High Noon

I understand. Why don’t you bring them out now? All of you together. I’d like you to put your weapons down now, Mr. Brinker, and come out with your family.”
    “I can’t do that. I’m very sorry.”
    “Can you tell me why not?”
    “This is my house. This is the only way we can be together. I thought about this carefully.”
    Planned out, not impulse, she thought as she made notes. Not anger but sorrow. “You sound tired.”
    “I am. I’m very tired. I’ve done my best, but it’s never quite good enough. It’s exhausting to never be quite good enough.”
    “I’m sure you’ve done your best. It’s hard, don’t you think, to make important decisions when you’re tired and upset? You sound tired and upset. I’d like to help you, Mr. Brinker. I’d like to help you work this all out so you can make the right decision for your family.”
    “I painted this living room. Kate picked the color. I didn’t like it—too yellow—and we argued. Remember, Kate? We fought over the yellow paint right there in the Home Depot, and she won. So I painted it. And she was right. It’s sunny in here. She was right.”
    Living Room, Phoebe wrote on her pad, circling it. “You did the painting. I’m terrible at painting. Can’t get the cutting-in part. Have you and your family lived here long?”
    “Ten years. It’s a good place to raise children. That’s what we thought. Good neighborhood, good schools. We need a bigger house, but…”
    “Your family’s grown.” Family, family, family, Phoebe told herself. Focus on family. “How many children do you have?”
    “Three. We have three. We didn’t plan on Penny. We couldn’t really afford…”
    “Penny’s your youngest, then? How old is Penny?”
    “Two, Penny’s two.”
    Phoebe heard an excited child’s voice call: “Daddy!”
    “Is that her I hear?” Now she heard a choked sob from Brinker and kept talking. “She sounds very sweet. I have a little girl. She’s seven, and I just wonder where the years went. I love her more than anything. She sure keeps me busy, though. I imagine your family keeps you very busy.”
    “I’ve done my best. I don’t know why it’s not enough. If I’d gotten the full professorship, we could afford a bigger house.”
    “You sound discouraged. It must be hard. You have an older daughter, is that right? Jessie, and then a boy in the middle, Aaron. Your wife, Kate, and you must be very proud. Still, it’s a lot of work. I understand that. A lot of worry.”
    “I needed that professorship. I needed tenure. I needed Kate to understand.”
    The use of past tense, and the despair, set off alarms. “Tell me what you need Kate to understand, Mr. Brinker.”
    “That I can’t do any more than I can do, or be more than I can be. But it’s not enough. I’m the husband, I’m the father. I’m supposed to make it work. But things fall apart; the center cannot hold.”
    “That’s Yeats, isn’t it?” She closed her eyes, hoping she hadn’t made a mistake.
    There was a beat of silence. “Yes. You know Yeats?”
    “Some. And I think sometimes that’s true, things do fall apart, or seem to. The center can’t always hold it all. But I also think things can be rebuilt, or reformed, and the center shored up again to hold it all differently. What do you think?”
    “Once it falls, it’s not the same.”
    “Not the same, but still there.”
    “My family’s fallen apart.”
    “But they’re still there, Mr. Brinker, and I hear how much you love them, every one of them. I don’t believe you want to hurt them. Or that you want to hurt them by hurting yourself. You’re the father.”
    “Weekend father. Perish instead of publish.”
    “I hear you’re discouraged, and you’re sad. But you’re not ready to stop trying. You and Kate, eighteen years together, and those beautiful children you’ve made together. You don’t want to stop trying. You love them too much.”
    “She doesn’t want me anymore. What’s the point? We made it all together. I thought we should end it all together. Here, in our home. The five of us, going together.”
    Thought we should. This time his use of past tense told her they might be turning a corner. “The five of you need to come out together, Mr. Brinker. Your children sound frightened. I can hear them crying now. You and your wife are their parents, you and your wife are responsible for keeping them safe and well.”
    “I don’t know what to do anymore.”
    “Look at your