mechanisms, don’t they? They have ways of not focusing on something as horrible as murder. So I wouldn’t worry, as long as it’s not someone we know.”
“And as long as someone we know didn’t do it,” I said.
“Wow.”
Well said.
I debated about making the next call, but in the end, punched in Linda’s number. I didn’t know what to hope for. The cowardly thing, I supposed—that there would be no answer and I’d get credit for a caring call, but wouldn’t have to speak to her.
I got my wish. I spoke to Linda’s answering machine.
“Hi, Linda. This is Gerry, just checking in to see how you are.”
That sounded dumb. But there was no way to edit, so I said a weak, “See you soon. ’Bye,” and hung up.
I slipped into Maddie’s room and unplugged the telephone extension, just in case. Then I made my way, half-asleep, to the end of the hall and to my own full-size bed.
Chapter 9
On Monday morning, I slept until almost ten o’clock, close to a record for me. Maddie had made her own breakfast, increasing my guilt over not paying enough attention to her for the past few days. In fact, she was ready to serve me breakfast and jumped off the chair when she saw me trundle into the kitchen.
She poured orange juice, propped the box with my favorite crunchy cereal against a bowl, and pushed the button on the emergency coffeemaker. I kept a standard all-purpose coffeemaker for mornings like this when I was hung over (from chocolate or overwork, that is) and it would have been dangerous for me to operate the electric coffee grinder. Sliced banana on my cereal, and toast with butter and strawberry jelly rounded out the meal. More than I usually ate, but I didn’t leave a crumb of food or a drop of liquid.
As soon as I was fueled and awake, the events of the weekend flooded back to me and I wondered how soon (if ever) I’d hear from Linda. I decided to give it until afternoon and then follow up with Skip.
To my relief, Beverly was taking a recovery day. She’d announced the plan at dinner on Sunday night.
“I’ll be at an all-day party tomorrow,” she’d said during cookies and ice cream, so please don’t disturb me.” If Maddie hadn’t been present, Beverly would have used “orgy” or “date with a hottie.”
Her family and friends understood this pattern: after a particularly long day or a couple of busy days in a row, Beverly would retreat to her bed. She’d spend the day on her back, with eyeshades and soft music. I’d tried to convince her to let me find someone else to take care of Maddie this weekend, but she’d insisted she had everything under control, loved the Oakland Zoo, and adored Maddie (I knew this at least was true). I’d learned to trust her judgment.
The valves of Beverly’s heart were forever scarred from her early scarlet fever, forcing it to work harder to pump blood. She’d been receiving special antibiotic treatment on and off since she was about thirteen years old, at times on a monthly basis.
Beverly had an especially bad episode when she was in her late teens, shortly after Ken and I were married. We’d all been present when the doctor showed us a clunky plastic model of the human heart, demonstrating what happens when its valves are unable to open and close easily. I remembered surreptitiously placing my hand over my own heart at the time, grateful for my smooth-running valves and amazed at the quiet mechanism that kept me alive.
None of us at the time would have guessed that the Porter who would meet an early death would be her brother, my husband, Ken.
Having Maddie, alive and healthy in front of me, was a good reminder to avoid that path of memory.
“What shall we do today?” I asked Maddie. My only commitments for the rest of the week were a tutoring session with Angela, an older woman studying for a high-school equivalency exam, at the Lincoln Point Library, and balancing the accounts from the fair. I knew the treasurer of Abraham Lincoln High
“And as long as someone we know didn’t do it,” I said.
“Wow.”
Well said.
I debated about making the next call, but in the end, punched in Linda’s number. I didn’t know what to hope for. The cowardly thing, I supposed—that there would be no answer and I’d get credit for a caring call, but wouldn’t have to speak to her.
I got my wish. I spoke to Linda’s answering machine.
“Hi, Linda. This is Gerry, just checking in to see how you are.”
That sounded dumb. But there was no way to edit, so I said a weak, “See you soon. ’Bye,” and hung up.
I slipped into Maddie’s room and unplugged the telephone extension, just in case. Then I made my way, half-asleep, to the end of the hall and to my own full-size bed.
Chapter 9
On Monday morning, I slept until almost ten o’clock, close to a record for me. Maddie had made her own breakfast, increasing my guilt over not paying enough attention to her for the past few days. In fact, she was ready to serve me breakfast and jumped off the chair when she saw me trundle into the kitchen.
She poured orange juice, propped the box with my favorite crunchy cereal against a bowl, and pushed the button on the emergency coffeemaker. I kept a standard all-purpose coffeemaker for mornings like this when I was hung over (from chocolate or overwork, that is) and it would have been dangerous for me to operate the electric coffee grinder. Sliced banana on my cereal, and toast with butter and strawberry jelly rounded out the meal. More than I usually ate, but I didn’t leave a crumb of food or a drop of liquid.
As soon as I was fueled and awake, the events of the weekend flooded back to me and I wondered how soon (if ever) I’d hear from Linda. I decided to give it until afternoon and then follow up with Skip.
To my relief, Beverly was taking a recovery day. She’d announced the plan at dinner on Sunday night.
“I’ll be at an all-day party tomorrow,” she’d said during cookies and ice cream, so please don’t disturb me.” If Maddie hadn’t been present, Beverly would have used “orgy” or “date with a hottie.”
Her family and friends understood this pattern: after a particularly long day or a couple of busy days in a row, Beverly would retreat to her bed. She’d spend the day on her back, with eyeshades and soft music. I’d tried to convince her to let me find someone else to take care of Maddie this weekend, but she’d insisted she had everything under control, loved the Oakland Zoo, and adored Maddie (I knew this at least was true). I’d learned to trust her judgment.
The valves of Beverly’s heart were forever scarred from her early scarlet fever, forcing it to work harder to pump blood. She’d been receiving special antibiotic treatment on and off since she was about thirteen years old, at times on a monthly basis.
Beverly had an especially bad episode when she was in her late teens, shortly after Ken and I were married. We’d all been present when the doctor showed us a clunky plastic model of the human heart, demonstrating what happens when its valves are unable to open and close easily. I remembered surreptitiously placing my hand over my own heart at the time, grateful for my smooth-running valves and amazed at the quiet mechanism that kept me alive.
None of us at the time would have guessed that the Porter who would meet an early death would be her brother, my husband, Ken.
Having Maddie, alive and healthy in front of me, was a good reminder to avoid that path of memory.
“What shall we do today?” I asked Maddie. My only commitments for the rest of the week were a tutoring session with Angela, an older woman studying for a high-school equivalency exam, at the Lincoln Point Library, and balancing the accounts from the fair. I knew the treasurer of Abraham Lincoln High
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