betrayed by me,” Cat explained. “And she didn’t even know the half of it. She had no idea I was using her dreams in my investigation.”
Grace felt Cat’s pain acutely. “All you can do is try. You weren’t trying to hurt Wendy. You were trying to save that little girl. You were focused on Ruthie, Cat. So you missed what Wendy needed. You’re only human.”
“But I’m afraid, Granny Grace. I’m afraid I’ll hurt someone again.”
Grace chuckled softly. “Well, you probably will, Granddaughter. We all hurt each other some of the time. It’s unavoidable. Unless you want to live in a bubble.”
Then she held Cat’s face in her chin. “And you’ll get hurt, too. That’s part of what you’re feeling here, isn’t it? Your own strength, yes, and you have to be responsible about it. But you’re feeling your own vulnerability, too. You’re still hurting because you miss Lee.”
Cat began to cry, and Grace held her.
>>>
The next day, it took the entire morning for them to journey to the suburbs of New Jersey to find their last interviewee, who owned a small house out where, Grace was sure, there’d be no there there.
And it took them forever and a day to arrive, too. They rode the subway to a bus station and took the bus into New Jersey, where they had to be picked up at a park-and-ride by the artist himself, who looked like the suburban grandfather he was.
Clive Smith, Jr., drove them past the usual travesty of fast-food restaurants and chain stores in his Honda Civic, and Grace found him unusually reticent. It had taken every trick in the book to get him to agree to the interview at all. Grace had the sense that she had simply worn the man down over the course of several phone calls and emails, and that he only agreed to meet so she’d leave him alone.
“Are you retired, Mr. Smith?” she asked. “And by that I mean from the web-services company you worked for, not from art.”
“Yes, I am,” he replied, without going further.
“Tell me about your family,” she said, putting an overabundance of cheer into her voice.
Clive cleared his throat. “Are you here to investigate my family?”
“Well, no. I was making small talk.”
“I think Clive here isn’t the small-talk type,” Cat interjected.
“Got that right.” His voice sounded irritated. “I’m driving around here with two white women in my car, both of whom say they’re here to investigate me. That’s not exactly the kind of scenario that lends itself to small talk.”
“My apologies, Mr. Smith,” Grace said.
There was a long silence in which Clive Smith neither acknowledged nor accepted her apology. Cat and Grace let him drive without interruption, and soon they were in an older subdivision, the houses nearly identical to one another and built sometime in the late Sixties. The Smith residence was a rambler with a tightly manicured front yard. Smith led them through his front door, where an enthusiastic collie greeted them, followed by a woman in her thirties carrying a baby on her hip. Both mother and child shared Smith’s likeness.
For the first time, Smith’s stony countenance softened as he greeted his family at the door and introduced everyone. The woman was his daughter, Tabitha, and her baby was named Ru. They migrated to a playroom off the dining room, and Smith shepherded Grace and Cat into the living room. He did not offer them anything to drink.
He sat in an imposing leather armchair that Grace surmised was his favorite, and she and Cat took the couch. Steepling his fingers under his chin, he said, “Now then. What would you like to know?”
Pent up from the long journey to see him, Cat and Grace fired questions at him rapidly. He answered in as short a manner as possible. They were getting nowhere till Cat asked him this one: “What did you think of Mick’s grad-school masterpiece? Pink Splash ? The one that won him that national award.”
Smith’s face broke into a look of utter
Grace felt Cat’s pain acutely. “All you can do is try. You weren’t trying to hurt Wendy. You were trying to save that little girl. You were focused on Ruthie, Cat. So you missed what Wendy needed. You’re only human.”
“But I’m afraid, Granny Grace. I’m afraid I’ll hurt someone again.”
Grace chuckled softly. “Well, you probably will, Granddaughter. We all hurt each other some of the time. It’s unavoidable. Unless you want to live in a bubble.”
Then she held Cat’s face in her chin. “And you’ll get hurt, too. That’s part of what you’re feeling here, isn’t it? Your own strength, yes, and you have to be responsible about it. But you’re feeling your own vulnerability, too. You’re still hurting because you miss Lee.”
Cat began to cry, and Grace held her.
>>>
The next day, it took the entire morning for them to journey to the suburbs of New Jersey to find their last interviewee, who owned a small house out where, Grace was sure, there’d be no there there.
And it took them forever and a day to arrive, too. They rode the subway to a bus station and took the bus into New Jersey, where they had to be picked up at a park-and-ride by the artist himself, who looked like the suburban grandfather he was.
Clive Smith, Jr., drove them past the usual travesty of fast-food restaurants and chain stores in his Honda Civic, and Grace found him unusually reticent. It had taken every trick in the book to get him to agree to the interview at all. Grace had the sense that she had simply worn the man down over the course of several phone calls and emails, and that he only agreed to meet so she’d leave him alone.
“Are you retired, Mr. Smith?” she asked. “And by that I mean from the web-services company you worked for, not from art.”
“Yes, I am,” he replied, without going further.
“Tell me about your family,” she said, putting an overabundance of cheer into her voice.
Clive cleared his throat. “Are you here to investigate my family?”
“Well, no. I was making small talk.”
“I think Clive here isn’t the small-talk type,” Cat interjected.
“Got that right.” His voice sounded irritated. “I’m driving around here with two white women in my car, both of whom say they’re here to investigate me. That’s not exactly the kind of scenario that lends itself to small talk.”
“My apologies, Mr. Smith,” Grace said.
There was a long silence in which Clive Smith neither acknowledged nor accepted her apology. Cat and Grace let him drive without interruption, and soon they were in an older subdivision, the houses nearly identical to one another and built sometime in the late Sixties. The Smith residence was a rambler with a tightly manicured front yard. Smith led them through his front door, where an enthusiastic collie greeted them, followed by a woman in her thirties carrying a baby on her hip. Both mother and child shared Smith’s likeness.
For the first time, Smith’s stony countenance softened as he greeted his family at the door and introduced everyone. The woman was his daughter, Tabitha, and her baby was named Ru. They migrated to a playroom off the dining room, and Smith shepherded Grace and Cat into the living room. He did not offer them anything to drink.
He sat in an imposing leather armchair that Grace surmised was his favorite, and she and Cat took the couch. Steepling his fingers under his chin, he said, “Now then. What would you like to know?”
Pent up from the long journey to see him, Cat and Grace fired questions at him rapidly. He answered in as short a manner as possible. They were getting nowhere till Cat asked him this one: “What did you think of Mick’s grad-school masterpiece? Pink Splash ? The one that won him that national award.”
Smith’s face broke into a look of utter
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