Blue Smoke

when her father came back alone.

    His first thought when he looked at her eyes was that it was no longer a child looking back at him. There was a chill in them, a ferocity of chill that was completely adult.
    “She tried not to let them in, but they showed her a paper. I think it was a warrant, like on Miami Vice. So she had to let them in.”
    He took her hand in his. “I should send you home. That’s what I should do because you’re not even twelve, and this is the kind of thing you shouldn’t have to be part of.”
    “But you won’t.”
    “No, I won’t.” He sighed. “Your mother handles things the way she handles them. She has her faith and her temper, her rock-hard sense and her amazing heart. Fran, she has the faith and the heart. She believes that people are innately good. That means it’s more natural for them to be good than bad.”
    “Not for everybody.”
    “No, not for everybody. Bella, right now she’s pretty centered on Bella. She’s walking emotion, and whether people are good or bad isn’t as important to her at the moment, unless it affects her. She’ll probably get over most of that, but she’ll always feel before she thinks. And Xander, he’s got the sunniest nature. A happy kid, who doesn’t mind scrapping.”
    “He came to help when Joey was hurting me. He scared Joey away, and Xander’s only nine and a half.”
    “That’s his nature, too. He wants to help, especially if somebody’s being hurt.”
    “Because he’s like you.”
    “That’s nice to hear. And you, my treasure.” He bent down, kissed her fingers. “You’re most like your mother. With something extra all your own. Your curious nature. Always taking things apart, not just to see how they work but how they fit. When you were a baby, it wasn’t enough to tell you not to touch something. You had to touch it, to see what it felt like, to see what happened. It’s never been enough for you to be told something. You have to see for yourself.”

    She leaned her head against his arm. The heat was thick and drowsy. Somewhere in the distance thunder grumbled. She wished she had a secret, something deep and dark and personal so she could tell him. She knew, in that moment, she could tell him anything.
    Then across the street, the door opened. They brought Mr. Pastorelli out, one detective on either side of him. He was wearing jeans and a dingy white T-shirt. He kept his head down, as if he was embarrassed, but she could see the line of his jaw, the set of his mouth, and she thought, Anger.
    One of the detectives carried a big red can, and the other a large plastic bag.
    Mrs. Pastorelli was crying, loud sobs, as she stood in the doorway. She held a bright yellow dishcloth and buried her face in it.
    She wore white sneakers, and the laces of the left shoe had come untied.
    People came out of their houses again to watch. Old Mr. Falco sat on his steps in his red shorts, his skinny white legs almost disappearing into the stone. Mrs. DiSalvo stopped on the sidewalk with her little boy Christopher. He was eating a grape Popsicle. It looked so shiny, so purple. Everything seemed so bright, so sharp, in the sunlight.
    Everything was so quiet. Quiet enough that Reena could hear the harsh breaths Mrs. Pastorelli took between each sob.
    One of the detectives opened the back door of the car, and the other put his hand on Mr. Pastorelli’s head and put him inside. They put the can—gas can, she realized—and the green plastic bag in the trunk.
    The one with dark hair and stubble on his face like Sonny Crockett said something to the other, then crossed the street.
    “Mr. Hale.”
    “Detective Umberio.”
    “We’ve arrested Pastorelli on suspicion of arson. We’re taking him and some evidence into custody.”
    “Did he admit it?”
    Umberio smiled. “Not yet, but with what we’ve got, odds are he will. We’ll let you know.” He glanced back to where Mrs. Pastorelli sat in the doorway, wailing into the yellow dishcloth. “She’s got a black eye coming up, and she’s crying for him. Takes all kinds.”

    He tapped two fingers to his forehead in a little salute, then crossed back to the car. As he got in, pulled away from the curb, Joey streaked out of the house.
    He was dressed like his father, in jeans and a T-shirt that was gray from too many washings and not enough bleach. He screamed at the police as he ran to the car, screamed horrible words. And he was crying, Reena saw with a little twist in her heart.