Disclaimer: I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

Rating: T+

Spoilers: Few, though most strongly from episode "High Noon-ish."

A/N: Not that it matters, but "Aunt Carolyn" is, in my head, portrayed by Tyne Daly. Likewise, "Sean Carlton Lassiter" (the currently-jailed father) is played by a circa-Star Trek: The Motion Picture Deforest Kelly. (Upgrade that to roughly Star Trek: The Undiscovered Country for my other ongoing, "Objects in the Rear View Mirror May Appear Closer Than They Are.") You didn't ask, but I'd like you to know. Although part of me really, really didn't want you to know. Aunt Carolyn, meanwhile, comes from my previous Carlowe fic, "Who's Psyching Who?" I liked her. Thought I'd explore her a little more.


Family Portrait

The police weren't done with him. The second officer, whose nametag read "Trainor," came to take the boy's statement while Officer Spencer stood listening with his arms crossed over his chest. The boy told them everything he'd heard, and everything he'd done. When he mentioned that the man had lured the girls with talk of carousel horses, Officer Spencer grunted.

"Carousel horses. He had four of 'em down in his basement, half-refinished."

The boy's face twisted in a startlingly adult expression of disdain. "A filthy kidnapper, but an honest man," he said, and Officer Spencer laughed just a little bit.

The boy continued his statement, and when he was finished, Officer Spencer put a hand on his shoulder. "You say he targeted your sister, too, right?" he said.

"Yes, Sir."

"Can I speak with her? Get her statement? Not that I don't believe yours, you understand, but when we take this guy to court it will be good to have corroborating statements - statements that agree with each other. Plus, I don't think it would be a bad thing for her to know for sure and all that listening to her big brother in this instance saved her from a world of hurt."

"Sure, Sir. I told her to go back to the house. I'll go get her." The boy turned and began to drag Lincoln down the street. Officer Spencer stopped him.

"I'll look after this little guy. Just go get your sister," he said, with a hand now on Lincoln's shoulder.

Sky blue eyes met dark blue eyes, and there were clear questions and uncertainties in sky blue. Foremost among these was, Are you sure you wanna do that?

"Go on, Son. I've got a little boy just a little bit younger, and I'd be willing to bet twice as hyperactive and self-destructive. You can trust me for the few minutes it'll take to bring your sister back here," Officer Spencer said, with a smile.

"Oh…okay, Sir, if you're sure," the boy said, and released his hold on his younger brother before taking off up the street. He heard Officer Spencer's voice, talking to Lincoln, as he ran.

"Your big brother looks after you good, doesn't he? That's good to see."

He burst through the front door and found Geena, sulking on the living room sofa, and grabbed her by the arm. "Come on, you've got to talk to the cops."

His mother came to the doorway of the kitchen, holding a wooden spoon. "Booker, where do you think you're going? Supper's almost ready."

"Geena has to talk to the cops, Ma," he said.

"But supper's almost ready," she said again.

The boy stopped short, slightly disbelieving. "Ma. It's the cops. Amy Steinbreck got kidnapped. The police need to hear Geena's side of the story."

"Oh, all right, run along and play," she said, gesturing with her spoon, "but don't you be one minute late to this table, you hear me?"

"I…I'll try, Ma. See you."

He tugged his sister out of the house and into the yard, whereupon she set her heels and jerked out of his grasp.

"No, CJ. I'm not going anywhere with you!" she said, furiously.

He sighed. "Geena," he said.

"No! You made me look like a dork in front of my friend!"

He goggled at her. "Geena, did you hear what I said in there? Let me spell it out for you. Uncle Joe kidnapped Amy. He tied her up and put duck tape over her mouth. Selling her to gypsies is probably the nicest thing he might have had planned for her, and he would have done it to you, too."

"I'm going to sell you to gypsies" was their mother's favorite threat.

He tried to take her wrist again, but she pulled away from him. Her face screwed up and she started to wail.

"Geena. Don't cry," he said, and drew her in for a hug. "Come on. Be brave. Nothing happened to you, and Amy's okay, too. The police rescued her. Now Officer Spencer wants you to tell him what happened, and you've got to do that, all right? Just tell him everything Uncle Joe said. Everything you remember."

She sniffled and nodded against his chest. He drew back and took her hand. He led her down the street to the police cruisers, the CSU van, the ambulance, and the crowd of neighborhood looky-loos he'd been too preoccupied to notice before. Kenny stood in the midst of them, on his bike, eyes wide and slightly awed.

"Is she gonna be able to do this?" Officer Spencer asked, when they were close enough. Geena had her eyes fixed on the ground at her feet and still sniffled occasionally.

The boy squeezed her shoulders. "She'll be all right. She's tough."

Officer Spencer's lips quirked in a half smile, and he squatted down in front of the little girl. "Your name is Geena. Is that right?"

She nodded.

