Korean war, you know. I could do it again. You tell me who you need taken out -- maybe this ship captain who’s making your life miserable, maybe the doctor. You give me the keys to the pickup and the gun cabinet and I’ll get her done.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Daddy. We aren’t going to kill anyone.”
After glancing out the window toward the road, Madeleine abruptly got to her feet and headed for the bedroom. “I think I see Kimmie’s old beater car coming down the road, trailing enough smoke to choke every horse and cow in the county. Does she ever change the oil?”
Before she reached the hallway, she stopped, retraced her steps through her father’s bedroom, and reentered the alcove to lean over his armchair. “Daddy, don’t let yourself slump that way. Here, sit up straight. Why do you keep slumping to your right? Not good for your posture, and what isn’t good for your posture isn’t good for your lungs.” She kissed his waxy forehead. “I hope you’re not getting a fever.” Another kiss. “I’ll check in on you before bedtime, I promise.” She put the remote control into his hand, molding his fingers around it to be sure it didn’t slip to the floor.
Chapter 19
Captain Ahab
Sunday, May 19, 2013
On Sunday morning, Kimmie drove to the Appledorn farmstead on State Line Road to give Mattie a massage. After the massage came a manicure. “Are you using the freckle cream?” Kimmie asked, critically eyeing the back of Mattie’s hands.
“You know I’m not,” Madeleine said. “I never can find it when I want it.”
“And this poor little finger on your right hand. So crooked. It never healed right.”
“When I was about five or six, my dog Joe bit it really hard. We were just playing ball and I was so shocked I started screaming and crying. Daddy got really mad at Joe, said it wasn’t safe to keep him around.”
“What happened? Did he put the dog down?”
“No, nothing that drastic. Joe went to live on some other farm, I think.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
“No. . . . When we’re done here, let’s have breakfast at the Sunrise Café.”
As it always was on Sunday, the restaurant was busy. After a twenty-minute wait, they slipped into a booth and studied the menu. Kimmie gleefully ordered waffles, bacon, hash browns, a large orange juice, and coffee. Madeleine ordered an egg-white omelette, no toast.
Why they were having breakfast together at the Sunrise Café, Kimmie had no idea, but it must be important because it had never happened before. The story Mattie told turned out to be fascinating.
A man wearing yachting clothes, with a sunburned face and dead eyes, followed Mattie around the art gallery where she was having a one-woman show and then turned up the next day at a ceremony honoring her for reconstructing Nicole Whitehead’s face. The man spoke in a monotone. At the art gallery, in front of Nicole’s picture, he grabbed her arm, leaving red welts encircling her wrist.
“What did he want?” Kimmie asked, blowing on her coffee.
“He mentioned the Dunes, July 4, 1990 and Nicole’s last name. Then he said, ‘I watched you from the boat.’ That scared me.”
“Why?” Kimmie asked puzzled.
“Because . . . because,” Madeleine said, trying not to sound impatient with her dense friend, “he was so specific about the date and the place and the name. He looked like he wanted to punish me for something.”
“I don’t see how you get that out of what he said. The words don’t sound that bad.”
“Oh, I know. But you had to be there. His tone was menacing, his look scary.”
“You really think he means anything bad? There were lots of boats around that day. Lots of people saw us.”
“Yes, but they never said anything that contradicted our story. He’s implying he saw something bad.”
Kimmie looked down and rearranged her cutlery. “I don’t get it. Like what?”
“Maybe like what you accused me of -- fighting with Nicole.”
“You
“Don’t talk nonsense, Daddy. We aren’t going to kill anyone.”
After glancing out the window toward the road, Madeleine abruptly got to her feet and headed for the bedroom. “I think I see Kimmie’s old beater car coming down the road, trailing enough smoke to choke every horse and cow in the county. Does she ever change the oil?”
Before she reached the hallway, she stopped, retraced her steps through her father’s bedroom, and reentered the alcove to lean over his armchair. “Daddy, don’t let yourself slump that way. Here, sit up straight. Why do you keep slumping to your right? Not good for your posture, and what isn’t good for your posture isn’t good for your lungs.” She kissed his waxy forehead. “I hope you’re not getting a fever.” Another kiss. “I’ll check in on you before bedtime, I promise.” She put the remote control into his hand, molding his fingers around it to be sure it didn’t slip to the floor.
Chapter 19
Captain Ahab
Sunday, May 19, 2013
On Sunday morning, Kimmie drove to the Appledorn farmstead on State Line Road to give Mattie a massage. After the massage came a manicure. “Are you using the freckle cream?” Kimmie asked, critically eyeing the back of Mattie’s hands.
“You know I’m not,” Madeleine said. “I never can find it when I want it.”
“And this poor little finger on your right hand. So crooked. It never healed right.”
“When I was about five or six, my dog Joe bit it really hard. We were just playing ball and I was so shocked I started screaming and crying. Daddy got really mad at Joe, said it wasn’t safe to keep him around.”
“What happened? Did he put the dog down?”
“No, nothing that drastic. Joe went to live on some other farm, I think.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
“No. . . . When we’re done here, let’s have breakfast at the Sunrise Café.”
As it always was on Sunday, the restaurant was busy. After a twenty-minute wait, they slipped into a booth and studied the menu. Kimmie gleefully ordered waffles, bacon, hash browns, a large orange juice, and coffee. Madeleine ordered an egg-white omelette, no toast.
Why they were having breakfast together at the Sunrise Café, Kimmie had no idea, but it must be important because it had never happened before. The story Mattie told turned out to be fascinating.
A man wearing yachting clothes, with a sunburned face and dead eyes, followed Mattie around the art gallery where she was having a one-woman show and then turned up the next day at a ceremony honoring her for reconstructing Nicole Whitehead’s face. The man spoke in a monotone. At the art gallery, in front of Nicole’s picture, he grabbed her arm, leaving red welts encircling her wrist.
“What did he want?” Kimmie asked, blowing on her coffee.
“He mentioned the Dunes, July 4, 1990 and Nicole’s last name. Then he said, ‘I watched you from the boat.’ That scared me.”
“Why?” Kimmie asked puzzled.
“Because . . . because,” Madeleine said, trying not to sound impatient with her dense friend, “he was so specific about the date and the place and the name. He looked like he wanted to punish me for something.”
“I don’t see how you get that out of what he said. The words don’t sound that bad.”
“Oh, I know. But you had to be there. His tone was menacing, his look scary.”
“You really think he means anything bad? There were lots of boats around that day. Lots of people saw us.”
“Yes, but they never said anything that contradicted our story. He’s implying he saw something bad.”
Kimmie looked down and rearranged her cutlery. “I don’t get it. Like what?”
“Maybe like what you accused me of -- fighting with Nicole.”
“You
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