suddenly very warm, almost close to forgetting why that morning he had double-checked the Singhs’ address.
A little while later, as my father was thinking of how tired he was and how he had promised my mother to pick up some long-held
dry cleaning, Mrs. Singh returned with tea on a tray and put it down on the carpet in front of him.
“We don’t have much furniture, I’m afraid. Dr. Singh is still looking for tenure.”
She went into an adjoining room and brought back a purple floor pillow for herself, which she placed on the floor to face him.
“Dr. Singh is a professor?” my father asked, though he knew this already, knew more than he was comfortable with about this
beautiful woman and her sparsely furnished home.
“Yes,” she said, and poured the tea. It was quiet. She held out a cup to him, and as he took it she said, “Ray was with him
the day your daughter was killed.”
He wanted to fall over into her.
“That must be why you’ve come,” she continued.
“Yes,” he said, “I want to talk to him.”
“He’s at school right now,” she said. “You know that.” Her legs in the gold pants were tucked to her side. The nails on her
toes were long and unpolished, their surface gnarled from years of dancing.
“I wanted to come by and assure you I mean him no harm,” my father said. I watched him. I had never seen him like this before.
The words fell out of him like burdens he was delivering, backlogged verbs and nouns, but he was watching her feet curl against
the dun-colored rug and the way the small pool of numbed light from the curtains touched her right cheek.
“He did nothing wrong and loved your little girl. A schoolboy crush, but still.”
Schoolboy crushes happened all the time to Ray’s mother. The teenager who delivered the paper would pause on his bike, hoping
that she would be near the door when she heard the thump of the
Philadelphia Inquirer
hit the porch. That she would come out and, if she did, that she would wave. She didn’t even have to smile, and she rarely
did outside her house—it was the eyes, her dancer’s carriage, the way she seemed to deliberate over the smallest movement
of her body.
When the police had come they had stumbled into the dark front hall in search of a killer, but before Ray even reached the
top of the stairs, Ruana had so confused them that they were agreeing to tea and sitting on silk pillows. They had expected
her to fall into the grooves of the patter they relied on with all attractive women, but she only grew more erect in posture
as they tried harder and harder to ingratiate themselves, and she stood upright by the windows while they questioned her son.
“I’m glad Susie had a nice boy like her,” my father said. “I’ll thank your son for that.”
She smiled, not showing teeth.
“He wrote her a love note,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I wish I had known enough to do the same,” he said. “Tell her I loved her on that last day.”
“Yes.”
“But your son did.”
“Yes.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
“You must have driven the policemen nuts,” he said and smiled more to himself than to her.
“They came to accuse Ray,” she said. “I wasn’t concerned with how they felt about me.”
“I imagine it’s been hard for him,” my father said.
“No, I won’t allow that,” she said sternly and placed her cup back on the tray. “You cannot have sympathy for Ray or for us.”
My father tried to stutter out a protest.
She placed her hand in the air. “You have lost a daughter and come here for some purpose. I will allow you that and that only,
but trying to understand our lives, no.”
“I didn’t mean to offend,” he said. “I only…”
Again, the hand up.
“Ray will be home in twenty minutes. I will talk to him first and prepare him, then you may talk to my son about your daughter.”
“What did I say?”
“I like that we don’t have much furniture. It allows me to
A little while later, as my father was thinking of how tired he was and how he had promised my mother to pick up some long-held
dry cleaning, Mrs. Singh returned with tea on a tray and put it down on the carpet in front of him.
“We don’t have much furniture, I’m afraid. Dr. Singh is still looking for tenure.”
She went into an adjoining room and brought back a purple floor pillow for herself, which she placed on the floor to face him.
“Dr. Singh is a professor?” my father asked, though he knew this already, knew more than he was comfortable with about this
beautiful woman and her sparsely furnished home.
“Yes,” she said, and poured the tea. It was quiet. She held out a cup to him, and as he took it she said, “Ray was with him
the day your daughter was killed.”
He wanted to fall over into her.
“That must be why you’ve come,” she continued.
“Yes,” he said, “I want to talk to him.”
“He’s at school right now,” she said. “You know that.” Her legs in the gold pants were tucked to her side. The nails on her
toes were long and unpolished, their surface gnarled from years of dancing.
“I wanted to come by and assure you I mean him no harm,” my father said. I watched him. I had never seen him like this before.
The words fell out of him like burdens he was delivering, backlogged verbs and nouns, but he was watching her feet curl against
the dun-colored rug and the way the small pool of numbed light from the curtains touched her right cheek.
“He did nothing wrong and loved your little girl. A schoolboy crush, but still.”
Schoolboy crushes happened all the time to Ray’s mother. The teenager who delivered the paper would pause on his bike, hoping
that she would be near the door when she heard the thump of the
Philadelphia Inquirer
hit the porch. That she would come out and, if she did, that she would wave. She didn’t even have to smile, and she rarely
did outside her house—it was the eyes, her dancer’s carriage, the way she seemed to deliberate over the smallest movement
of her body.
When the police had come they had stumbled into the dark front hall in search of a killer, but before Ray even reached the
top of the stairs, Ruana had so confused them that they were agreeing to tea and sitting on silk pillows. They had expected
her to fall into the grooves of the patter they relied on with all attractive women, but she only grew more erect in posture
as they tried harder and harder to ingratiate themselves, and she stood upright by the windows while they questioned her son.
“I’m glad Susie had a nice boy like her,” my father said. “I’ll thank your son for that.”
She smiled, not showing teeth.
“He wrote her a love note,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I wish I had known enough to do the same,” he said. “Tell her I loved her on that last day.”
“Yes.”
“But your son did.”
“Yes.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
“You must have driven the policemen nuts,” he said and smiled more to himself than to her.
“They came to accuse Ray,” she said. “I wasn’t concerned with how they felt about me.”
“I imagine it’s been hard for him,” my father said.
“No, I won’t allow that,” she said sternly and placed her cup back on the tray. “You cannot have sympathy for Ray or for us.”
My father tried to stutter out a protest.
She placed her hand in the air. “You have lost a daughter and come here for some purpose. I will allow you that and that only,
but trying to understand our lives, no.”
“I didn’t mean to offend,” he said. “I only…”
Again, the hand up.
“Ray will be home in twenty minutes. I will talk to him first and prepare him, then you may talk to my son about your daughter.”
“What did I say?”
“I like that we don’t have much furniture. It allows me to
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