"Can you tell me what happened here today, Geena?" Officer Spencer asked. "Take your time."

Geena shrugged out from under her brother's arm, and in that moment he could tell she had decided to be furious at him again. He sighed and rolled his eyes. She told the first part of the story straight enough, but when she got to the point where the boy had intervened she made some editorial comments.

"My stupid brother grabbed me and told me to get in the house, like I'm some kind of baby," she said. "He told me I had chores to do, which is so totally a lie. Then he tried telling Amy that she had chores to do, too."

"You're mad at your brother," Officer Spencer said. It wasn't a question.

"I'm always mad at my brother. He's such a dork, and he's so bossy. He's always telling me what to do, what not to do. I'm sick of it."

Officer Spencer nodded. "I see. Well, maybe he is a dork. Maybe he is bossy. But maybe, just maybe, he knows what he's talkin' about. He did today. Little Amy Steinbreck might not be alive right now if he hadn't told Mr. and Mrs. Steinbreck what he saw and heard. And if he hadn't stopped you from following, you might not be alive right now, either. Your brother saved her life. He saved yours. He's a hero."

Geena's face twisted into the sulky pout the boy knew so well. Oh well. As long as he had the strength to put her into a decent headlock he could get her to obey him if not exactly listen to him.

Officer Spencer stood up, raised his arms out to his sides, and let them drop, in a "Well, I tried" gesture. "Thanks, Sir. It's okay," the boy said, and his expressive eyes added, "I'm used to it."

The EMTs brought a stretcher out of the house. Amy Steinbreck lay on her back on it, strapped down for transport but otherwise looking all right, with no tubes or needles or other medical accoutrements to show she'd been hurt. They lowered the stretcher to the grass and let her up. Her mother immediately swept her into her arms. She accepted her parents' effusions, but drew away from them as soon as she could and searched the crowd for something. When she spotted the boy, her face lit up.

"CJ!" she cried, and ran for him, arms outstretched. She gave him a huge hug and kissed his cheek. "They told me they wouldn't have found me if it weren't for you. Thank you so much! You're my hero!"

Stunned, the boy just stood there. Amy gave him another quick peck on the cheek, this one somehow much shier than the first, and ran back to her parents. The boy still stood where he was, in a state of shock. Amy Steinbreck had scarcely acknowledged his existence before today. Geena stared at him, her expression one of disgust mixed with surprise.

"The perks, kid, of bein' a hero," Officer Spencer said, sotto voce. "Kinda nice, right?"

The boy blushed to the tips of his ears.

Officer Trainor began calling for the crowd to disperse. Officer Spencer held up his hand to stop him.

"I think we should take a moment to acknowledge a happy ending," he said, in a voice pitched to carry to everyone assembled. "A kidnapping was foiled today almost before it could take place, and a little girl's life was saved. Thanks to this young man right here." He pointed to the boy. "I think he deserves a round of applause, don't you?"

He started clapping, and everyone except Geena, who was still staring at the boy in disgust, and Lincoln, who just looked confused, followed suit. The boy blushed redder, but he couldn't help grinning. It was nice to receive some positive attention, for a change. Around him he heard remarks like "Way to go!" and "That kid'll go far!" and, further off, a voice saying, "Those Lassiters are a bad bunch, but that CJ's a certifiable saint, not just for what he did here today, but for the way he gets those little hooligans to toe the line." Kenny stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

The applause died out and Officer Trainor resumed dispersing the onlookers. The boy grabbed hold of Lincoln and looked at Officer Spencer. "Do you need anything more from us, Sir?" he asked. "Mom expects us home for supper."

"Hold up just a minute, CJ; I've got something for you," Officer Spencer said, and went to his cruiser. He rummaged around in the front passenger side for a moment and came back holding something in his hand. He offered it to the boy. "Here. This'll do you 'til you get a real one."

It was a badge - plastic, but shiny, like metal - in a black plastic wallet. The boy looked at it. He couldn't quite explain to himself what he felt, looking at that silly plastic toy. An ineffable sense of rightness.

"Thank you, Sir," he said. His mouth formed the words automatically, the courtesy trained into him, ironically by people to whom courtesy was almost a foreign concept, but his mind was occupied with thoughts he'd never had before. He'd never really thought ahead; his mind was too taken up with the here and now. When his teachers asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he never had an answer for them, because he never really thought about growing up at all. This was the first time he ever really thought, This is what I want. I want this.

Officer Spencer ruffled his hair, and the boy smoothed it out immediately - what was it with people wanting to mess up his hair? - but he didn't really mind. "Go on home, kid. Have your supper," the policeman said, and the boy took his brother and sister in hand and turned back towards his house.

"Hey, wait up!" It was Kenny. The boy stopped and turned a questioning look to his friend.

"Can I have dinner with you guys?" he asked. The boy was shocked. Nobody asked to come to dinner at the Lassiter house.

