The Bullet by Mary Louise Kelly

the thought that everything I confided now would end up printed in the newspaper . . . it was enough to give even a more extroverted person pause. But, hell, we’d come this far. And going public did seem my best chance to connect with people who had once known my family. So I told Leland about the carpal tunnel in my wrist, about getting an MRI, and finally about what the X-ray had shown.
    He dropped his fork. “You’re not saying it’s still in there?”
    I nodded.
    â€œA bullet? A bullet? From the day your parents were shot?”
    I nodded again. “Apparently it’s been in there all this time. Thirty-­four years. It never bothered me. There’s no scar.”
    â€œChrist Almighty.” He was scribbling furiously in his notebook. “You’re sure? You have a copy of that X-ray?”
    â€œOn my phone. If you need to see it.”
    â€œChrist Almighty,” he repeated. “That’s the craziest story I ever heard. And I’ve heard a few.” He was firing questions at me, trying to reconstruct the exact sequence of how I’d learned about the bullet, when my phone rang.
    I squinted down. Will Zartman, calling from his office. He would be trying to firm up the appointment with that neurosurgeon. I sent the call to voice mail; I’d call him later.
    I turned back to Leland. “Sorry, where were we?”
    â€œI was saying, I’ve got a few more questions. Why don’t I give you a ride over to the newsroom? We can finish up there, and—”
    â€œCan’t. I’m going over to Cheral Rooney’s after this.”
    â€œOh, so that phone number worked?”
    â€œMm-hmm. She called me back this morning, right before I came down to meet you. I don’t think she could get her head around what I was telling her. Poor woman. She sounded even more stunned by all this than you are.”
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    â€œMY GOD, YOU’RE so like her. Same eyes. There’s not an ounce of Boone in you.”
    Cheral Rooney sat studying me across her living room. She had given me directions to her home, a compact, gray stucco house that backed up to the Chattahoochee River. “I was going to ask you for ID before I let you in. There’s a lot of crazies in the world. But when I saw you walking up the driveway, I realized—no need. Like watching Sadie Rawson herself walk through my front door.”
    â€œYou knew them both, then? Both my birth parents?”
    â€œYour birth parents?” She cocked her head. “Yes, I suppose that’s how you would think of them. But look at me, I’ve forgotten my manners. Would you care for coffee?”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    â€œAre you sure? I’ve just brewed a pot.”
    â€œI’m not much of a coffee drinker. But I’d love some tea, if it’s not too much trouble.”
    She bustled off and returned a few minutes later, carrying a tray. It held a plate of cookies, a mug of steaming coffee, and a tall crystal goblet filled with ice and pale brown liquid. I took a cautious sip. Iced tea. I’d heard this, how Southerners remain loyal to cold tea no matter how chilly the weather outside.
    I set down my glass and met her eyes. “The newspaper identified you as a close friend of my birth . . . of my mother’s. How did you know her?”
    â€œWe lived in the house next door. Moved there in ’74 and stayed more than twenty years. Until we bought this.” She swept her hand to indicate the room where we were sitting. “Eulalia was a great street for young families. Starter homes, you know. Although too expensive for that now. Did you know a house down on the Lenox end just sold for one point six million dollars? Incredible. We paid fifty-five thousand dollars when we first bought.”
    I shook my head. “It’s a lovely street. So you were already living there when the Smiths moved