agree that Rocky was a better name for striking fear
into the hearts of the opponents.”
“ A good dad.” Maggie’s
smile was warm. “Will Paul and Rocky be joining you
soon?”
“ Yes. Rocky should be here
by Saturday night. Paul thinks he can get here Sunday.”
“ Good.”
“ Yes. Now,” Anne pursed
her lips sternly, “you’re avoiding the question you came to ask.
What is it?”
“ Well, I was talking to
Charlie Fielding. And I wondered if someone might be trying to
frame him. Look, please tell me if you don’t want to talk about
it.”
“ Frame him? What do you
mean?” There was no question of not talking about it. Ancient
habits of mind persisted. For most of the problems of her life, the
most productive reaction had always been to discuss them, inspect
their logical structure, think through the solution. Now, even
though part of her knew that there was no solution, no satisfactory
solution, the process of discussing it was comforting, familiar.
Better even than making lists. And she was determined to find out
what had happened.
“ Did Sergeant Hines show
you the items they found there in the gorge?” asked
Maggie.
“ Yes.”
“ Well, the little Chaplin
memo book belongs to Charlie Fielding. But I’m pretty certain he
didn’t drop it there today because I was with him from about
nine-fifteen on. He says he looked at it before he left his house
this morning. So sometime between then and the time I arrived at
the scene in the gorge, somebody dropped his book
there.”
“ Bart,” said
Anne.
“ Bart? Why do you say
that?” With the schizophrenic skill Anne remembered from her own
days of young-motherhood, Maggie was expertly doling out crackers,
wiping crumbs from little mouths, and following the conversation
with eager attention.
“ The pipe.” Anne shook her
head. “But why would he?”
“ That was Bart’s pipe?
Charlie said it was similar, but lighter—oh, of course! He didn’t
have his! You gave him that cigarette because he needed a smoke! He
was practically sick.”
“ I sympathize with
withdrawal symptoms,” said Anne. “Speaking of which… you don’t
smoke?” She held the pack toward Maggie.
“ Thanks, no. But Gauloise
smoke brings back some good memories.”
“ You’ve been in France,
then.” Anne lit her cigarette.
“ Paris, my junior year of
high school. Learned a lot.”
“ A city full of
lessons.”
“ Yeah.” Maggie fumbled in
her bag, handed a book to Sarah, and at Will’s squeal pulled out
one for him too. Then her blue eyes locked on Anne’s again. “When I
met your husband this morning we discussed French for a minute, and
he said he especially wanted me to meet you. That’s the other
reason I came tonight.”
“ Because of your French?
How did he know that?”
“ Well, he heard my
daughter swearing in French, and—”
“ Mine does that too.” Anne
smiled approvingly at Sarah.
“ And because my husband
acted Cyrano a few years ago at the Farm Theatre. Nick
O’Connor.”
“ Cyrano? That was your
husband? God, we enjoyed that!” She remembered Tal bouncing around
the parking lot afterward, replaying his favorite parts as they
walked to the car. Anne herself had still been wrapped in the
romantic pathos of Cyrano’s beautiful death scene, a catch in her
throat as she tried to smile at Tal’s antics.
There was a catch in her
throat now. Anne blew her nose into a paper napkin.
Maggie said, “I’m glad you
liked it. Nick will be working at the Farm Theatre again this
summer. Marc Antony and Big Daddy. He’s going to join us next week
after he finishes shooting a TV episode.”
“ Oh? Which
one?”
“ Kojak. They needed someone who could
look similar to Telly Savalas.” But Maggie had picked up the waning
of interest in Anne’s tone and returned to her first question. “Can
you think why Bart, or anyone else, might want to frame Charlie
Fielding?”
“ Frame
Charlie? No.” Gratefully, Anne turned to the
prob-l em.
into the hearts of the opponents.”
“ A good dad.” Maggie’s
smile was warm. “Will Paul and Rocky be joining you
soon?”
“ Yes. Rocky should be here
by Saturday night. Paul thinks he can get here Sunday.”
“ Good.”
“ Yes. Now,” Anne pursed
her lips sternly, “you’re avoiding the question you came to ask.
What is it?”
“ Well, I was talking to
Charlie Fielding. And I wondered if someone might be trying to
frame him. Look, please tell me if you don’t want to talk about
it.”
“ Frame him? What do you
mean?” There was no question of not talking about it. Ancient
habits of mind persisted. For most of the problems of her life, the
most productive reaction had always been to discuss them, inspect
their logical structure, think through the solution. Now, even
though part of her knew that there was no solution, no satisfactory
solution, the process of discussing it was comforting, familiar.
Better even than making lists. And she was determined to find out
what had happened.
“ Did Sergeant Hines show
you the items they found there in the gorge?” asked
Maggie.
“ Yes.”
“ Well, the little Chaplin
memo book belongs to Charlie Fielding. But I’m pretty certain he
didn’t drop it there today because I was with him from about
nine-fifteen on. He says he looked at it before he left his house
this morning. So sometime between then and the time I arrived at
the scene in the gorge, somebody dropped his book
there.”
“ Bart,” said
Anne.
“ Bart? Why do you say
that?” With the schizophrenic skill Anne remembered from her own
days of young-motherhood, Maggie was expertly doling out crackers,
wiping crumbs from little mouths, and following the conversation
with eager attention.
“ The pipe.” Anne shook her
head. “But why would he?”
“ That was Bart’s pipe?
Charlie said it was similar, but lighter—oh, of course! He didn’t
have his! You gave him that cigarette because he needed a smoke! He
was practically sick.”
“ I sympathize with
withdrawal symptoms,” said Anne. “Speaking of which… you don’t
smoke?” She held the pack toward Maggie.
“ Thanks, no. But Gauloise
smoke brings back some good memories.”
“ You’ve been in France,
then.” Anne lit her cigarette.
“ Paris, my junior year of
high school. Learned a lot.”
“ A city full of
lessons.”
“ Yeah.” Maggie fumbled in
her bag, handed a book to Sarah, and at Will’s squeal pulled out
one for him too. Then her blue eyes locked on Anne’s again. “When I
met your husband this morning we discussed French for a minute, and
he said he especially wanted me to meet you. That’s the other
reason I came tonight.”
“ Because of your French?
How did he know that?”
“ Well, he heard my
daughter swearing in French, and—”
“ Mine does that too.” Anne
smiled approvingly at Sarah.
“ And because my husband
acted Cyrano a few years ago at the Farm Theatre. Nick
O’Connor.”
“ Cyrano? That was your
husband? God, we enjoyed that!” She remembered Tal bouncing around
the parking lot afterward, replaying his favorite parts as they
walked to the car. Anne herself had still been wrapped in the
romantic pathos of Cyrano’s beautiful death scene, a catch in her
throat as she tried to smile at Tal’s antics.
There was a catch in her
throat now. Anne blew her nose into a paper napkin.
Maggie said, “I’m glad you
liked it. Nick will be working at the Farm Theatre again this
summer. Marc Antony and Big Daddy. He’s going to join us next week
after he finishes shooting a TV episode.”
“ Oh? Which
one?”
“ Kojak. They needed someone who could
look similar to Telly Savalas.” But Maggie had picked up the waning
of interest in Anne’s tone and returned to her first question. “Can
you think why Bart, or anyone else, might want to frame Charlie
Fielding?”
“ Frame
Charlie? No.” Gratefully, Anne turned to the
prob-l em.
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