"You'd better ask your dad," he said.

Mr. Marshall was not far away, part of the crowd slowly trudging back to their respective houses. Kenny called over his shoulder to him. "Hey Dad, mind if I eat with CJ and his family?"

"If it's all right with CJ's folks," came the reply.

"Come on, let's go ask 'em," Kenny said, and pedaled off down the street.

The boy followed after with his siblings unhurriedly, his mind troubled. On the one hand, having Kenny to talk to over dinner would be unmitigatedly cool, but the thought of Kenny subjected to an hour or so of unfiltered Lassiter Family was very uncool. Honestly, what was Mr. Marshall thinking? He was pretty slick about it, but the boy knew he kept his son away from the boy's family, at least the elders thereof, as much as possible. The boy didn't mind. He did his best to keep him away from them, himself. Kenny had years of exposure to the Lassiter siblings; the boy was a package deal, and the only time it was just the two of them was on the school playground, since the different grades of their small, all-in-one K through 12 Catholic school held recess at different times throughout the day. But Kenny had never really been subjected to a full dose of Mother, let alone Grandma.

Both at once? Man, he was going to be hit with both barrels.

His aunt was just pulling up to the house in her El Camino when they arrived. Aunt Carolyn was older than her sister by about five years, and wasn't much like her in appearance or demeanor. The boy liked her quite a bit. Carolyn Irene Quinn was a proud member of the Ventura Police Department, was openly critical of her little sister's marriage to a two-bit crook, had never married herself, and didn't particularly care for children. She was good to her niece and nephews, however, if not exactly open with her affections. Despite the physical rigors of her job, she was somewhat heavy-set, but could slam a man into a car hood with great authority. She wore her black hair in a single long plait.

She looked at the boy, and nodded her head to the pileup of official vehicles down the street. "Problems, CJ?"

"Attempted kidnapping. It all came out okay, though," he said, intentionally keeping it casual. Aunt Carolyn liked her facts delivered with a minimum of emotion.

"Were you just sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong, or did it have something to do with you?" she asked, her brown eyes forthright. The boy sometimes wondered whether she was really his mother's sister in blood. Quite apart from the fact that she was relatively nice, the little he'd learned in school about genetics indicated it was weird in the extreme for his blue-eyed family to crop up a brown-eyed woman. If the brown-eyed gene was there, they'd all be brown-eyed, wouldn't they? He hadn't learned enough in the short little course they'd had to learn that genetics weren't nearly as reliable as the scientists said they were. And he didn't yet know the biological concept of a "sport."

"Peripherally to do with us," the boy said. "We were witnesses." He looked back down the street to the police cars still gathered outside the Meek house and casually mentioned, "I'm the one who got the parents to call the police."

"Good," she said.

He looked back at her. "Aunt Carolyn?"

"Yes, Little Man?" She always called him that. She openly claimed him for her favorite because in no way, shape, or form was he actually a child, just an underdeveloped adult.

"I'm going to be a cop when I grow up." It was a statement. Pure fact. Not so much as a hint of uncertainty.

"Good," Aunt Carolyn said, with equal decision. "Come on, I'm hungry."

She started for the house. "Aunt Carolyn?" he called, and she stopped and looked back.

He gestured to Kenny, off his bike and standing by the front door looking somewhat anxious. "This is my friend Kenny Marshall. He's going to have dinner with us, if Mom says it's okay."

Her nod was slow and considering. "Okay. Nice to meet you, Kenny."

"Ma'am," Kenny said, with a nod of his own.

"Could you…" and the boy paused for a moment, "…help me keep them off of him? Just a little?" He knew he didn't have to explain any better than that. Aunt Carolyn knew her mother and sister better than he did.

"Of course, Little Man."

His relief was palpable, and to his aunt, just a hint of heartbreaking. Damn you, Myrna Mary Lassiter, she thought. Damn you, Ma.

It was bad enough her sister had to go and marry a drunken petty criminal, whom Carolyn suspected was physically abusive (if she knew, she would have done something about it, possibly something involving the unauthorized discharge of her service weapon, but nobody was talking and the evidence, if it was there, was hidden by clothes), but the way Myrna treated her children - exactly the way Brigit had treated her children - was shameful. Sure, kids were a handful, and in Carolyn's opinion no great joy, but they were children. They couldn't help it. You didn't need to treat them like dirt. You didn't have to treat them so they expected you to behave like a jackal towards their friends.

They entered the house together, and Carolyn's eyes flicked to the framed picture on the living room wall above the sofa, a professional portrait of her mother and father, taken about five years ago. The boy's eyes traveled there, too. Joseph Patrick Quinn was a smiling Irishman, with gray hair that showed faint signs of the red it used to be, and vivid blue eyes, ruddy cheeks (aided somewhat by the Bushmill's he was perhaps a little too fond of), and a general air of comfortable good-nature that was not at all a show. He'd been just that good-natured, drunk or sober, a laughing jokester with a good word for everybody. He was dead. A stroke, two years ago. The boy still missed him like a piece of his heart. Carolyn felt much the same. Sunday dinners since had been…not somber, but definitely painful without that presence there to alleviate things.

