went to the giant picture on the easel, which at first she’d found to be a tasteless display—none of these people even knew Marcy—but now, now it looked so much to Gladys like a headstone.
“God…” she muttered, and almost fell to her knees right there in the parking lot. The hot, raw emotions her brain had kept in illusory check these past few hourswere flooding and flooding her being and it was too much, too much, but she had no protection against it, not anymore, and still the emotions came, this unceasing onslaught of grief, yes, but grief was such a small word to describe this hellish deluge drowning her very soul. “God…”
The boy, apparently unaware of her change, continued his line of inquiry. “Does she have a favorite toy? Do you sing her a song?”
“Timothy…” said P.J.
“A song…” Gladys echoed, and angled her body toward Marcy’s photograph.
P.J. grabbed his son by the arm. “It’s time to go.”
But then she began to softly sing.
Only Timothy and P.J. could hear her at first, especially with the hubbub of the crowd. They stood at her side, almost like sentries.
She took a step toward her daughter’s photograph. Her voice raised itself, in volume, in emotion.
My God, she was singing Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.”
Now some in the crowd were hearing and seeing. They parted, made room for her to pass, on her way to the easel with her serenade.
Even Harold now perked up, the familiar song piercing through his sudsy stupor. It was Harold, after all, who’d wanted to name the child Patsy.
She was almost at the easel, only three feet away, almost close enough to touch. Her hands reached out, ready to embrace.
P.J. looked away from the scene. He couldn’t watch it anymore. He turned to take his son away with him, back up the hill, back to the house, but Timothy was gone.
9
M onday morning and, with it, Tom and Esme drove out to New Paltz in his black Mustang to catch a killer. It was a handsome day to do so. The sun, perhaps to make up for his absence over the weekend, had climbed high into the attic of the heavens and was splashing his warmth and cheer across upstate New York. It was the kind of November weather that reinforced one’s reluctance to pack away the short sleeves and flannels of autumn.
Esme thought about her daughter. She’d called Oyster Bay last night, after a grease-soggy meal at McDonald’s with Tom, and it was obvious that Sophie was still upset. And who could blame her? A promise had been made and a promise had been broken. From Sophie’s reductive point of view, the facts were that simple. Even from Esme’s more adult perspective, even though she knew she had made the responsible choice, she couldn’t help but feel tremendous guilt. Sophie was the heart of her heart. Someday she would understand what Rafe never could: it wasn’t a choice of work over family; it was acting, changing, fixing, rather than remaining on the sidelines. If she could make the world a better place, then certainly—
“Here we are,” said Tom as they exited the rusty Wallkill Bridge. The state road became Main Street, as all state roads eventually did. Esme tried to recall the directions from Saturday, but everything looked so different under sunshine than it had in the previous postblizzard gloom. They took a left and passed by what looked like a historical district, and it was those familiar antique landmarks that Esme used to fix their location. The strip mall wasn’t far from here.
The Science Museum of Long Island, which occupied an old mansion not unlike the ones in downtown New Paltz, had, that day, a special exhibit on magnets. Sophie Stuart stood with the other first-grade classes as a man with comically large blue glasses explained how magnetic fields worked through a demonstration involving a huge metal U and a collection of Matchbox cars.
Sophie tuned him out. She wanted to play with the crystal ball with the lightning inside, but it seemed that the
“God…” she muttered, and almost fell to her knees right there in the parking lot. The hot, raw emotions her brain had kept in illusory check these past few hourswere flooding and flooding her being and it was too much, too much, but she had no protection against it, not anymore, and still the emotions came, this unceasing onslaught of grief, yes, but grief was such a small word to describe this hellish deluge drowning her very soul. “God…”
The boy, apparently unaware of her change, continued his line of inquiry. “Does she have a favorite toy? Do you sing her a song?”
“Timothy…” said P.J.
“A song…” Gladys echoed, and angled her body toward Marcy’s photograph.
P.J. grabbed his son by the arm. “It’s time to go.”
But then she began to softly sing.
Only Timothy and P.J. could hear her at first, especially with the hubbub of the crowd. They stood at her side, almost like sentries.
She took a step toward her daughter’s photograph. Her voice raised itself, in volume, in emotion.
My God, she was singing Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.”
Now some in the crowd were hearing and seeing. They parted, made room for her to pass, on her way to the easel with her serenade.
Even Harold now perked up, the familiar song piercing through his sudsy stupor. It was Harold, after all, who’d wanted to name the child Patsy.
She was almost at the easel, only three feet away, almost close enough to touch. Her hands reached out, ready to embrace.
P.J. looked away from the scene. He couldn’t watch it anymore. He turned to take his son away with him, back up the hill, back to the house, but Timothy was gone.
9
M onday morning and, with it, Tom and Esme drove out to New Paltz in his black Mustang to catch a killer. It was a handsome day to do so. The sun, perhaps to make up for his absence over the weekend, had climbed high into the attic of the heavens and was splashing his warmth and cheer across upstate New York. It was the kind of November weather that reinforced one’s reluctance to pack away the short sleeves and flannels of autumn.
Esme thought about her daughter. She’d called Oyster Bay last night, after a grease-soggy meal at McDonald’s with Tom, and it was obvious that Sophie was still upset. And who could blame her? A promise had been made and a promise had been broken. From Sophie’s reductive point of view, the facts were that simple. Even from Esme’s more adult perspective, even though she knew she had made the responsible choice, she couldn’t help but feel tremendous guilt. Sophie was the heart of her heart. Someday she would understand what Rafe never could: it wasn’t a choice of work over family; it was acting, changing, fixing, rather than remaining on the sidelines. If she could make the world a better place, then certainly—
“Here we are,” said Tom as they exited the rusty Wallkill Bridge. The state road became Main Street, as all state roads eventually did. Esme tried to recall the directions from Saturday, but everything looked so different under sunshine than it had in the previous postblizzard gloom. They took a left and passed by what looked like a historical district, and it was those familiar antique landmarks that Esme used to fix their location. The strip mall wasn’t far from here.
The Science Museum of Long Island, which occupied an old mansion not unlike the ones in downtown New Paltz, had, that day, a special exhibit on magnets. Sophie Stuart stood with the other first-grade classes as a man with comically large blue glasses explained how magnetic fields worked through a demonstration involving a huge metal U and a collection of Matchbox cars.
Sophie tuned him out. She wanted to play with the crystal ball with the lightning inside, but it seemed that the
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