one he made with his mouth when he put what passed for a kiss on her cheek. But even in the thick of her enthusiasm Dancy still listened for signs of vocals. Often when she watched him nap she could tell a difference in his sleeping silence, the naturalness of it, and then she felt bad for noticing. She couldn’t possibly understand that Bonaventure’s silence would serve a purpose to do with the family.
Sometimes their pausing and listening had nothing to do with Bonaventure and everything to do with a split-second, quick-flashing vision of William, or the ricochet of a word he’d said, or maybe the sudden scent of him on a zephyr that seemed an exhalation. This pattern of stopping to catch a sound or sight or smell became their normal way, and so Dancy and Letice moved through the house on Christopher Street keeping interrupted time with an uncertain metronome, day after expectant day.
Sometimes when she entered a room, Letice sensed that William had just been there but had hurried out because he didn’t wish to stay. This rejection upset and mystified her. She couldn’t fit it in with her memories: how he’d carried around an old nightgown of hers until he was almost three; all the dandelion bouquets he’d pulled from behind his back; the year he glued macaronis to a coffee can and painted it red for Valentine’s Day. Memory led to more memory: the sight of two-year-old William standing on a kitchen chair stirring dish suds in the sink; how he clomped around in cowboy boots that were sometimes on the wrong feet; how he fell asleep with his hand in his catcher’s mitt. The smell of boy. His big brown eyes. Nowhere in these memories could she find a place for blood or bullets.
Letice prayed for the repose of William’s soul, she prayed for Dancy, and she prayed that the police would find out the killer’s name.
William didn’t want her to pray for the repose of his soul. It felt as if she was praying him away.
Time went on with no new findings. Letice went to the police station for another face-to-face with Sergeant Turcotte.
“I’ve been to see the director of the asylum,” he said.
Letice braced herself.
“There’s no change, Mrs. Arrow, no change at all. The guy just stares most of the time. The nurses say he shuffles around some and likes to sit outside.”
“Have you been checking records at the bank? Following up on people who might have wanted revenge?”
“Yes, ma’am, we did that. If anything, your bank extended more loans than they called in. There were some that got foreclosed, but we could account for all those folks and their descendants. Of course, there would have been situations where people came in to ask for a loan but were never even considered. We didn’t find any records of denied applications, so there’d be no way to trace any of those people. I’m sorry, Mrs. Arrow.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Please continue to check with the doctors and nurses and keep me informed.”
“I surely will, ma’am.”
Letice wondered how it was that she hadn’t gone mad.
Sergeant Turcotte was not the only one to visit the asylum in regard to The Wanderer; Eugenia Babbitt went there too. So did William Arrow. William was trying to figure out the connection between him and his murderer, or at least try to understand his killer’s state of mind. It was becoming clear to him that the man had no constant state of mind, that most of the time his killer’s mind was utterly and completely blank.
Taking Up the Prophecy
T RINIDAD Prefontaine was alone in this world. She’d never known her father, and her mother was dead from the bite of a poisonous thing, as best anyone could figure out. When she was eleven years old, Trinidad had ended up in an orphanage for Negro children, and at seventeen she’d become the wife of Jackson Prefontaine, a hardworking young fellow she’d met there. The two of them found work over in Mississippi, where they never had children and Jackson died
Sometimes their pausing and listening had nothing to do with Bonaventure and everything to do with a split-second, quick-flashing vision of William, or the ricochet of a word he’d said, or maybe the sudden scent of him on a zephyr that seemed an exhalation. This pattern of stopping to catch a sound or sight or smell became their normal way, and so Dancy and Letice moved through the house on Christopher Street keeping interrupted time with an uncertain metronome, day after expectant day.
Sometimes when she entered a room, Letice sensed that William had just been there but had hurried out because he didn’t wish to stay. This rejection upset and mystified her. She couldn’t fit it in with her memories: how he’d carried around an old nightgown of hers until he was almost three; all the dandelion bouquets he’d pulled from behind his back; the year he glued macaronis to a coffee can and painted it red for Valentine’s Day. Memory led to more memory: the sight of two-year-old William standing on a kitchen chair stirring dish suds in the sink; how he clomped around in cowboy boots that were sometimes on the wrong feet; how he fell asleep with his hand in his catcher’s mitt. The smell of boy. His big brown eyes. Nowhere in these memories could she find a place for blood or bullets.
Letice prayed for the repose of William’s soul, she prayed for Dancy, and she prayed that the police would find out the killer’s name.
William didn’t want her to pray for the repose of his soul. It felt as if she was praying him away.
Time went on with no new findings. Letice went to the police station for another face-to-face with Sergeant Turcotte.
“I’ve been to see the director of the asylum,” he said.
Letice braced herself.
“There’s no change, Mrs. Arrow, no change at all. The guy just stares most of the time. The nurses say he shuffles around some and likes to sit outside.”
“Have you been checking records at the bank? Following up on people who might have wanted revenge?”
“Yes, ma’am, we did that. If anything, your bank extended more loans than they called in. There were some that got foreclosed, but we could account for all those folks and their descendants. Of course, there would have been situations where people came in to ask for a loan but were never even considered. We didn’t find any records of denied applications, so there’d be no way to trace any of those people. I’m sorry, Mrs. Arrow.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Please continue to check with the doctors and nurses and keep me informed.”
“I surely will, ma’am.”
Letice wondered how it was that she hadn’t gone mad.
Sergeant Turcotte was not the only one to visit the asylum in regard to The Wanderer; Eugenia Babbitt went there too. So did William Arrow. William was trying to figure out the connection between him and his murderer, or at least try to understand his killer’s state of mind. It was becoming clear to him that the man had no constant state of mind, that most of the time his killer’s mind was utterly and completely blank.
Taking Up the Prophecy
T RINIDAD Prefontaine was alone in this world. She’d never known her father, and her mother was dead from the bite of a poisonous thing, as best anyone could figure out. When she was eleven years old, Trinidad had ended up in an orphanage for Negro children, and at seventeen she’d become the wife of Jackson Prefontaine, a hardworking young fellow she’d met there. The two of them found work over in Mississippi, where they never had children and Jackson died
Similar Books