"You're late," the boy's mother said from the kitchen doorway, tapping her wooden spoon on the palm of her hand. "Dinner has been ready for awhile now."

"Sorry, Mama," the boy said.

"I expect punctuality from you, Booker," she said, ignoring everyone else who'd come in at the same time. "I expect lateness from Carolyn, since if she got here on time or, heaven forbid, early, she might have to help. But from you, I expect punctuality."

"Oh, leave the kid alone, Myrna," Aunt Carolyn snapped. "If I know you, you finished up the cooking thirty seconds ago. As for me, I get here when I get here. Ventura isn't just down the block, you know, and I have a life beyond these little family get-togethers."

His mother rared back to let her sister have it, but the boy cut in smoothly. "Mom, is it okay if Kenny has dinner with us? His Dad's cool with it."

"Booker, it's a little late to be springing guests on me," she said.

"Myrna, you know as well as I do you and mother cooked enough extra food to feed a battalion, let alone one small boy. Let the kid stay," Aunt Carolyn said.

His mother threw her hands in the air. "All right, for Heaven's sake. Booker, when you're setting the table, set it for an extra place. You'll have to drag a folding chair in from the cubby closet."

"Thanks, Mom," the boy said, and went to go find the chair. He set it at the table and began laying out plates and silverware and napkins and water glasses at the highest possible speed and efficiency. In his experience, his mother would not hit him with the large wooden spoon she kept gesticulating with, but also in his experience, it was better not to test assumptions. Grandmother scowled at him from where she hovered by the stove, silent and implacable, like a Puritan at a witch trial, the boy thought.

"Did you do your report?" she asked, and the suddenness of her voice in the silence startled him so that he fumbled and nearly dropped a water glass.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said.

"It had better be better than the last one you handed in," she said. "Did you even read 'The Miller's Tale?'"

The boy had a good memory, almost photographic, and he'd expended a great deal of effort slogging his way through the near-gibberish he made of Chaucer's randy story. "'Whylom ther was dwellinge at Oxenforde a riche gnof, that gestes heeld to borde, and of his craft he was a carpenter,' he quoted, struggling through the awkward pronunciations. "I will tell you honestly, Gramma, that all I get out of that is that the guy, whoever he is, is a carpenter. That's pretty much all I got out of the whole thing. I don't speak Old English, Gramma, or whatever it was written in. Stick me back on Shakespeare. He's easy compared to Chaucer."

"You are being impertinent, boy."

"Sorry, Gramma, didn't mean it," he said, though he knew full well he did.

"You got nothing out of that story?" she said.

"Well, I figured out that the carpenter was an old man who married an eighteen year old girl, and was jealous, and had a handsome young boarder living with him, some other guy was squeamish about farts, and both of those guys were after the wife, but she loved the boarder, Nicholas, and Nicholas pretended to be sick, or something, and then he told the carpenter that a great flood was coming, and they made him sleep on the roof in a washtub, or something, while the boarder and the wife got it on downstairs in the carpenter's bed, and after that it really made no sense. Maybe it would have, if I had some kind of translation."

"You shouldn't need a translation for English, boy," grandmother said.

"It wasn't English! It wasn't English as it has been spoken in the last six hundred years!"

"Booker! Set the table!" mother barked, coming into the kitchen again.

He jumped and returned to setting out plates and forks and glasses.

"Honestly, Gramma, I think I would have found the story was actually kind of cool, if I'd been able to understand it better," he said, over his shoulder as he worked. "I mean, the guy did mention farts right out there in print."

Grandmother snorted derisively. "That would be what you'd take away from it."

Yes, Gramma, 'cause I'm eleven, he thought but didn't say. Grandmother had taught at the high school level, and he just bet her former students were too cowed by her gimlet stare to snicker at the humor of The Canterbury Tales. Apparently she knew no other level at which to teach.

"I take it I have to do the report again?" he said, keeping his voice as meek as possible.

"You're damn right you have to do the report again, young man."

He sighed. "Yes, Gramma. I suppose you're going to make me do another new book report, too?"

"You're damn right I will."

"Can I make a request? The Call of the Wild."

"What?"

"The Call of the Wild, by Jack London. I…got hold of a copy this weekend…and I'm eager to read it."

"Bring me this book," she demanded, and he sighed and went to collect it from the room he shared with Lincoln. He handed her the copy and she flipped through it with that gimlet eye. "Well, it's…not an abridged or otherwise altered version, it would seem. Not something they spew out to make it easier for kids to read. I suppose you can read this."

