What’s the matter?” He’s stopped smiling. The look on his face ought to be disapproval or something, but it’s not, it’s just—interest.
“My pupil got hurt because of me. And before that, my friend got killed and left behind three kids and a pregnant wife, and we don’t know who killed him. And my job’s on the line. And I miss my sister, and I know if I see her it won’t make things any better.” I’m speaking to the bar. “Aren’t you sorry you started talking to me?”
He grins. “No. Not really.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Can we meet socially some time? I mean, maybe without the whisky,” he says.
“We’re working together. You can reach me through DORLA,” I succeed in saying.
“Like that, is it?”
“Yeah. Look. Oh, God—” I put my face in my hands. “Kelsey, I’m drunk. I’m tired. I’ve had an awful, awful day. I’m not making any sense. I think I’d better go.” I stand up. The room takes a slow spin to the right, and I put a hand to my head as I stumble toward the door.
Outside the bar, I look back through the window. The bartender shrugs, and pours Paul Kelsey another drink.
SIX
I spend the next evening with the Marcos family. It’s Debbie who lets me in and shows me into the living room. It’s not in much of a state. Susan sits in the same chair as before, and Debbie comes up behind her and puts her arms around her mother. Susan puts a hand on Debbie’s arm without turning her head. There’s a vacancy about Sue’s expression that frightens me. Little Debbie nestles her head against her mother’s, and her eyes are continually flitting to Susan’s face. It’s as if she’s trying to nudge her into life.
The two boys, Peter and Julio, tumble into the room. Debbie jumps at the noise, and turns around. “Have you set the table?” she says. Her voice is edgy. I’d forgotten how quickly children get angry.
“No,” says Peter, the youngest, and gives Julio a shove.
“You’ve got to set the table. I cooked the dinner, you’ve got to set the table, it’s your turn to do it.”
Peter gives her a glare, and stamps at her. Debbie stands between her brothers and her mother and half shouts, “You’ve got to do your share!”
Peter shouts back, “Go to hell, you’re not my mother!”
“Hey, hey, hey.” I get between them. “It’s okay, take it easy.”
Debbie talks to me in an aside, not quietly enough. “I’m sorry you should see this.”
“Suppose I set the table?” I say.
“Peter should do it.”
I check on Peter, who’s only just this side of smashing something. “Yeah, but let’s let him off, eh? I bet I can do it faster.”
She gives me an angry look as I steer her into the kitchen. Together, we find plates and lay them out, pull chairs in line. Sausages are sitting in the pan, potatoes and frozen peas have been cooked. I’m impressed: for a girl Debbie’s age, this is a pretty good meal. There’s a mug in the middle of the table, with thin, bare branches in it that’s she’s picked from somewhere. I watch her bend her head over the table, frowning as she lays the forks in line. All this, and her family is still lying in pieces around her.
“This looks terrific, Debbie,” I say.
“Mm.” She doesn’t look at me.
I go back to the living room. The boys are simmering: Peter is kicking things, and Julio is brooding on the sofa. I sit beside him and give his arm a light punch. “You okay, kid?” I say.
He glowers at his feet.
“Debbie’s cooked a great dinner.”
“I’m sick of her cooking.”
“Well, she’s trying to be nice.”
He kicks the sofa. “You going to try to talk me around? Do the shrink bit like my school nurse? You going to do that?”
“Me? Hardly. I wouldn’t know a shrink if he came up and bit me,” I say. He fidgets, his face twitches. He shuffles to and fro, opens his mouth, closes it. “I remember my school nurse. All she ever did was give us aspirin. You came in with a broken leg,
“My pupil got hurt because of me. And before that, my friend got killed and left behind three kids and a pregnant wife, and we don’t know who killed him. And my job’s on the line. And I miss my sister, and I know if I see her it won’t make things any better.” I’m speaking to the bar. “Aren’t you sorry you started talking to me?”
He grins. “No. Not really.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Can we meet socially some time? I mean, maybe without the whisky,” he says.
“We’re working together. You can reach me through DORLA,” I succeed in saying.
“Like that, is it?”
“Yeah. Look. Oh, God—” I put my face in my hands. “Kelsey, I’m drunk. I’m tired. I’ve had an awful, awful day. I’m not making any sense. I think I’d better go.” I stand up. The room takes a slow spin to the right, and I put a hand to my head as I stumble toward the door.
Outside the bar, I look back through the window. The bartender shrugs, and pours Paul Kelsey another drink.
SIX
I spend the next evening with the Marcos family. It’s Debbie who lets me in and shows me into the living room. It’s not in much of a state. Susan sits in the same chair as before, and Debbie comes up behind her and puts her arms around her mother. Susan puts a hand on Debbie’s arm without turning her head. There’s a vacancy about Sue’s expression that frightens me. Little Debbie nestles her head against her mother’s, and her eyes are continually flitting to Susan’s face. It’s as if she’s trying to nudge her into life.
The two boys, Peter and Julio, tumble into the room. Debbie jumps at the noise, and turns around. “Have you set the table?” she says. Her voice is edgy. I’d forgotten how quickly children get angry.
“No,” says Peter, the youngest, and gives Julio a shove.
“You’ve got to set the table. I cooked the dinner, you’ve got to set the table, it’s your turn to do it.”
Peter gives her a glare, and stamps at her. Debbie stands between her brothers and her mother and half shouts, “You’ve got to do your share!”
Peter shouts back, “Go to hell, you’re not my mother!”
“Hey, hey, hey.” I get between them. “It’s okay, take it easy.”
Debbie talks to me in an aside, not quietly enough. “I’m sorry you should see this.”
“Suppose I set the table?” I say.
“Peter should do it.”
I check on Peter, who’s only just this side of smashing something. “Yeah, but let’s let him off, eh? I bet I can do it faster.”
She gives me an angry look as I steer her into the kitchen. Together, we find plates and lay them out, pull chairs in line. Sausages are sitting in the pan, potatoes and frozen peas have been cooked. I’m impressed: for a girl Debbie’s age, this is a pretty good meal. There’s a mug in the middle of the table, with thin, bare branches in it that’s she’s picked from somewhere. I watch her bend her head over the table, frowning as she lays the forks in line. All this, and her family is still lying in pieces around her.
“This looks terrific, Debbie,” I say.
“Mm.” She doesn’t look at me.
I go back to the living room. The boys are simmering: Peter is kicking things, and Julio is brooding on the sofa. I sit beside him and give his arm a light punch. “You okay, kid?” I say.
He glowers at his feet.
“Debbie’s cooked a great dinner.”
“I’m sick of her cooking.”
“Well, she’s trying to be nice.”
He kicks the sofa. “You going to try to talk me around? Do the shrink bit like my school nurse? You going to do that?”
“Me? Hardly. I wouldn’t know a shrink if he came up and bit me,” I say. He fidgets, his face twitches. He shuffles to and fro, opens his mouth, closes it. “I remember my school nurse. All she ever did was give us aspirin. You came in with a broken leg,
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