it.
“Kenty,” I began in the stern, loving tone I’d once used on Sam. It hadn’t worked, but at the time he hadn’t so much wanted it to.
She began to cry. “Oh, it was horrible,” she gasped, wiping her eyes with an embroidered linen handkerchief from her skirt pocket. “It went on and on, every other day, practically. The shouting, the cursing. Him screaming and threatening her. I told her, I said, Faye Anne, next time I’m going to call the police.”
“But you never did.” There had not, to my knowledge, ever been an official complaint about Merle Carmody.
“She begged me not to. Said it would go much worse for her later, if I did.”
It was the excuse we’d all given ourselves, the one Faye Anne had pressed upon us. Kenty peered at me in appeal through her glasses, their lenses’ lower halves thick as Coke-bottle bottoms. So heavy they made Ellie's heavy-duty prescription seem like clear glass, they were the kind worn by people who have had old-fashioned cataract surgery. Behind them her watery grey eyes had a wobbly, gelatinlike appearance.
“So I didn’t. I never called.”
The room smelled of sweet tea and furniture polish tinctured with a hint of liniment, and the furnishings themselves were the sort of New England heirlooms you see in museums: a slant-topped secretary, a brass-handled highboy, a sideboard with bird's-eye-maple drawer fronts. At one end of the tea table were a clutch of small, often-used items: a box of tisssues, the TV remote wand, a needlepointed eyeglass case, prescription eye drops, and three orange plastic pharmacy bottles.
“But I should have,” she added wretchedly.
A wonderful old Persian rug spread a rich, red pattern over the floor. These were things from another time in her life, when she had been busy, important, and social. In the bookcases stood rows of books on horticulture, several of them written by Kenty herself, and on the sideboard stood a silver tray with glasses and a decanter, empty now.
The only exception to the elegant theme was a Laz-E-Boy recliner looming like an elephant among the gazelles, where in the evenings she probably watched TV instead of appearing on it as she once had. I saw the word nitroglycerine on one pill bottle, digitalis on another.
I couldn’t make out the third label. “What I should have done,” she said with sudden venom, “was kill him, myself. I’m an old woman, what can they do to me?”
Her change of mood startled me.
“They can’t scare me. Old age,” she grinned, “is scary enough.”
Which made me begin thinking that maybe Kenty was a little scary, herself. Oh, she was sharp enough, and her costume, a pink plaid housedress, thick stockings, and soft shoes, was clean and neat, properly belted and buttoned. Her hairdo was a perfect blue-white clip-job with a fresh permanent wave set into it, above pearl earrings.
But I had doubts, now, about what she could have seen:the thick glasses. And about how accurately she might report it, too.
Her grey eyes filled with tears magnified by the cataract lenses. “That poor child,” she mourned quaveringly.
So emotional… “Kenty, the night it happened. When's the last time you saw Merle alive? Someone must’ve already asked you that, right?”
She nodded grimly. “Those men. Tweedledum and Tweedledee.”
The state guys, she meant; they’d mentioned interviewing the neighbors. I repressed a smile as she went on: “I told them. I saw Merle that afternoon. Saw him go out, come back. Maybe,” she went on, sounding confused, “Faye Anne was right in there waiting for him, right that minute.”
But then she looked calculating. “No. That couldn’t be.”
“Why not?” She was bewilderingly changeable; as if she weren’t sure, herself, what she might say or do in the next moment. But her answering words were certain, not at all confused.
“Because I went over there that evening. I didn’t see him, but I heard him. He was alive. Be sure and say that,
“Kenty,” I began in the stern, loving tone I’d once used on Sam. It hadn’t worked, but at the time he hadn’t so much wanted it to.
She began to cry. “Oh, it was horrible,” she gasped, wiping her eyes with an embroidered linen handkerchief from her skirt pocket. “It went on and on, every other day, practically. The shouting, the cursing. Him screaming and threatening her. I told her, I said, Faye Anne, next time I’m going to call the police.”
“But you never did.” There had not, to my knowledge, ever been an official complaint about Merle Carmody.
“She begged me not to. Said it would go much worse for her later, if I did.”
It was the excuse we’d all given ourselves, the one Faye Anne had pressed upon us. Kenty peered at me in appeal through her glasses, their lenses’ lower halves thick as Coke-bottle bottoms. So heavy they made Ellie's heavy-duty prescription seem like clear glass, they were the kind worn by people who have had old-fashioned cataract surgery. Behind them her watery grey eyes had a wobbly, gelatinlike appearance.
“So I didn’t. I never called.”
The room smelled of sweet tea and furniture polish tinctured with a hint of liniment, and the furnishings themselves were the sort of New England heirlooms you see in museums: a slant-topped secretary, a brass-handled highboy, a sideboard with bird's-eye-maple drawer fronts. At one end of the tea table were a clutch of small, often-used items: a box of tisssues, the TV remote wand, a needlepointed eyeglass case, prescription eye drops, and three orange plastic pharmacy bottles.
“But I should have,” she added wretchedly.
A wonderful old Persian rug spread a rich, red pattern over the floor. These were things from another time in her life, when she had been busy, important, and social. In the bookcases stood rows of books on horticulture, several of them written by Kenty herself, and on the sideboard stood a silver tray with glasses and a decanter, empty now.
The only exception to the elegant theme was a Laz-E-Boy recliner looming like an elephant among the gazelles, where in the evenings she probably watched TV instead of appearing on it as she once had. I saw the word nitroglycerine on one pill bottle, digitalis on another.
I couldn’t make out the third label. “What I should have done,” she said with sudden venom, “was kill him, myself. I’m an old woman, what can they do to me?”
Her change of mood startled me.
“They can’t scare me. Old age,” she grinned, “is scary enough.”
Which made me begin thinking that maybe Kenty was a little scary, herself. Oh, she was sharp enough, and her costume, a pink plaid housedress, thick stockings, and soft shoes, was clean and neat, properly belted and buttoned. Her hairdo was a perfect blue-white clip-job with a fresh permanent wave set into it, above pearl earrings.
But I had doubts, now, about what she could have seen:the thick glasses. And about how accurately she might report it, too.
Her grey eyes filled with tears magnified by the cataract lenses. “That poor child,” she mourned quaveringly.
So emotional… “Kenty, the night it happened. When's the last time you saw Merle alive? Someone must’ve already asked you that, right?”
She nodded grimly. “Those men. Tweedledum and Tweedledee.”
The state guys, she meant; they’d mentioned interviewing the neighbors. I repressed a smile as she went on: “I told them. I saw Merle that afternoon. Saw him go out, come back. Maybe,” she went on, sounding confused, “Faye Anne was right in there waiting for him, right that minute.”
But then she looked calculating. “No. That couldn’t be.”
“Why not?” She was bewilderingly changeable; as if she weren’t sure, herself, what she might say or do in the next moment. But her answering words were certain, not at all confused.
“Because I went over there that evening. I didn’t see him, but I heard him. He was alive. Be sure and say that,
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