"Thank you, Gramma."

A small coup, but a victory nonetheless. He took what he could get. Grandmother loved him, and he knew that, but she was a hard woman.

The family gathered in the kitchen and the boy directed everyone to their chairs. He took the uncomfortable folding chair for himself, put Lincoln to his left and Kenny to his right, and blocked him in with Geena, who could generally be counted on to behave like a human being at the dinner table - not so much because she was, the boy thought, but because it came fairly naturally to a girl to behave herself at the dinner table. Lincoln, on the other hand, could be counted on to play with his food, which the boy allowed to some extent, but he needed to be close at hand for the inevitable moment when he tried to stick an asparagus spear up his nose, or something similar.

The boy had purposely given the adults somewhat more space around the oval table. He sat Aunt Carolyn next to Geena, Grandmother next to Aunt Carolyn, and Mother between Grandma and Lincoln. They all sat down and clasped hands and bowed their heads while Grandmother said grace.

"Heavenly Father, bless this meal and this family gathered here, and those absent from our table. Grant us the strength to battle our demons and the grace to accept that which we cannot change," she intoned solemnly.

"Amen," the boy said, in a chorus with the others' voices, and he meant it, fervently, even though he'd already come to think of grace, as spoken by any given member of his family, as The Big Lie.

Mother got up and brought the first of the platters of food around. Country-style beef ribs, which had actually been simmering in a crock pot for most of the day, and the boy, who had not eaten anything all weekend except yesterday's buffalo burger and a too-distant Eggo waffle many long hours before that, felt his stomach clench in anticipation. Beef ribs were an unusual treat even at these Sunday spreads, because money was tight, even though both Grandma and Aunt Carolyn pitched in to help fund these family get-togethers. With so many people around the table, even without taking Kenny into account, there wouldn't be enough full ribs to go around. The grownups would get full ribs, with the children getting halves; just enough for a taste, really, but that was okay. A taste was better than nothing, and one thing was certain, there would be plenty of other food to sate his appetite.

So he was more than a little surprised when his mother put on his plate not one but two full ribs, smothered in deep red barbecue sauce. He looked up at her in surprise, and her expression gave nothing away. He glanced down the table. Geena had half a rib on her plate. Kenny had half a rib on his. To his left, Lincoln had maybe a third of a rib. He looked back at his plate, expecting to see half a rib, or maybe two thirds of one, but no, there were two ribs. He chanced a glance at the adults' plates. One rib. What gives?

Beside him, Kenny was evidently thinking the same thing. He nudged him gently in the side and whispered, "How do you rate?"

"Mom's always trying to fatten me up," he said. It was true, though it didn't usually extend to giving him bigger portions of "special" food. Expensive food. Mother was comfortably upholstered. Grandmother was comfortably upholstered. Aunt Carolyn was comfortably upholstered. The boy, like his father, was more of a stick figure, to the women's clear derision. Maybe Mother knew he hadn't eaten today.

More bowls and platters of food came around. Mashed potatoes and gravy, roasted corn, cornbread muffins. It wasn't all the food there was. It was just all the food one plate could hold. The rest would come around after the plates cleared the first time. In the oven, keeping warm, the boy could see a spiral-cut ham, there was a bowl of potato salad, there was a bowl of "pink salad," an ambrosia-like side dish made with whipped cream, strawberry Jello, marshmallows, and fruit cocktail, there was steamed mixed vegetables, and there was a massive carrot cake. Food the rest of the week was rather catch-as-catch-can, with Mother working or resting, as the case may be, leaving the boy and his siblings to forage for leftovers or microwavable foods (Eggos, enough to keep the company in business, and Quaker Oats, and potatoes potatoes potatoes potatoes. If there ever was an American potato blight, the boy knew one Irish family that was going to experience some major famine), but Sundays made up for that. When everyone was again seated and Mother started eating the boy dug in, trying to be slightly more mannerly than a wolf at a fresh caribou carcass.

Fortunately, the act of eating was serious business in this family, and no one attempted conversation before the ham was brought out. By that point the first pangs of appetite were sated and all bets were off. The boy fidgeted on his uncomfortable chair and wondered who would make the first asinine remark, mother or grandmother. He silently willed Kenny not to draw attention to himself, knowing that it really made no difference.

"So, CJ," Aunt Carolyn said, and bless her for speaking first, "what did you do this weekend?"

"Mom took me to Old Sonora," he said.

Aunt Carolyn looked sharply at her sister. "Old Sonora? The Old West tourist trap Daddy used to take us to? Myrna, I thought you'd never go back there. You always hated it."

"Booker likes cowboys," mother said, dismissively.

"Well. It's…surprisingly nice…and motherly…of you to put up with it for his sake," Aunt Carolyn said.

"I didn't. I dropped him off."

Aunt Carolyn dropped her fork. "You left an eleven year old boy at the Old West town forty miles outside of Santa Barbara?"

