The Broken Window

had been at a loss for words. There they were, grown men, talking like children about a stolen comic book or piece of candy.
    “He gave away the one thing that was important to me. And he gave it to you .” His voice was breaking. Was he crying?
    “Arthur, I just answered some questions. It was a game.”
    “A game? . . . What kind of fucking game was that? It was Christmas Eve! We should’ve been singing carols or watching It’s a Wonderful Life . But, no, no, Father had to turn everything into a fucking classroom. It was embarrassing! It was boring. But nobody had the balls to say anything to the great professor.”
    “Jesus, Art, it wasn’t my fault! It was just a prize I won. I didn’t steal anything from you.”
    A cruel laugh. “No? Well, Lincoln, it ever occur to you that maybe you did?”
    “What?”
    “Think about it! Maybe . . . my father.” He’d paused, breathing deeply.
    “What the hell’re you talking about?”
    “You stole him! Did you ever wonder why I never tried out for varsity track? Because you had the lock on that! And academically? You were his other son, not me. You sat in on his classes at U of C. You helped him with his research.”
    “This’s crazy. . . . He asked you to come to class too. I know he did.”
    “Once was enough for me. He picked me apart until I wanted to cry.”
    “He cross-examined everybody, Art. That’s why he was so brilliant. He made you think, he pushed you until you got the right answer.”
    “But some of us could never get the right answer. I was good. But I wasn’t great. And the son of Henry Rhyme was supposed to be great. It didn’t matter, though, because he had you. Robert went to Europe, Marie moved to California. And even then he didn’t want me. He wanted you!”
    The other son . . .
    “I didn’t ask for the role. I didn’t sabotage you.”
    “Didn’t you? Ah, Mr. Innocent. You didn’t play the game? You just accidentally drove up to our house on weekends, even when I wasn’t there? You didn’t invite him to come to your track meets? Sure, you did. Answer me: Which of them would you really want for a father, mine or yours? Did your father ever fawn over you? Ever whistle for you from the stands? Give you that raised eyebrow of approval?”
    “That’s all bullshit,” Rhyme had snapped. “You’ve got some issue with your father and what do you do? You sabotage me . I could’ve gotten into M.I.T. But you ruined that! And my whole life changed. If it weren’t for you, everything would’ve been different.”
    “Well, I can say the same about you, Lincoln. I can say the same. . . .” A harsh laugh. “Did you even try with your father? What do you think he felt, having a son like you, who was a hundred times smarter than he was? Going off all the time because he’d rather hang out with his uncle. Did you even give Teddy a chance?”
    At that, Rhyme had slammed the phone into the cradle. It was the last time they talked. Several months later he was paralyzed at the crime scene.
    Everything would’ve been different. . . .
    After he’d explained this to Sachs she said, “That’s why he never came to see you after you were hurt.”
    He nodded. “Back then, after the accident, all I could do was lie in bed and think that if Art hadn’t changed the application I would have gotten into M.I.T. and maybe done graduate work at Boston University or joined the BPD or come to New York earlier or later. In any case I probably wouldn’t’ve been at the subway crime scene and . . .” His voice dissolved to silence.
    “The butterfly effect,” she said. “A small thing in the past makes a big difference in the future.”
    Rhyme nodded. And he knew that Sachs could take in this information with sympathy and understanding and make no judgments about the broader implications—which he would choose: walking and leading a normal life, or being a crip and perhaps a far better criminalist because of it . . . and, of course, being her partner.
    This was the type of woman Amelia Sachs was.
    He gave a faint smile. “The funny thing is, Sachs . . .”
    “There was something to what he said?”
    “My own father never seemed to notice me at all. He certainly never challenged me the way my uncle did. I did feel like Uncle Henry’s other son. And I liked it.” He’d come to realize that maybe, subconsciously, he had been pursuing boisterous, full-of-life Henry Rhyme. He was pelted with a dozen fast memories