Matter of Trust by Sydney Bauer

expected of him and turned off his cell so that he might listen and respond and smile and impress and lay the foundations for the next chapter in his flourishing political career. But all the time, all he could think of was the sparkle in her eyes, the sweet smell of her hair and the warmth of her body as she lay her head against his shoulder and told him that she wanted nothing from him bar his love – and that she had resolved long ago where she belonged and where she didn’t, and that she was grateful for the little they had.
    â€˜Dad,’ said Connor Kincaid as his father switched on the kitchen light and saw the three boys sitting on the granite-topped kitchen counter before him. He had obviously given his son a start – which was more than understandable given Chris was home much earlier than usual and the boys were sitting in the semi-darkness cupping three cans of ice cold Buds.
    â€˜Basketball got cancelled and I . . .’ Connor trailed off, obviously not sure how to explain himself. Chris felt an almighty wave of nostalgia – for those three other kids, all those years ago, who used to steal the odd beer or two from their parents’ refrigerators, and sit comforted by the dark in some out of the way household corner, feeling nervous and courageous at the same time.
    â€˜Is there another one of those in the fridge for me?’ he asked, and he saw his son’s shoulders relax.
    â€˜Sure,’ said Connor, jumping from the bench, a look of confusion and relief on his dark narrow face. Connor was not used to anyone giving him a break, and Chris decided then and there that was one of many things that had to change around here. Life was short, after all.
    â€˜Hi, Mr Kincaid,’ said the boy nearest him, and Chris took the opportunity to focus on his son’s two guests – once again finding a strange sense of comfort in the identity of the two boys sitting before him.
    â€˜Jack,’ he said, moving into the kitchen proper and extending his handtoward the good-looking, brown-haired kid before him. ‘Will,’ he said, turning to the second boy – a taller, darker, older kid who was eighteen but could pass for twenty-five. ‘It’s good to see you both. Did you boys catch up at Saint Stephen’s this morning?’
    It was a fair question. Jack Delgado and Will Cusack were not part of Connor’s usual private school crowd. The three boys had met in September 2002, when Chris had helped organise a fundraising rally a year after the 9/11 attacks. The rally honoured the ‘Brave 37’ men of the New York/New Jersey Port Authority Police Department who had died on that fateful day – men who included George Delgado and John Cusack. What made it worse, at least in Jack’s case, was the fact Jack’s brother had been killed as well. George Delgado had been freelancing for extra cash as a part-time security officer at the World Trade Center – and he had taken Jack’s twin brother Joshua to work with him that morning because the boy had a lunchtime appointment with an orthodontist in Manhattan.
    Jack and Will had grown up as friends – their parents enrolling them in the same Catholic elementary and high schools. And when, at the 2002 fundraiser, Chris recognised their school uniforms as the one he had worn as a kid, he’d introduced himself to their mothers and invited them around for dinner. And despite his own mother’s protests that this was way beyond his political obligations, Chris was glad that he had, for Connor had struck up a friendship with the pair – a friendship that had continued despite their social and economic separation.
    It was Will, the more confident of the two, who answered Chris’s question. ‘We cornered Connor after your speech, Senator,’ he said. ‘And he invited us around for a . . .’
    â€˜I’m glad,’ said Chris, finding a strange comfort