"If I'd stayed, I'd have had to deal with Geena and Lincoln. Lincoln would have been impossible to corral, and Geena would have pitched a royal fit about being there. Booker can take care of himself."

"Booker does take care of himself, far too much," Aunt Carolyn said. "What did you do while he was poking 'round Old Sonora?"

"What else would I do? I came back home. I picked him up this afternoon, after church. Booker doesn't need church quite as much as these little heathens do."

"You left him there overnight?" Aunt Carolyn was aghast.

"Which is so totally cool," Kenny said, in a low aside. "Tell me all about it later, promise?"

"Promise," the boy said.

"He's a boy, Carolyn," grandmother said over top of them. "What do you imagine would possibly happen to him?"

"Plenty. Do you realize that while you were in here cooking someone down the street was almost kidnapped? That could have been your child, Myrna!"

"Booker wouldn't get kidnapped," mother said.

"Geena almost did," Kenny said, rather brightly, and the boy elbowed him sharply.

"Not for lack of sense, I'll grant you," Aunt Carolyn said, either willfully or accidentally ignoring Kenny. "But little boys do get kidnapped. Someone could have snatched him right up and made off with him. I see it all the time."

"That would be like snatching up a wolverine," mother said, and despite himself the boy felt a slight puffing of pride.

Aunt Carolyn rolled her eyes, sighed, and let the subject by - sort of.

"Tell us about this attempted kidnapping, CJ," she said. "What happened, exactly?"

"I'll tell you what happened," Kenny said, excitedly. "CJ saved Amy Steinbreck's life, that's what happened. The cop said he was a hero. Amy did, too. She kissed him. Twice."

"Yuck," Geena said, distinctly.

Aunt Carolyn looked at the boy. "CJ? More fact, less thrill, please."

So the boy told the whole thing once again. He left out the part about the round of applause he'd received. Aunt Carolyn would probably accept that in good spirit but mother and grandmother would scoff. Wouldn't do to get a big head, anyway, and he'd had his moment.

"I always knew that Joe Meek was a damned pedophile," grandmother said. "Always watching the children."

The boy seriously doubted his grandmother could pick Joe Meek out of a police lineup, but he knew better than to say anything.

"What's a pedophile?" Lincoln asked, and he would be curious about that.

"It's someone who likes kids in a bad way," the boy told him, hoping to forestall the more explicit explanation grandmother would undoubtedly make.

"How can you like kids in a bad way?" Kenny asked, skeptically, and the boy looked at him and knew with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach that his friend had no idea what a pedophile was, and if he wasn't quick, someone at the table would tell him exactly.

"It's someone who likes to do bad things to kids," he said, in a rush. "You know, like kidnap them."

"Oh." Kenny was silent for a moment, considering. "Does that mean that Billy Lemke in the seventh grade is a pedophile? He likes to beat kids up and take their lunch money."

The boy's face flushed with embarrassment. "No, Billy Lemke is a bully," he said. "Pedophiles are…are…are adults."

"That is a very weak definition of a pedophile, boy," grandmother said. "Very weak."

"It's good enough for Kenny's ears, Ma," Aunt Carolyn said. "Lincoln's, too. I suppose it was you who told CJ the proper definition of a pedophile, despite the fact that he's years from his first whisker?"

"Forewarned is forearmed," grandmother said, with a haughty sniff.

"But he's a boy. You recently posited that such things don't happen to boys."

The adults began squabbling, three rather gruff and decidedly loud female voices overlapping until no sense could be made of what anyone was saying. The boy was relieved. It was actually better when this happened, though it was as embarrassing as all get-out. Kenny spoke to him under the cover of his elbow.

"Does this happen a lot?" he asked, in a low voice.

"All. The. Time," the boy said, pitching his voice just as low.

While the adults were at each other's throats the children were able to make quiet conversation with each other. Kenny asked if he couldn't please have another small dollop of pink salad and the boy got up and got him some. In all it was one of the more pleasant Sunday dinners the boy could remember, at least since Grampa died, with everybody on what was, unfortunately, their best behavior. At least they'd left Kenny alone.

Mother got up after awhile, still keeping up her end of the unintelligible argument, and began putting leftovers into Tupperware containers. That was the boy's signal to get up and begin collecting everybody's empty or near-empty plates.

"What are you doing?" Kenny asked him.

"It's time to wash the dishes," the boy said.

"You've got to do that?"

"Well, they cooked it all, so, yeah."

Kenny considered for a moment, then climbed down off his chair. "I'll help."

The boy smiled. "Thanks, man. I'll wash, you dry, and Geena can put things away."

"Deal."

The adults took their argument onto the back porch - so mother could smoke - and peace reigned in the little house while the older children did the dishes, though undoubtedly the neighbors were being treated to an earful. The boy rolled up his sleeves and ran the dishwater as hot as it would get, and when he flinched back from sticking his hands into the gently steaming suds he set his teeth and plunged both hands deep under the water.

