Cross Fire

Alex, you’re here. Good. Take these plates outside,” she said as if breakfast delivery were something I did every day. “Scoot, while it’s hot!”
    When I came back, my own plate was waiting for me — scrambled eggs with linguica, wheat toast, orange juice, and a steaming cup of Nana’s chicory coffee in my old favorite
#1 Dad
mug with the dent where Ali had thrown it against the wall.
    Her own breakfasts were a lot more heart-healthy these days — grapefruit sections, toast with unsalted butter, tea, and then one half of one sausage link, because as Nana liked to say, there was a fine line between eating smart to live longer and boring oneself to death.
    “Alex, I want to call a truce,” she said, finally settling down across from me.
    “Here’s to that,” I said, and raised my juice glass. “I accept your terms, whatever they are.”
    “Because there’s something else I need to talk to you about.”
    I had to laugh. “That was just about the shortest cease-fire I’ve ever seen. What is this, the Middle East?”
    “Oh, relax. It’s about Bree.”
    As far as I knew, Bree was right up there with sliced bread, Barack Obama, and handwritten letters in Nana’s book. How bad could this be?
    “You know, after all this, you’d be a silly fool to let that girl slip through your fingers,” she started in.
    “Absolutely,” I said, “and if I may, I’d like to draw the court’s attention to the very nice diamond ring on Ms. Stone’s left hand.”
    Nana waved my logic away with her fork. “Rings come off just as easily as they go on. I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you’ve got something of a track record with women, and not in a good way.”
    Ouch.
Still, I couldn’t deny it. For whatever reasons, I’d never been able to find real stability in a relationship since my first wife, Maria, had been murdered so many years earlier.
    At least, not until now with Bree.
    “If it makes you feel any better,” I said, “I took Bree up to Immaculate Conception and asked her to marry me all over again, right there in front of God and creation.”
    “And what did she say?” Nana deadpanned.
    “She’s going to have to get back to me on that. But seriously, Nana, where is this coming from? Have I given you some reason to doubt us?”
    She was up to her half sausage now, and she held up a finger for me to wait while she lovingly, almost reverently, devoured the cylinder. Then, as if she were starting a whole new conversation, she looked up again and said, “You know I’m going to be ninety this year?”
    It came out with a smile — I
think
she was going to be around ninety-two — but the words stopped me cold anyway.
    “Nana, is there something you’re not telling me?”
    “No, no,” she said. “I’m right as rain. Couldn’t be better. Just thinking ahead, that’s all. No one lasts forever. At least, not that I know about.”
    “Well, think a little
less
ahead, okay? And, by the way, you’re not car parts. You’re one hundred percent irreplaceable.”
    “Of course I am!” She reached over to put her hand on top of mine. “And
you
are a strong, capable, and wonderful father. But you can’t do this alone, Alex. Not the way you run the other half of your life.”
    “Maybe so, but it’s not why I’m marrying Bree,” I told her. “And it’s not a good enough reason to either.”
    “Well, I can think of worse. Just don’t blow it, mister,” she said, and sat back again with a wink to let me know she was joking.
    Half joking anyway.

Chapter 38

    I SHOWED UP at St. Anthony’s that morning feeling pretty good about the way the day had started. My conversation with Nana was a little hard, but productive, I thought. It felt as if we were on the same team again. Maybe it was a sign that things were looking up in general.
    Then again — maybe not.
    Bronson James’s social worker, Lorraine Solie, was waiting for me in the hall when I got there. As soon as I saw how red and puffy her eyes were, my stomach dropped.
    “Lorraine? What’s happened?”
    She started to explain, and then she just broke down in tears. Lorraine was tall and very thin, but I’d seen her hold her own with some very rough characters. This could mean only that the worst kind of thing had happened.
    I ushered her into the office, and we sat down on the vinyl couch where Bronson usually perched for our sessions.
    I finally had to ask, “Lorraine, is he dead?”
    “No,” she said, wiping her eyes. “But