“Not feeling and thinking. But a kind of thinking that comes out of feeling. Out of experience. Not something based on logic or analysis, but only on feeling. A feeling that speaks the truth. A truth that can’t be expressed in words.”
“Like love,” she said.
DeMarco nodded. “And the ‘globed fruit’ line? I plugged it into a search engine, not really expecting to get any hits.”
“And?”
“It’s from the poem ‘Ars Poetica’ by Archibald MacLeash. It’s about poetry. What a poem is and what it should do.”
Jayme thought for a moment, then said, “Okay. And how does that relate in any way to the question you asked Thomas about the meaning of life?”
“Tom said, ‘Life is a poem.’ So yeah. If I substitute the word ‘life’ in place of the word ‘poem,’ it does make sense. Especially the last line of the poem. ‘A poem should not mean, but be.’”
“So then,” Jayme said, “it becomes ‘A life should not mean…but be.’” She rubbed her arms. “I just got goose bumps. ‘A life should not mean, but be.’ Like sentipensante. The experience of living is the meaning of life.”
DeMarco smiled. “That’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?”
“It really is. And also spooky.”
“Unless I’m just forcing a meaning out of what was only a meaningless dream.”
“What does your sentipensante say?”
He answered with another smile. Slipped an arm around her and ran his hand up and down her arm.
A minute later he said, “Do you know the song ‘San Diego Serenade’ by Tom Waits?”
“I don’t think I do.”
“Great lyrics.”
“Sing it for me,” she said.
“I have a better idea.” He pulled his cell phone from a pocket, tapped the search icon, said, “Tom Waits, ‘San Diego Serenade.’”
When the music started, he stood and held his arms open to her. She stood and stepped forward into his embrace, slid her hands around his waist. They danced slowly with their foreheads touching, the phone held close to their ears, the harsh notes of Waits’s barroom piano and smoke-scarred voice softened by violins gently sliding through their glissandos, turning the loon’s haunting cry into something different too, a song still bittersweet but limned with gratitude and memory.
When the song ended, Jayme whispered, “Again,” and they danced with their feet barely moving, lips nearly touching, breathing each other’s air.
ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-TWO
At 3:13 a.m., his cell phone vibrated on the bedside table. DeMarco awoke immediately, rolled onto his side, and covered the phone with his hand to mute the vibration while he brought the phone closer. Even in those moments before he put the phone to his ear, he felt the gravity of the room changing, the darkness thickening all around him.
Jayme continued to sleep until he sat up and slid his legs over the edge of the bed. As he started to rise he felt her hand on his back, so he settled onto the bed again, both feet on the floor. He spoke quietly into the phone, mostly asking questions, but his tone was somber, and soon she was sitting up too, leaning forward now with her forehead pressed to his back, hands on his waist, the light from the phone unpleasantly bright.
When he ended the call, he continued to sit motionless for a while. Then he laid the phone on the table again, facedown to smother the screen’s lingering brightness. Only when the screen went dark did he turn his body and pull up his legs, then, sitting awkwardly, turn at the waist to face her.
“Laraine tried to kill herself,” he said.
“Oh my God,” Jayme said. “How?”
“Wrists,” he said.
“Where is she now?”
“Mercy General. That was her doctor on the phone.”
“Who found her?”
“Some guy was there,” DeMarco said. “He heard her crying in the bathroom. She wouldn’t unlock the door, so he kicked it in.”
Jayme said nothing, had too many questions, not the right time to ask. She reached for his hand, pulled it close, and held it against her belly.
He said, “I’m the only person who understands what she’s going through. I need to go there. Need to make sure she gets some help.”
Jayme nodded, but the tears came anyway. “Right now?” she said.
“Soon. Let’s just lie here for a while, okay?”
They lay on their backs, holding hands, both staring up at the dark ceiling. DeMarco wished the window were open so that he could breathe fresh air. The room was cool thanks to the air conditioner, but now the air felt heavy both in his chest and atop it. Everything felt heavy in the darkness except for Jayme’s hand in his, which felt light and small and as beautiful as an injured bird.
She rolled over with her face close to his and said, “You better come back.”
“I promise. With a divorce agreement in hand.”
“I don’t give a damn about paper,” she said. “I want flesh and bone.”
“You have it,” he told her, “always,” and knew she was probably thinking, Then why are you leaving me?
He wished he could answer that question in a convincing way. Wished he had the words to articulate all those years of guilt and obligation, the recompense not yet fully paid. But no words would be sufficient, so instead, he kissed the tip of her nose, then her cheek, then the corner of her lips. The taste of her tears made him dizzy and want to cry too. But he was already with her in their sorrow and he did not need tears to know it.
But he needed to give her something. Even if it was difficult for him to do. Even if it cost him more than he had ever given anyone except his little boy.
“How do you feel about poetry?” he asked.