"Dude, why did you do that?" Kenny asked, agape. "That water is frickin' boiling."

"It's not that bad," the boy said, a little bit tightly, because it was awfully hot. He kept his hands in the water.

"Dude, get your hands out of the hot water," Kenny said.

"I'm getting used to it," the boy said. "It'll be easier to do the dishes."

Kenny shook his head. "Man. You're nuts. Do you do this every time?"

"One of these days, I won't need to," the boy said.

"Dude. You're nuts."

"It's training," the boy said.

"Training for what? Are you going to be a professional dishwasher when you grow up?" Kenny demanded.

"Training for life. Life is pain. The sooner you learn to accept that, the better off you'll be. And the sooner you learn to suck it up, the better off you'll be." The boy pulled a plate out of the hot water, regarded the reddened hands that held it for a brief moment, and then washed it clean. He rinsed the plate and handed it off to Kenny, who stood ready with a dry dishtowel.

Kenny shook his head again. "Dude. You're nuts," he said, as he dried the plate. He handed it off to Geena who trotted off to put it in the cupboard with the clean dishes. "I mean, I always knew it, 'cause otherwise, you'd never have gone after Big Jimmy Templeton on the playground last year, but dude. You're certifiable."

"I've got to learn to ignore pain," the boy insisted. "Like the Spartans. They taught their boys to suck it up."

"Who the heck are the Spartans?" Kenny asked.

"They were an ancient civilization. Their whole culture centered around warfare," the boy said. "They were the ultimate tough guys."

"Did they wear skirts, like most 'ancient civilizations?'" Kenny asked, a bit sarcastically.

"Well, sort of. But they were tough anyway. I mean, look at the Scottish. They're tough."

"You can't be tough prancin' around in skirts and sandals, CJ," Kenny insisted.

The boy kept passing his friend clean dishes to dry. He rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated breath. "Okay, listen, I'll tell you a story to give you an example. This is the kind of story the Spartans passed down, so it may never have happened, but at least it shows their mindset. Spartan boys were sent to school from the age of six, to learn discipline and the warrior's arts. Three Spartan boys had grown up together in this school, and they stood by each other through thick and thin. One night, the three of them broke curfew to sneak over to one of the rival boarding houses and steal their mascot, a live weasel. They got the weasel and one of the boys slipped it inside his tunic to hide it, but as they were sneaking back, one of their teachers caught them. He made them stand in a line while he read them the riot act about breaking curfew. None of the boys made a peep about the stolen weasel, not even the one who had the critter in his shirt.

"Eventually the teacher wound down, and he turned to the boys and demanded to know what they had to say for themselves. At that moment, after standing there the whole time still and perfectly quiet, the third boy, who had the weasel in his shirt, fell over and died. The weasel had disemboweled him." He caught Kenny's confusion so he hastened to explain, "It ripped his guts out. And a weasel is a pretty small animal, so you know it took awhile. The boy was held up as a hero of the school. Do you get why?"

Kenny shook his head. "Nuh uh, man. He sounds like an idiot to me."

"Because he didn't make a sound. It must have hurt like anything, but he just stood there and took it, rather than tell and get his friends into bigger trouble. He sucked it up, man."

"He died, dude," Kenny said, emphatically. "If he'd said something, he might have been okay."

"Kenny, work with me here. That's not the point."

"Who told you that story?" Kenny demanded.

"Mom. Well, she told me a story, and the parts I couldn't remember I made up myself. But the bones are there."

"And I suppose she told you she wants you to be just like that brave, stupid Spartan son of a booger, right?"

"Well, more or less. Yes."

Kenny shook his head yet again. "Man. Your folks are really doin' a number on your head, CJ. I ain't kiddin'. I suppose you were thinking of the Spartans when you took on Big Jimmy Templeton."

"No. I was just mad at him for picking on Hubie Smith."

"Dude, you hate Hubie Smith."

"I hate bullies more," the boy said.

"But Big Jimmy Templeton is five times your size. He's the only boy in our grade who shaves, for crying out loud. They say he's been held back three times. He sent you home bloody, dude. He could've sent you home in a body bag."

"I got a few licks in."

Kenny nodded, impressed despite himself. "You gave him a black eye and a bloody nose. He was crying. Actually crying."

The boy's face split in a huge grin, which put dimples at the corners of his mouth and pushed his high, broad cheeks into his so-blue eyes. "Yeah. He was."

They finished up the dishes, and the boy let the water out of the sink and washed it down with the sprayer head. He dried off his hands and led his friend into the living room, where Geena already sat on the couch, arms folded, staring up at the ceiling. Lincoln was curled up asleep in the armchair.

"Do you wanna go outside?" Kenny asked.

