“Talk through this,” Somers said, with that way he had of reading Hazard’s mind. “He looks like you. Let’s start there.”
“I’ve read articles about expectations and perception. They’ve done studies with neuroimaging and electrophysiology. We see what we expect to see.”
“Are you talking about the kid?”
Hazard stared past Somers, his gaze still locked on the boy.
“Is it even remotely possible—” Somers began.
The words pulled Hazard’s eyes back to his husband. “With a woman?” He could hear the horror in his voice, but it was too late. “Jesus Christ, John.”
“Ok,” Somers said, lips quirking into a grin that melted away. “That answers that. What about, you know, like a donation.” His lips trembled again. “Maybe a turkey baster. No, no, no, stop.” He moved into Hazard’s path, stroking his chest again, urging him away from the living room. “I’m sorry. Bad time for jokes. But he looks like you—”
“Expectation, John. Expectation and perception.”
“Right, but he looks a lot like you. It’s uncanny. That’s not just expectation.”
“It’s a coincidence.”
“He was sitting on our porch. Whatever it is, it’s more than coincidence.”
Frustration knotted Hazard’s voice; he sounded reedy when he forced out the words, “He is not my son.”
“I believe you. Hey, come on, we’ll figure this out.”
Hazard nodded jerkily. He had to look away from the tenderness in Somers’s face, but then Somers pulled him into a hug, and Hazard let himself lean in, his nose buried in Somers’s hair. Somers rubbed his back.
After a few moments, Hazard broke free and cleared his throat. “I’m tired.”
“We’re both tired.”
“I should have handled this better.”
Somers’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think there’s a script for this kind of thing.”
“I should have been logical about this.”
“Oh Lord.”
“And logic says that this son of a bitch—”
“I can hear you,” the kid called from the other room.
“—is lying.” Hazard took off for the living room.
“Ree, let’s slow down—”
But Hazard had moved beyond his reach, and he didn’t look back. When he got to the living room, he swatted the DVDs out of the boy’s hand. They hit the floor, the plastic cases clattering, and the boy let out an indignant noise.
“Who are you?” Hazard asked.
“Ares Hazard. My mom—”
“Bullshit.” Hazard spun. Somers was coming into the room, trying to get in Hazard’s path. Hazard stiff-armed him out of the way and grabbed the backpack. He yanked on the zipper and dumped the pack’s contents onto the couch: a pair of jeans, several pairs of white briefs that had been washed until they were gray, a small cardboard box with an ethnically ambiguous man on the front and the words Who’s Your Daddy?, two t-shirts (one for Budweiser, one with the picture of a buck caught in crosshairs), and a paperback of Catcher in the Rye.
“Hey!” the kid shouted.
“Ree, Jesus,” Somers said.
Hazard turned the backpack inside out. In silver marker, someone had written the name COLT. He grabbed a pair of briefs, where in the same letters someone had used a black marker to write the name again.
“His name is Colt.” Hazard tossed the briefs at the boy. “Not Ares.”
The boy—Colt—batted the underwear away and lunged forward “That’s my shit, you freak! That’s mine!”
Hazard yanked the pack away, holding it out of reach.
“You motherfucker,” Colt said. His face was splotchy, and his voice was thin and high. “You can’t do that to my stuff!”
“Ree, for the love of God.” Somers snatched the backpack and moved over to the boy. He dropped into a crouch and began loading the clothes back in, but Colt elbowed him out of the way and ripped the backpack out of his hands. Somers rocked sideways and landed on his ass.
“Did you just lay your hand on him?” Hazard shouted, stepping in toward the kid.
Somehow, Somers was back on his feet and faster than Hazard. He caught Hazard with his shoulder and forced him back a step.
Hazard pawed at him. “That son of a bitch knocked you down!”
“Jesus Christ,” Somers said, shoving him back another step.
“Don’t touch my stuff!” Colt screamed.
“I’ll touch whatever I fucking want,” Hazard roared back. “This is my fucking house!”
“Enough!” Somers shouted.
In the lull that followed, blood howled in Hazard’s ears. He pressed into Somers’s shoulder and tried to force his way forward again.
“Cut it out,” Somers snapped at Hazard. Then, to Colt, he said, “Kid, this is going to shit fast. Everybody needs to cool down.”
Colt was breathing so rapidly that he sounded on the verge of hyperventilating. Red stained his cheeks. His eyes were wet, and as Hazard watched, the first tears rolled down his cheeks. The boy wiped them away furiously, blinking and trying to fix them both with a glare at the same time.
“He is my dad,” Colt said. It sounded like he was having trouble getting the words out. “My mom told me. She saw him on the news and told me.”
“That’s fucking bullshit.”
Somers rounded on him. His eyes were wide with what Hazard recognized, distantly, as disbelief. “Ree, shut up.”
The words rang through the house. Hazard’s face prickled. Below them, the furnace chugged and groaned. One of the ducts boomed hollowly as the metal expanded.
“I’m sorry,” Somers said in an undertone. “But you’re making this impossible.”
Hazard stared past him. The shelves needed dusting; he could see where Colt had moved things, where he had rested his hand. Somers touched his arm, and Hazard angled his body away.
“All right.” Somers scratched his eyebrow. He stared at the floor. Then he turned back to the boy. “Go ahead.”
Colt worked his jaw for a moment. Then he rolled one shoulder. “That’s all. I told you: he’s my dad.”
“What’s your mom’s name?”
“Mary McDermaid.”
When Somers checked over his shoulder, Hazard kept his gaze on the bookshelves, but he shook his head.
“Make him take a test,” Colt said. He fumbled through the pack and came up with the cardboard box: Who’s Your Daddy?
“I can’t make him—” Somers began.
“Fine,” Hazard said.
“Ree, I don’t think—”
“Let’s get it over with.” When Colt turned the box over, Hazard’s brain kicked into gear. “Wait. I want to see it.”
Colt made a disgusted noise, but he passed the box to Somers, who inspected it briefly before handing it to Hazard. Hazard took longer, checking the seal on the box, checking the box itself for signs of tampering, before opening it and inspecting each item individually. Nothing looked like it had been altered or contaminated. The swabs, tubes, and envelopes were all still sealed in their packaging.