the Italian market. People who hadnât seen her decided after she died that maybe they had. Marie Valenti had been a student at Wilbur Cross, a reporter on the school paperâand sheâd just been accepted at Yale. Her body was found on the green at nine on a Tuesday evening, a couple of weeks before sheâd have graduated from high school. Iâd lived in town just a few years then. I hadnât seen Marie Valenti playing on the floor of the grocery storeâwhich had closed when the highway cut through its neighborhoodâbut I remember the headlines.
I said much of the above as I drove, talking more to myself than to Pekko. In my peripheral vision I saw Pekko holding himself tightly next to me, as if gathering his strength to strikeâor keep what he gathered. He became more solid, more compact. He didnât speak.
I knew it made no sense to find him funny, yet I coaxed, as if he were four, â What? â
He shook his head. When I slowed, driving into the park I rememberedâa wooded nature preserveâArthur whined. In the parking lot, I opened the back door for Arthur, reaching past him to take hold of his leash. But Pekko had detached it when we left Watertown, so now the dog bounded out of the car and took off across a meadow.
Young and disobedient, Arthur ignored my shouts, cantering toward the nearby woods. I couldnât help delighting in his poodle, squared-off directness, his pleasure in motion. I hurried after him, and Pekko followed me at a steady pace, snapping the folded leash against his leg. Pekko is the sort of powerful man who looks more natural on a ladder than walking in a forest.
A family with children and a small white dog came out of the woods, and Arthur and the dog ran off together. I called Arthur once more, but on his way to me, he veered off and put a paw on the shoulder of a little child, who fell down and began to wail. Pekko came puffing up behind me, shouting, âYou damned dog, get your ass over here!â
The father of the child had picked him or her upâit was one of those indefinite stubby children, recently a babyâbut didnât look concerned. I rushed to apologize, but the people were untroubled. Now Arthur let himself be put on the leash, and we walked into the woods, where the trees were evergreens but the undergrowth on either side was all but ready to leaf out. In the oxygenated quiet, I began to calm down. Iâd been afraid the family would be angry, and I might have become angry myself in response, though the mishap was my fault. As I grew calmer, I remembered that Pekko had been angry with me, and Iâd laughed at him. I didnât know why he was angry.
It was new for us to walk like this. Ordinarily one of us walked Arthur alone. âSo why donât you want me to be curious about murder?â I said. âAre you afraid Iâll become a murderer?â I felt tender toward him, ready to get along with him, to compromise, as if that relaxed family had argued his case.
âYou donât know why?â he said.
âI donât know why.â
âNew Haven,â he said, gesturing at the woods that were not New Haven, apparently imagining New Haven superimposed on them. âIâve been there longer than you have. I was born there.â
âThatâs why I married you,â I said. âI was bored with people who complain about New Haven.â
âThen why spread bad news? Penney Serra. Christian Prince. Havenât we been criticized enough?â
âBy we you mean the citizens of New Haven?â
âWhat else would I mean?â
âWhy would my curiosity make people criticize us?â
âNext thing youâll be on the radio again, talking about New Haven murders.â
I hadnât had such a specific idea yet. âItâs a thought,â I said, âbut wouldnât it be possible to present it in a such a way thatââ
âNo, it
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