Dysfluency
“Judith,” he says, as he always does. “I’ve got someone I want Auggie to speak with.”
“A lawyer.”
He clears his throat. “A friend of Lana’s. Nothing official, Jude. Just someone to go over things with him. Before Tuesday.”
I press my finger into the frozen chicken, feeling no give. I should have taken it out yesterday. “He doesn’t need a lawyer,” I say. “This isn’t a criminal case.”
Ron sighs. “I don’t think that’s the point, is it.”
“What’s the point, then?”
“To get our ducks in a row. To be prepared.” His voice is clipped, irritated with me. When Auggie stuttered, Ron would say Come on, now, spit it out.
“You think he did it,” I say.
“Of course not. Of course I don’t.” Ron pauses, and I imagine him pacing with one hand on top of his head, the way he used to when he was on the phone with the bank. When we married, he wanted me to stay home. During the first few days of each month, when the bills were due, I knew to tiptoe around him.
“But who knows what the hell she’s going to say,” he says. “And who are they going to believe?”
For a moment I wait, ears pricked, as if expecting an answer.
When dinner is ready, I knock on Auggie’s door. I pause, knock again. Nothing. I open the door. The room is dark, the air heavy with the scent of dust from the radiators and of unwashed clothes. Auggie is asleep on top of his covers, curled into a ball. One sneaker is on. He is holding his phone in his hand. I move closer, touching his forehead. He is breathing irregularly, long stretches in between each breath. He does not feel warm, but to be sure I lean down and touch my lips to his cheek. I can feel the beginnings of stubble, the raised acne scars. My mouth hovers there, above his skin, as if I am trying to absorb him into myself, to know him again. It’s me, I want to say. Where are you? I want to shake him. I want to tickle him until he giggles. I want to pick him up and throw him over my shoulder, anything for a response.
Just then, his phone lights up. A green bubble appears on the screen, half of it obscured by his thumb. My eyes prickle as they work to focus. The name Pinkgrrl. The words please and pictures and police. I reach for the phone. Who is this? I want to type. What do you know? But as I pinch the glass and metal, Auggie inhales and rolls away, pulling the phone from my fingers.
The screen goes black, and I straighten up. There is no fever.
*
The next morning, he is in the same clothes, the strands of hair that fall over his eyes darkened with oil, standing in the kitchen with his backpack on. “I’m going to be late,” he says.