The Guilty One by Lisa Ballantyne Page B

notes with her eyes, her breath deepening and her chest rising. Her eyes would water, and from across the room, Daniel would see the sheen of them. She was like a painting: a Rembrandt—lucent, rustic, there. Her fingers on the armchair would mime the notes, although he had never heard her play this song. She would listen but never, not even once, did she play that song.
    And then the discordant notes, the A sharp and B. As they continued to sound and sound again, a rare tear would form and fall, flashing across her cheek. Dissonant but somehow right: sounding out what she felt.
    She seemed to seek out the discord, as a finger finds a wound.
    How many nights in August had he woken to the sound of piano music and crept downstairs to realize that she was weeping. The sobs were robbed from her. It was as if she was being hit in the stomach, again and again. Daniel remembered pulling himself into a ball as he listened, frightened for her, not understanding what was wrong, feeling unable to comfort her. He had been frightened to go inside the room and face her like that. Already he had come to see her as strong, impervious—braver, harder than his own mother. As a child he could not fathom her sorrow. He never fully understood why . He had come to love her strong calves and muscular hands and loud, strong laugh. He couldn’t bear to see her broken, at a loss.
    But in the morning, to be sure , she would be fine again. Two aspirins and an omelet after the chickens were fed, and it was over for another year. The next summer it would happen again. Her pain never seemed to lessen. Each year it would return with the same ferocity, like a perennial frost.
    Daniel thought about it. Minnie must have died on the ninth or the tenth of August. Was it the grief that had finally killed her?
    He looked around the room. He was surprised to feel the weight of the house. The memories that it held leaned on him and brushed against him. He remembered both her tears and her laughter: the easy lilt of it that had once charmed him. Then he remembered again what she had done to him. Gone, but still he could not forgive her. Understanding her was something, but it was not enough.
    Daniel closed the lid of the piano. He looked at Minnie’s chair, remembering the sight of her, sitting with her feet up, telling stories with the light of the fire in her eyes and her cheeks pink with mirth. Beside the chair was an open box file. Daniel picked it up and sat down in Minnie’s chair to examine the contents. Newspaper clippings from the Brampton News and the Newcastle Evening Times fluttered into his lap like anxious moths.
    Tragedy of Child Death Age Six—A serious car crash involving a woman and two children resulted in the death of six-year-old Delia Flynn, from Brampton, in Cumbria. The other child passenger sustained minor injuries but was released from the hospital on Thursday evening. Delia was taken to Carlisle General Hospital where she died two days later from serious internal injuries.
    The mother of the child, who was driving the car and who escaped with minor injuries, refused to comment.
    There were another two articles on the car accident, and then another piece drew Daniel’s attention. It was partially torn and had been ripped from near the fold of the newspaper.
    Farmer Found Dead in Possible Suicide— A local man and Brampton farmer was found dead on Tuesday night following a shooting accident. An investigation is under way, but police are not treating the death as suspicious.
    Daniel sat in silence in the cold living room. As a child he had tried to ask her about her family, but she would always change the subject. The rest of the box file was filled with paintings that Delia had done: finger paintings, leaf rubbings, and mosaics of lentil and macaroni. Not knowing why, Daniel folded up the two newspaper clippings and slipped them into his back pocket.
    It was cold, and he stamped his feet as he walked around. He picked up the telephone.