“Whose poetry?” she said.
“Poetry in general.”
“I like it, I guess. Some of it. It’s not something I think about. What made you ask that?”
“I wrote a poem for you,” he said.
“Seriously? When?”
“In the bear cage.”
“Oh, baby,” she said.
“I was, you know, lying there with my leg on fire. Going a little crazy probably. So to keep from focusing on the pain, I started focusing on other stuff. Like the birds out in the trees. I started listening to their songs, and how they were calling out to each other. And, I don’t know, it reminded me of you, I guess. How you make me feel.”
“The birds’ songs did?”
He nodded. “So the first line sort of just came to me. And then the next. And I just kept writing it like that. The way Tom said he wrote. Just working the sentences over and over until there was nothing left to change.”
“Can you say it for me?” she asked. “Do you still remember it?”
“I do but…I’ve never written a poem before.”
“Not for anybody?”
“I used to make up little songs when I was rocking Ryan back to sleep. When he’d wake up in the middle of the night, you know? I loved getting up and rocking him and feeling him sleeping on my chest like that. It was the most peaceful, contented feeling I’d ever known.”
“I’m honored that you wrote something for me too. I’d really like to hear it.”
“Don’t laugh,” he said.
“I’m not going to laugh.”
“It doesn’t have a title yet.”
“I can live with that.”
H closed his eyes for a moment, brought the bear cage back to him. Then he let the cage go and opened his eyes and stared into hers, smiling as he spoke:
“In the language of birds, your heart sings to me.
Its music lifts the leaves and makes the branches tremble.
It pulls the moon into the sky and holds the stars aloft.
“The bird that is your heart sits amid the leaves
and sings the sunlight a
nd the rain.
It sings the blossoms open and teaches sweet fruit to grow.”
She leaned into him then, sobbing, her body against his, hands pressed tight against him.
“That bad, huh?” he said.
She laughed, sobbed again, held him tighter. Her tears were warm and slick against his skin. “You better come back,” she told him.
He nodded, swallowed hard, her breath feathery against him. Thirteen years, he thought, since such a feeling had held him in its embrace. That overwhelming love and trust that had filled him to completion. Ineffable. Inexplicable. The scent of his child’s hair and skin, how he had breathed it in so hungrily, that warmth and trust, a beauty and gratitude too huge to bear. He had wept back then and wept now to remember it and to remember it gone, and he wept with the scent and touch and gratitude for this woman in his arms, both of them weeping now, holding each other so tightly, both so grateful and afraid.
READING GROUP GUIDE
1. What do you think would have happened if DeMarco had been allowed to retire as he had planned? Do you think Jayme’s sick leave was the best option for him?
2. If you were to take two months of sick leave, what would you do with the time? Where would you go?
3. Describe Jayme and DeMarco’s relationship. Do you think they are well suited to each other? What are the biggest challenges they face? How does their relationship change over the course of the book?
4. Imagine you were in Jayme’s position. How would you help DeMarco face his past demons? How would his jealousy and anger issues make you feel?
5. Describe DeMarco’s childhood. How do you think his upbringing changed him?
6. Compare and contrast Jayme and DeMarco. How are they similar? How are they different?
7. Describe the Da Vinci Cave Irregulars. Why do you think they are set on cracking this cold case? Why do you think DeMarco and Jayme agree to help?
8. Upon reading the initial list of suspects, who did you originally think killed the seven girls? If you were DeMarco, who would you look into first?
9. Compare DeMarco’s and Jayme’s detective styles. What role do they take when they interview suspects? If you were a detective, who would you be more like?
10. What was the relationship between Royce and the Da Vinci Cave Irregulars? Why did they suspect him? Did they have reason to?
11. Do you think McGintey, Royce, and Burl get the justice they deserve? Why or why not?
12. What is the relationship between Burl, Friedl, and the murdered girls? Who do you think is ultimately at fault?
13. How do you think solving this case affected DeMarco? How have these characters changed over the course of the book?
14. If you were DeMarco, what would you do after the case closed? Would you continue on leave or return to the force?
15. What do you make of the poem DeMarco writes for Jayme? Do you think they will get a happy ending together?
A CONVERSATION WITH THE AUTHOR
Ryan DeMarco is a very layered character. What do you think is his best quality? What do you think is his biggest challenge to overcome?
His best quality is empathy. He’s a very compassionate man, especially toward those he considers innocents—children, women, and men abused or maligned by others. His role in life, as he sees it, is to protect the innocents and bring the guilty to justice.
In regard to his biggest challenge, he holds himself responsible for every abuse he failed to prevent. Consequently, he has become emotionally guarded and reluctant to allow himself any of life’s pleasures. Jayme is helping him to overcome those problems.
You currently live in Pennsylvania. What research did you do to bring the South to life in Walking the Bones? Do you have a special connection with that region of the country?
