door.
After a few minutes, a woman in a faded housecoat opened the door. Her gray hair was messy, and she had the vaguely bewildered look of someone who'd been asleep. Billy Dick must have inherited his soft bulkiness from his father, because she was short and undernourished. Her eyes were as pale as his, though, and as disturbingly blank.
"Mrs. MacNamara, I'm Arly Hanks," I said.
"I know who you are."
"I'm still working on that fire last week, and I wanted to ask Billy Dick if he remembered anything more about the truck he saw by the low-water bridge."
"He's gone off somewhere. Said he'd be back before suppertime so he can take me to work."
That was the good news. The bad was that she wasn't inviting me in for a cozy chat, and, in fact, was looking a little bored with the conversation.
"Do you mind if I come in and wait?" I said, doing my best to look so exhausted I might crumple before her eyes and thus require all kinds of action on her part. "I was up most of the night trying to clean up after the fire in my apartment."
"I heard about that. I suppose you can sit for a few minutes, but I don't expect Billy Dick for at least an hour." She held open the screened door and gestured for me to come into the living room. The walls were as drab as her housecoat, the furniture shabby, the few knick-knacks coated with a veneer of dust. The television was on, but the sound had been turned down. She switched it off and moved away from it, a guilty look on her face.
I sat down on the edge of the sofa. "How long have you lived here, Mrs. MacNamara?"
"Goin' on most of a year, I suppose. The house belonged to a cousin of mine, and when he died, he left it to me. Billy Dick and I had been living in Farberville, out in a trailer park on the east side of town, and it seemed like a good idea to move somewhere and start fresh."
"Start fresh?"
She sank down on a chair in the corner, her hands in her lap, and looked at the worn carpet. A scrawny tan cat came around the corner of the doorway, hesitated when it saw me, then glided across the room and leaped into her lap. She stroked it listlessly while she decided what -- if anything -- to tell me. When she at last spoke, her voice was so low I had to lean forward to hear her. "My husband passed away when Billy Dick was twelve. It was hard on both of us, not only losing him but having to make ends meet on a waitress's salary."
"How'd Billy Dick feel about moving to Maggody?"
"He never said anything about it. He's busy with his own doings, and he doesn't ever say much. Ever now and then I ask him, but he just gets mad and stomps out the door."
"I guess it helped when he found a new friend."
Mrs. MacNamara flinched, and unless I was overly sensitive, the quick look she gave me was hostile. "I guess it did, even though I don't cotton to him playing silly make-believe games with a boy so much younger. Billy Dick didn't have a lot of friends in Farberville. He's always preferred to keep to himself mostly, just like his pa and me. We worried a sight more about paying bills than we did about wasting money in fancy restaurants or at the picture show. My husband -- well, he had an ailment that kept him from working all the time and holding down a steady job. He'd work, but then he'd have a bad spell and get fired."
In Maggody, an unspecified "ailment" was the accepted euphemism for alcoholism, and I would have bet all three bullets that my theory was correct. Mrs. MacNamara had the dispirited look of someone who'd waged a futile war for a long time. She hadn't been able to control her husband, and it sounded as though she no longer controlled her son.
I doubted she knew anything of his activities. "I've got some more people to talk to," I said, rising. "Please tell Billy Dick that I stopped by and that I'd like him to call me either at the police department or at my apartment."
"I'll tell him, but I can't promise he'll call."
"Thanks." I went outside, relieved to be free of her
After a few minutes, a woman in a faded housecoat opened the door. Her gray hair was messy, and she had the vaguely bewildered look of someone who'd been asleep. Billy Dick must have inherited his soft bulkiness from his father, because she was short and undernourished. Her eyes were as pale as his, though, and as disturbingly blank.
"Mrs. MacNamara, I'm Arly Hanks," I said.
"I know who you are."
"I'm still working on that fire last week, and I wanted to ask Billy Dick if he remembered anything more about the truck he saw by the low-water bridge."
"He's gone off somewhere. Said he'd be back before suppertime so he can take me to work."
That was the good news. The bad was that she wasn't inviting me in for a cozy chat, and, in fact, was looking a little bored with the conversation.
"Do you mind if I come in and wait?" I said, doing my best to look so exhausted I might crumple before her eyes and thus require all kinds of action on her part. "I was up most of the night trying to clean up after the fire in my apartment."
"I heard about that. I suppose you can sit for a few minutes, but I don't expect Billy Dick for at least an hour." She held open the screened door and gestured for me to come into the living room. The walls were as drab as her housecoat, the furniture shabby, the few knick-knacks coated with a veneer of dust. The television was on, but the sound had been turned down. She switched it off and moved away from it, a guilty look on her face.
I sat down on the edge of the sofa. "How long have you lived here, Mrs. MacNamara?"
"Goin' on most of a year, I suppose. The house belonged to a cousin of mine, and when he died, he left it to me. Billy Dick and I had been living in Farberville, out in a trailer park on the east side of town, and it seemed like a good idea to move somewhere and start fresh."
"Start fresh?"
She sank down on a chair in the corner, her hands in her lap, and looked at the worn carpet. A scrawny tan cat came around the corner of the doorway, hesitated when it saw me, then glided across the room and leaped into her lap. She stroked it listlessly while she decided what -- if anything -- to tell me. When she at last spoke, her voice was so low I had to lean forward to hear her. "My husband passed away when Billy Dick was twelve. It was hard on both of us, not only losing him but having to make ends meet on a waitress's salary."
"How'd Billy Dick feel about moving to Maggody?"
"He never said anything about it. He's busy with his own doings, and he doesn't ever say much. Ever now and then I ask him, but he just gets mad and stomps out the door."
"I guess it helped when he found a new friend."
Mrs. MacNamara flinched, and unless I was overly sensitive, the quick look she gave me was hostile. "I guess it did, even though I don't cotton to him playing silly make-believe games with a boy so much younger. Billy Dick didn't have a lot of friends in Farberville. He's always preferred to keep to himself mostly, just like his pa and me. We worried a sight more about paying bills than we did about wasting money in fancy restaurants or at the picture show. My husband -- well, he had an ailment that kept him from working all the time and holding down a steady job. He'd work, but then he'd have a bad spell and get fired."
In Maggody, an unspecified "ailment" was the accepted euphemism for alcoholism, and I would have bet all three bullets that my theory was correct. Mrs. MacNamara had the dispirited look of someone who'd waged a futile war for a long time. She hadn't been able to control her husband, and it sounded as though she no longer controlled her son.
I doubted she knew anything of his activities. "I've got some more people to talk to," I said, rising. "Please tell Billy Dick that I stopped by and that I'd like him to call me either at the police department or at my apartment."
"I'll tell him, but I can't promise he'll call."
"Thanks." I went outside, relieved to be free of her
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