from some other time. But Ruth wasnât a girl to own many dresses, and he was touched that sheâd done this.
He felt as if he were walking through water, as if he were pushinghis way through the sea to move past the sign and join the line for the guest book, where he could stop and catch his breath. He and Ruth were behind a group of kids all in black, tattoos snaking up the backs of their necks, sliding from under their cuffs onto their wrists. His fatherâs neighbors were among them, the women in veiled hats, strings of pearls at their throats. The men in dark suits. Death was the great leveler. He spotted Tinker heading toward him, large and important in some black tent like dress, her flyaway hair held in place by combs and barrettes.
She gave him a long hug, pressing her body against his. Her eyes were red. She pointed across the salon to an alcove where Ponyâs white coffin lay, lit savagely. Beyond the coffin, his family was standing in a line. Salon B had gold carpets, red brocade drapes, small gold chairs in rows. It was the same room, he was sure. His motherâs wake had been here. He felt sick.
âDaddy thinks you should come now.â Tinker gave Ruth an imploring look. Make him , it said. Then she turned and went back to the alcove. The line inched forward. When it was Williamâs turn, he was unable to write because his hands were shaking too badly. Ruth wrote out their namesâWilliam Carteret and Ruth Czapinski. He couldnât believe this. He couldnât believe he was here. And yet he knew he had to keep moving forward, right into it.
The coffin lid was raised, showing the white tufted party-dress lining. And his family, what was left of his family, stood off to one side, shoulder to shoulder, in a line against the wall.
William was on automatic. All at once he was looking down into the face of his little sister. His beloved Pony. Her skin was dotted with copper freckles, like thrown confetti. Her lips were parted slightly so that a trace of white teeth showed between them, and her closed eyes made two perfect crescents, the lashes long and resting on the tops of her full cheeks.
âOh, Pone,â he whispered, taking her in greedily. Somebody had pulled her hair back so tightly that it tugged at the corners of her eyes, pulling them up. Her eyes appeared almost Asian. All wrong.He kept staring. And saw, on closer inspection, that her hair had been bluntly cut on one side. The fibers of his grief gathered into a rope at the base of his throat as understanding spread. He remembered what heâd been told: The divers had had to cut it to free her. He made himself look into her face and imagine what might have happened. He felt compelled to picture everything. If she had experienced that torturous cruel death, then he could damn well stay here, standing on two feet and breathing air. It was the least he could do. And maybe, by seeing the scene in his mindâs eye, he would understand more of what happened. Maybe he would see a detail that would explain what the hell had happened to her, because the more he thought about it, the less he understood. It didnât make sense. Hair could snag. Sure it could. But wouldnât she have to be right up next to the chain for that? Cheek to metal? Yes. Then her hair could snag. Just a few strands at first. She would have jerked away in annoyance, but more hair could have wrapped around and become tangled with the first. If she reached up to yank the hair free, she might have inadvertently pushed more hair into the tangle. Panic would have set in for real. She would have been thrashing and in that act catching a great deal more of it, like a glue trap where the greater the struggle, the tighter the snare.
The room swayed under the reality of the image. Stay with it , he told himself. Because the central question remained: Why? His father had speculated that she had been trying to fix the chain or inspect it. But the chain
He felt as if he were walking through water, as if he were pushinghis way through the sea to move past the sign and join the line for the guest book, where he could stop and catch his breath. He and Ruth were behind a group of kids all in black, tattoos snaking up the backs of their necks, sliding from under their cuffs onto their wrists. His fatherâs neighbors were among them, the women in veiled hats, strings of pearls at their throats. The men in dark suits. Death was the great leveler. He spotted Tinker heading toward him, large and important in some black tent like dress, her flyaway hair held in place by combs and barrettes.
She gave him a long hug, pressing her body against his. Her eyes were red. She pointed across the salon to an alcove where Ponyâs white coffin lay, lit savagely. Beyond the coffin, his family was standing in a line. Salon B had gold carpets, red brocade drapes, small gold chairs in rows. It was the same room, he was sure. His motherâs wake had been here. He felt sick.
âDaddy thinks you should come now.â Tinker gave Ruth an imploring look. Make him , it said. Then she turned and went back to the alcove. The line inched forward. When it was Williamâs turn, he was unable to write because his hands were shaking too badly. Ruth wrote out their namesâWilliam Carteret and Ruth Czapinski. He couldnât believe this. He couldnât believe he was here. And yet he knew he had to keep moving forward, right into it.
The coffin lid was raised, showing the white tufted party-dress lining. And his family, what was left of his family, stood off to one side, shoulder to shoulder, in a line against the wall.
William was on automatic. All at once he was looking down into the face of his little sister. His beloved Pony. Her skin was dotted with copper freckles, like thrown confetti. Her lips were parted slightly so that a trace of white teeth showed between them, and her closed eyes made two perfect crescents, the lashes long and resting on the tops of her full cheeks.
âOh, Pone,â he whispered, taking her in greedily. Somebody had pulled her hair back so tightly that it tugged at the corners of her eyes, pulling them up. Her eyes appeared almost Asian. All wrong.He kept staring. And saw, on closer inspection, that her hair had been bluntly cut on one side. The fibers of his grief gathered into a rope at the base of his throat as understanding spread. He remembered what heâd been told: The divers had had to cut it to free her. He made himself look into her face and imagine what might have happened. He felt compelled to picture everything. If she had experienced that torturous cruel death, then he could damn well stay here, standing on two feet and breathing air. It was the least he could do. And maybe, by seeing the scene in his mindâs eye, he would understand more of what happened. Maybe he would see a detail that would explain what the hell had happened to her, because the more he thought about it, the less he understood. It didnât make sense. Hair could snag. Sure it could. But wouldnât she have to be right up next to the chain for that? Cheek to metal? Yes. Then her hair could snag. Just a few strands at first. She would have jerked away in annoyance, but more hair could have wrapped around and become tangled with the first. If she reached up to yank the hair free, she might have inadvertently pushed more hair into the tangle. Panic would have set in for real. She would have been thrashing and in that act catching a great deal more of it, like a glue trap where the greater the struggle, the tighter the snare.
The room swayed under the reality of the image. Stay with it , he told himself. Because the central question remained: Why? His father had speculated that she had been trying to fix the chain or inspect it. But the chain
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