I have a special connection with any part of the country that reminds me of the Appalachian foothills, woods, and river valleys where I spent most of my youth. For the past couple of years, each time I visited one of my sons, I would research potential sites for my relocation to a place that reminds me of western Pennsylvania but receives more than sixty sunny days each year and whose winters are less dismal than here. Other criteria for my next home is that it will be in a rural area and that I will be able to see mountains (or at least big hills) from my future front or back deck. So far, the Ozarks and eastern Kentucky seem to fit the bill.
How would you describe DeMarco and Jayme’s relationship?
They are still feeling their way through it, still trying to understand each other. They have a deep love and respect for each other, but each has secrets that impact the relationship. Their physical chemistry is still an important part of their relationship, especially for DeMarco—it’s one of the few times he can truly be open and unguarded and allow himself to experience the fullness of human connection.
Which character did you most enjoy writing?
DeMarco is easiest for me. I need only look a few years in the past to remember what it is like to be so guarded. But I also enjoy the challenge of seeing life from a female point of view. Fortunately, I’ve had some guidance over the years in understanding that point of view.
For that same reason, I also enjoyed writing Cat. She’s a woman with a huge heart but with the brittle shell of a lot of the countrywomen I knew as a boy.
As for the other characters, I had a lot of fun with Hoyle. Everything he does filters through his intellect. His physicality is an encumbrance, so his physical pleasures are limited to the gastronomic. I, on the other hand, have always exulted in the physical; as a high school and college athlete, my attitude toward the physical life was akin to that of the ancient Greeks. Even though my running and jumping days are behind me now, I still retain an appreciation for the physical life, but am gradually according more and more importance to the nonphysical.
Which character did you find the most challenging to write?
Several of the secondary characters are based more on observation than on an inner understanding of what drives those characters. I find it impossible to appreciate the motives of anyone who deliberately harms another person.
Do you see any similarities between DeMarco and yourself?
Maybe. Maybe not. :-)
There are some really great twists in Walking the Bones. Can you describe some of your plotting process? How do you map out the events in your novels?
Typically, I don’t start writing until I know the opening scene and have an idea of the conclusion. Somewhere along the way, I begin to discern future plot points that will tie the beginning to the ending, though the ending is quite likely to change before I get to it. Overall, I let the characters determine the course of the story. I set them in motion, then follow along behind and record their decisions.
If you had one piece of advice for aspiring mystery writers, what would it be?
Do I have to choose only one piece of advice? How about two?
Here’s number 1: Don’t assume that an MFA or any other degree will turn you into a writer. It won’t. At best, a degree will expose you to a lot of good, published writers and will shorten your apprenticeship by a few years. At worst, a degree will take a lot of money and time and will homogenize your writing so that it is acceptable to the lowest common denominator of literary taste. I think an aspiring writer will learn a lot less about herself, human nature, and life by sitting in a classroom for two years than by traveling the world, or just the country, and by reading and studying every good book she can get her hands on.
Number 2: Know story structure. Know what is meant by a beginning, a middle, and an end. And understand that even that formula is only a suggestion, not a rule.
What do you want readers to take away from Walking the Bones?
If my readers close the book and feel they have been on an emotional journey with my characters, and if the reader says goodbye to those characters as they woul
d say goodbye to dear friends they hope to see again, I will be satisfied that I have fulfilled my obligation.
DeMarco has suffered through a lot of tragedy, both in his childhood and adult life. Do you think people ever truly escape the ghosts of their past?
I will let Thomas Huston and Jayme Matson answer that question.
Thomas: “There’s story and there’s backstory. In fact, there’s no story without backstory. There’s no you.… There’s no present without the past.”
Jayme: “The past is never past. Every second of their pasts lay gathered inside them. Every incident of their pasts had constructed their present, every cell interlocking, layer upon layer. The past is omnipresent.”
What do you think makes DeMarco a great detective?
He listens to his heart.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks, as always, to Sandy Lu, my wonderful agent, and to my stellar editors, Shana Drehs and Anna Michels, and to my gang of three beta readers/idea generators/snafu catchers, John Fortunato, Mark Hoff, and Michael Dell. What a team!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Randall Silvis’s fiction and nonfiction books have appeared on Best of the Year lists from the New York Times, the Toronto Globe & Mail, SfSite.com, and the International Association of Crime Writers, as well as on several editors’ and booksellers’ pick lists. Also a prize-winning playwright, a produced screenwriter, and a prolific essayist, his literary awards include the Drue Heinz Literature Prize, two literature fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, a Fulbright Senior Scholar Research Fellowship, and a Doctor of Letters degree from Indiana University of Pennsylvania for distinguished literary achievement.
Cohost of the popular podcast series The Writer’s Hangout (thewritershangout.com), Silvis lives in western Pennsylvania.
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