Antonia's Choice by Nancy Rue Page B

with a bag full of remedies the pharmacist had suggested—enough to medicate a small village of preschoolers—as well as a package of chicken breasts and all the fixings for hush puppies and corn bread. Ben was still asleep, and I finally tucked him back in on the couch when Reggie got there.
    â€œLook how precious he is,” Reggie said. “Sweet little of mouth.”
    I grunted. “It looks sweet now. Wait till he’s feeling better.”
    But as she went off to take the groceries to the kitchen, I kneltdown next to him and gingerly touched his hot cheek. Salty tears had left a trail, and I had the urge to kiss it away. I hadn’t felt that kind of tenderness toward him since he’d started behaving as if I were the enemy—and that was even before Chris and I had split up.
    Just a few weeks before, in fact. We’d tried to keep up a front for him and had swept even our controlled confrontations completely out of his earshot. It was one of the reasons I had let him spend some weekends at Bobbi’s, so he wouldn’t see us hashing things to rubble.
    Something shifted in me then. Reggie found me still kneeling there, staring at Ben, when she came in with chewable tablets and a glass of apple juice.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, honey?” she whispered.
    I held up a finger for her to wait and then roused Ben enough to get the pills and a few swallows of juice into him. He downed them placidly and curled back into a mewing little ball.
    â€œI think you’ve been exaggerating about him,” Reggie whispered. “Bless his heart.”
    I led her out into the foyer and leaned against a column, my eyes riveted to the ceiling, two stories up.
    â€œJust what did your mama say, Toni?” she said.
    I told her, each word as wooden and even as the teeth on the crown molding. Until I told her what had just occurred to me as I watched my son sleep. Then my voice got thick.
    â€œReggie,” I said, “you don’t think Ben saw any of those pictures in Sid’s studio, do you? I mean, I did leave him there for whole weekends.”
    â€œOh, honey, I don’t think so. Wouldn’t he have told you about something like that?”
    I brought my eyes down to give her a look. “He won’t even tell me what he did in kindergarten when I ask him.”
    â€œSomethin’ that disturbing, though, it sure seems like he’d say
somethin’.”
    â€œI don’t know what to think.” I tucked my hair behind my ears for probably the eightieth time that afternoon. “The problem is, I just don’t know enough about this stuff to even know what we’redealing with.” I patted my fist against my mouth. “Tell you what—while you’re cooking supper, I’m going to get out my laptop and check this out on the ’Net.”
    â€œYou’re braver than I am,” she said.
    With the aromas of bacon grease and cornmeal wafting toward me, I set my laptop on the counter and made my way into the entrails of the Internet. What I found was in such sharp contrast to Reggie’s humming and stirring and happy chopping, I wasn’t sure it was real. I didn’t see how it could be.
    â€œHoney,” Reggie said to me, “you’re lookin’ a little green there. What does it say?”
    â€œYou sure you want to hear?”
    â€œI told you—I don’t want you going through this alone.”
    â€œYou might change your mind after this,” I said, then read from the screen: “Trafficking in children and adolescents under the age of eighteen for sexual exploitation purposes is a global market, with links to arms and drug networks, as well as to legitimate businesses through money laundering.”
    â€œSo your brother-in-law’s in it for the money,” Reggie said.
    â€œOf course he is. It only makes sense—his dot-com venture went under—he’s a computer fanatic—he’s always