—he wouldn’t let her tuck him in—and turn out the light in his room, he gave her three words that made all of the effort worthwhile.

      “Today was fun.”

      The words sang her to sleep and took her to work on Monday. They were still ringing in her ears when she picked Elliott up from The Lemonade Stand Monday afternoon. Still in uniform, she’d be heading back to the station for the rest of her twelve-hour shift as soon as she dropped him at home with Suzie. She’d be on call all night, as well.

      Reese, thank goodness, was off on Mondays. At least she’d been able to relax as she did her chores at the station, worked out and helped prepare the noon meal. There’d been no looking over her shoulder or worrying about being hit with completely inappropriate and unwanted sexual feelings at the unexpected sight of him in the distance.

      She’d barely stepped inside the private section of the Stand when Elliott approached, his backpack slung over his shoulder, and said, “Let’s go,” in a tone that didn’t bode well.

      Head slightly bent, he didn’t look at her. When he brushed against her on his way to the door, he didn’t do so gently.

      If Lila or Sara had been present, he’d have been reprimanded for that. Faye knew she was expected to say something, as well. And she would.

      Sometime before her son went to bed.

      But more pressing than her son’s long-term counseling was finding out what had upset him. She had to deal with one before she could have any effect on the other.

      He didn’t immediately and automatically listen to her, as he did Sara and Lila. That hurt her feelings more than it should.

      Reminding herself that Elliott loved her, she pushed the automatic unlock button on her key fob so he could get in the car as soon as he reached it.

      If he thought he was going to subject her to another sullen and silent ride home, he had another think coming. She had to go back to work. And she wasn’t leaving him this way.

      Her son was angry with her for letting his father hurt her. At himself for being angry with her. At the world for giving him a father who was mean instead of loving to his mother.

      She looked weak in his eyes for not stopping what was going on behind closed doors. And her weakness was a huge source of his insecurity.

      Reminding herself of what they were dealing with—as she’d been counseled repeatedly to do over the past two years—Faye got in the car ready to speak.

      “How could you?” Elliott practically spat the words. His blue eyes, once so sweet and trusting when they looked up at her, were more like points of glass.

      Laced with bitterness.

      Nothing an eight-year-old should be experiencing, let alone shooting toward his mother.

      “How could I what?” she asked, banking down the hurt feelings to focus on him.

      “You told on Kyle.”

      “Elliott...”

      “You did. I know you did.” The boy was looking straight at her, his thin shoulders far too little to bear all of the weight he continued to put upon them.

      She’d spoken with Lila briefly that morning to find out what the situation would be with the older boy. She’d wanted to prepare Elliott for the other boy’s absence if nothing else.

      Lila had assured her that everything was fine. She claimed Kyle had had nothing to do with the fire and that he and his mother were still at the Stand.

      “I don’t...” She couldn’t lie to him. She knew what he was talking about. She just didn’t know how much he knew.

      “Can you calm down enough to tell me about it? And then I’ll tell you what I did or did not do.”

      “There was a fire Friday night by his aunt’s house. He and his mom had a safe trip to visit her for something...”

      Safe trip. It was one of the terms they sometimes used with kids to describe trips away from protective custody during at-risk domestic violence times. A term most kids never heard. The fact that it had become a normal part of her eight-year-old son’s vocabulary hurt her heart.

      “He went out to look and then when they got back to the Stand, he had to go talk to Chief Bristow in a little room with his mom there.”

      “Maybe that was just to see if he knew anything.”

      Elliott shook his head. “You told, Mom. Kyle never saw anyone he knew so no one else could have told on him. It had to be you.”

      She took a deep breath. “You said Kyle is in trouble,” she said. “What kind of trouble is he in?”

      The little boy’s shrug was telling—most particularly to a mother who used to be able to read him like a book.

      “He’s not in trouble, is he?” she pressed.

      Elliott shrugged again and folded his arms against his chest as he stared out the front