"No, man. It's loud out there," the boy said, and sat on the other end of the couch. He put his own head back and closed his eyes. "Just listen to the silence and enjoy."

Kenny dropped into the other armchair. "I bet…you guys…really dig silence, huh?" he ventured tentatively. The boy and his sister both sighed expressively. Kenny sat back and let the silence close around them.

The boy opened his eyes. Above him, on the wall, at an awkward viewing angle, his grandfather smiled, as honest as life. The boy picked up his head and stared across the room at the other picture that hung by the door. This portrait had been taken just months ago, and it still gave him a little twinge of unreality to look upon it.

There was a smiling family in that portrait, dressed in their Sunday best, and oddly, it looked just like his family.

There was his mother, seated in a black dress and a snappy white blazer, a cluster of white flowers pinned to her lapel, smiling like she meant it.

On her lap sat Lincoln, in a black sailor suit, little hands clasped together before him like he was applauding, cherubic face set in a broad open-mouthed smile (the photographer had had a Kermit the Frog hand puppet, and had been good at imitating the voice).

Next to her sat Geena, in a burgundy dress with a white Peter Pan collar, her black curls tied back with a red velvet ribbon with a big bow, smiling prettily because she was getting her picture taken.

Above her stood their father, tall and thin and severe, but his hard features softened by a smile that looked perfectly natural. He wore a charcoal gray suit and a light blue tie that brought out his vivid blue eyes. He had one hand on Geena's shoulder. The other was on the shoulder of the boy that stood to his right, above his mother.

The boy was the only one who wasn't smiling like he meant it. He stood there in his crisp white shirt, his black tie neatly knotted and his hair slicked back, and his smile was nothing but uncomfortable and did not reach his own vivid blue eyes. His was the smile of a boy who knew this photograph of this happy smiling family was nothing but an elaborate hoax, designed to fool the unwary. The boy looked at that portrait and knew why his mother had hung it on the wall next to the door. It was part of the hoax. No matter what face the family showed to any brave guest during their stay, their last sight as they left the premises would be that smiling, perfect family.

The boy hated that picture. He hated it. He hated the lie. Reality was bad enough. He didn't need this constant reminder of what he lacked in life.

The boy rested his head against the back of the couch again. A Spartan wouldn't complain. Clint Eastwood wouldn't complain. John Wayne wouldn't complain. Hoss Cartwright wouldn't complain. Sheriff Hank wouldn't complain. Officer Spencer wouldn't complain. Just…suck it up.

He almost dozed off. When he heard voices - loud voices - from the front yard, he snapped his head up. The front door opened. His mother bellowed into the house.

"Booker, get out here!"

He shot to his feet. Kenny and Geena were close behind. He went out to the front yard, followed by the others.

Mr. and Mrs. Steinbreck stood on the front walk, their arms about each other. Mother, grandmother, and Aunt Carolyn stood in a row at the front of the house, their arms folded and their eyebrows raised, in demeanor looking much like an oblast council. Mother still clutched a cigarette in her nicotine-stained fingers.

"Hello," the boy said, nervously. He didn't have the first clue what was going on.

"CJ, we just wanted to thank you again for…saving our daughter's life," Mrs. Steinbreck said.

The boy blushed. "You don't have to do that, Mrs. Steinbreck."

Mr. Steinbreck held up a hand. "Now now, we do, CJ. Not everybody would have done what you did. A lot of people would have said it was none of their concern. They might not even have seen anything wrong with it, since Amy knew Joe. But you stepped up, kid, in a big way. You took the initiative to make sure the right people knew what was going on. We owe you for that. We can't thank you enough."

"We just wanted to give you a little something," Mrs. Steinbreck said. "To show our appreciation."

"Didn't know what team you follow, but you strike me as an Oakland man," Mr. Steinbreck said, and reached around behind him to wheel into view a black and silver bicycle with the Raiders logo on an aluminum plate between the handlebars.

"Dude!" Kenny said, laughing, as he pushed against the boy's shoulders.

"Not fair!" Geena shouted. "How come CJ gets a bike?"

"You want a bike, Cookie?" mother said, after a puff on her cancer stick. "Save somebody from a pedophile."

The boy walked down the front steps slowly, almost in a daze. He didn't follow football at all, but it was an awesome bike nevertheless. Still, something didn't feel right. Should he really be rewarded just for doing his job?

"I don't…think…I can accept this," he said, slowly and quietly.

"Dude, you're certifiable!" Kenny said. "Take the bike, man!"

He shook his head. "I was just doing my job."

Aunt Carolyn spoke softly. "Little Man. Your job is to look after your little brother and sister, and you do that job well. This? This went above and beyond the call of duty. Now, when you're a grownup and you swear that oath to protect and serve, things like this will be your job, and you won't be able to accept rewards for them. But until that moment, Little Man, you're entitled."