with his supposition.
“I’m not saying he wielded the ax. But commissioned, maybe.” He knows he’s taunting, but he feels the need to elicit some sort of response from her.
“So, you’re saying I’m a descendant of savages?”
Duncan shrugs. “We’re all born naked, wet, and hungry.”
Her smile suggests something razored into place below the nose. He has to fight back a terrible itch to nudge her with the shovel—
hey, remember when you used to think I was funny?
“It wasn’t such a problem when the savages gave us that down payment.”
“It’s no problem, Lily. But think about it, why else would the nanny be buried in the garden? And in pieces? If it was an accident, wouldn’t they have made some effort to put her in order?”
“My great-grandfather did not kill the nanny.”
They go back to digging. Him flipping soil into mounds and Lily raking her fingers through for any fine details. He continues to watch her; something about the way she squats and digs into the soil reminds him of those Cu Chi tunnels he visited in Vietnam, what it must have been like to excavate miles of underground passages by hand.
“You’re like the Viet Cong down there.”
She doesn’t even look up. “Having those flashbacks again?”
Duncan leans on his shovel. Lily
is
sort of like the Viet Cong burrowing through layers of silt, like a small mammal chattering a hole through the planet. Of course, if she had agreed to come with him that summer she’d know what he was talking about. How both rudimentary and efficient those passages were for the North Vietnamese Army, providing an escape route into the Saigon River and allowing the underground ferrying of soldiers and supplies. How sly Charlie could remain hidden away underground, while several feet above, the Skinners of the world crouched at the mouth of the hole, weighing the temptation to charge and pump the creatures from their den against the risk of casualty: their own men greased, the sniffer dogs lit up.
“It’s a hit,” Lily says and stops her foraging. She wipes oily dirt from an ochre surface just now visible through her fingers. She uses one leg to brace herself against the lip of the shallow hole and starts to pull. Duncancrouches beside her but doesn’t help as she tugs something from the grave. Her face changes as she works.
He watches her profile as she brings two bones up into stray light from the back porch. “The pelvis.” Her voice sticks in her throat with an awe he has never heard before. He thinks she might cry.
Duncan doesn’t want to touch. Doesn’t want to handle another woman’s privates. Lily sways back on her heels in the way of a person who’s just received some tragic news. She cradles the two halves of bone, their scalloped bowls punched through like knotted pine. He does recognize something about her—yes, the mouth and the eyes—he remembers this flared beauty. This Lily.
CHAPTER 11
Sympathetic Nerve
O n the way to lunch on Tuesday, they pause at the front end of the car, united by a common sympathy for ruined metal. Duncan can’t help thinking that given a woman’s bruised face or a bad dent, he knows which one he’d wince at first.
“Wild pigs, aren’t they more of a Southern plague?” Leetower kneels by the damaged nose.
Duncan leans casually on the hood. “After we hit the thing, it got back up and charged us. I had to waste it with a tire iron.”
“Jesus, that’s cool.”
The fabulist shrugs. “Also, the park ranger said it had rabies. So.”
“I’d rather hit a hobo.” Kooch flecks some chipped paint from the bumper. “They bounce, but they don’t come back for you.”
“It’s true,” Leetower says to Duncan. “I’ve been in his car when it’s happened.”
“You guys got anything on Stand and Be Counted?” Duncan tries to keep the hope out of his voice. He has been itching with anxiety.
The boys are silent.
“What’s going on with Tide?”
“Casting for the third Laundry
“I’m not saying he wielded the ax. But commissioned, maybe.” He knows he’s taunting, but he feels the need to elicit some sort of response from her.
“So, you’re saying I’m a descendant of savages?”
Duncan shrugs. “We’re all born naked, wet, and hungry.”
Her smile suggests something razored into place below the nose. He has to fight back a terrible itch to nudge her with the shovel—
hey, remember when you used to think I was funny?
“It wasn’t such a problem when the savages gave us that down payment.”
“It’s no problem, Lily. But think about it, why else would the nanny be buried in the garden? And in pieces? If it was an accident, wouldn’t they have made some effort to put her in order?”
“My great-grandfather did not kill the nanny.”
They go back to digging. Him flipping soil into mounds and Lily raking her fingers through for any fine details. He continues to watch her; something about the way she squats and digs into the soil reminds him of those Cu Chi tunnels he visited in Vietnam, what it must have been like to excavate miles of underground passages by hand.
“You’re like the Viet Cong down there.”
She doesn’t even look up. “Having those flashbacks again?”
Duncan leans on his shovel. Lily
is
sort of like the Viet Cong burrowing through layers of silt, like a small mammal chattering a hole through the planet. Of course, if she had agreed to come with him that summer she’d know what he was talking about. How both rudimentary and efficient those passages were for the North Vietnamese Army, providing an escape route into the Saigon River and allowing the underground ferrying of soldiers and supplies. How sly Charlie could remain hidden away underground, while several feet above, the Skinners of the world crouched at the mouth of the hole, weighing the temptation to charge and pump the creatures from their den against the risk of casualty: their own men greased, the sniffer dogs lit up.
“It’s a hit,” Lily says and stops her foraging. She wipes oily dirt from an ochre surface just now visible through her fingers. She uses one leg to brace herself against the lip of the shallow hole and starts to pull. Duncancrouches beside her but doesn’t help as she tugs something from the grave. Her face changes as she works.
He watches her profile as she brings two bones up into stray light from the back porch. “The pelvis.” Her voice sticks in her throat with an awe he has never heard before. He thinks she might cry.
Duncan doesn’t want to touch. Doesn’t want to handle another woman’s privates. Lily sways back on her heels in the way of a person who’s just received some tragic news. She cradles the two halves of bone, their scalloped bowls punched through like knotted pine. He does recognize something about her—yes, the mouth and the eyes—he remembers this flared beauty. This Lily.
CHAPTER 11
Sympathetic Nerve
O n the way to lunch on Tuesday, they pause at the front end of the car, united by a common sympathy for ruined metal. Duncan can’t help thinking that given a woman’s bruised face or a bad dent, he knows which one he’d wince at first.
“Wild pigs, aren’t they more of a Southern plague?” Leetower kneels by the damaged nose.
Duncan leans casually on the hood. “After we hit the thing, it got back up and charged us. I had to waste it with a tire iron.”
“Jesus, that’s cool.”
The fabulist shrugs. “Also, the park ranger said it had rabies. So.”
“I’d rather hit a hobo.” Kooch flecks some chipped paint from the bumper. “They bounce, but they don’t come back for you.”
“It’s true,” Leetower says to Duncan. “I’ve been in his car when it’s happened.”
“You guys got anything on Stand and Be Counted?” Duncan tries to keep the hope out of his voice. He has been itching with anxiety.
The boys are silent.
“What’s going on with Tide?”
“Casting for the third Laundry
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