If I’d thought about it, I’d have known Rory would come back. I didn’t think about him until his shadow fell across me.
“Afternoon, Rhiann.”
I shivered. “Rory. What brings you today?”
“You didn’t pick up Mickey’s gun.”
Fighting the urge to tell him “none of your business,” I just stared.
He leaned sideways, moving his shade so the sun struck me in the face.
I sat back on my heels and reached my gimme cap from my gardening tote. “Is the sheriff planning to auction it off?”
“Just thought you might need it, bein’ as how your new neighbor’s a convicted felon.”
I felt a sudden rage and stood up, stepping into his space. “And you know this how?”
“I ran a check on him for you. Did five years for killin’ a man. They shoulda nailed him for DUI, too, but he lost so much blood the paramedics had to give ’im fluids. Brought his BAC down below the legal limit by the time they took a sample.”
I felt like slapping him. Instead, I took a deep breath and said, “Why are you telling me this?”
“Just watchin’ out for my best friend’s widow.”
“If I want help, I’ll ask.”
“Maybe you weren’t list’nin’. Devlin’s a convicted felon.”
“He’s done his time. And as long as he’s not breaking any laws, he has a right to be left alone. So do I. Please go away.”
“You taken leave of your senses?”
I didn’t answer.
“Mickey must be spinnin’ in his grave.”
“Mickey was a Christian. He believed in redemption and forgiveness.”
Rory laughed. “Yeah. Did ya hear me say Devlin killed a man?”
“Reckless homicide, wasn’t it?”
“He told you! Well, he probably figured you’d find out.”
“What was he, eighteen or nineteen at the time?”
“A leopard don’t change his spots.”
“The only spotted thing around here is your motive, Rory. Please leave.”
“You’re gonna regret it.”
When John Devlin pulled into his drive an hour later, I was still furious at Rory. Which may have clouded my judgment.
John looked tired, almost old, as he got out of his Jeep—nothing like the felon Rory tried to make him out.
Then he smiled, and I wondered again if he were younger than his white hair suggested.
I stabbed my shovel into the earth and said, “John?”
Jimmy
It took me less than an hour to get to Greenville Friday afternoon. This time I knew where I was going—straight to Mickey D’s. I looked around for the Greenville goons and, when I was sure the coast was clear, I went in and checked the plumbing. Then I got a large Coke and directions for a shorter route to the library.
The big old building had really big trees around the parking lot and really tall doors and windows. Stephanie’s car wasn’t in sight, so I parked in the shade and took my time finishing my Coke.
Inside, the place was kinda like a church—lots of old carved wood and stained-glass windows. But instead of Bible stories, the pictures looked like fairy tales. There were posters, too—actors like Michael J. Fox and Whoopi Goldberg telling people to READ.
An older lady was sitting on a tall stool behind the checkout desk. She looked up from the book she was reading and said, “May I help you?”
“Urn. I’m s’posed to meet someone here.”
She smiled and nodded, then went back to her book.
John
I could tell by the way my neighbor was attacking the weeds that she was upset. Her skin glowed red, whether from anger or too much sun, I couldn’t tell. Her shirt, damp with sweat, clung to her skin. She was beautiful!
She gave me an ambiguous smile when I got out of the Jeep, so I guessed she wasn’t mad at me.
I smiled back, then started to get my stuff together.
She took a couple more whacks with her shovel, then drove it hard enough into the ground to stand it upright.
I started toward my house.
“John,” she called after me.
I stopped and turned. “Yes?” I was ready to say yes to anything she asked.
She seemed startled, as if she’d forgotten that she’d spoken. I waited. Finally she said, “There’s a potluck supper at the church tonight. You’re welcome to join us.”
Not exactly the invitation I’d dreamed of, but a start. “What can I bring?”
“They can always use milk or soda.”
I nodded. “I’ll drive?”
She seemed, suddenly, uncomfortable. “Maybe we’d better go in separate cars.” Before I could feel hurt by that, she added, “Deputy Sinter was a friend of my husband’s and he seems to feel it necessary to look out for Mickey’s widow. He made a point to warn me about you.”
I couldn’t keep from smiling. “So you immediately decided to convert me.”
She laughed, then sobered. “He can be a real jerk. I wouldn’t want to give him an excuse to bother you.”
“I see. You’re protecting me from Deputy Sinter.”
She smiled—a troubled smile it seemed to me. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
“Who’s going to protect you?”
“My husband was a state cop. That trumps the sheriff’s police. If Rory actually makes trouble, I’ll ask Mickey’s old boss to set him straight.” She smiled again. “I’m sorry. I should have said so first—that Rory will probably be there—I don’t want to put you on the spot and—I’ll understand if you want to change your mind.” She sounded as though she’d be disappointed if I didn’t come.
That and her smile were enough to convince me. “I’ll be there.”
Though I didn’t say it, I knew that if Sinter became a problem she’d need someone to back her up until the state police arrived.
In which case, I was her man.
The church was an unassuming brick structure with a cross over the door formed by bricks set out half a width from the wall face. The parking lot was shaded by half-century-old elms and overgrown lilac bushes. I waited until Rhiann arrived. Then, carrying my galvanized tub filled with ice and pop cans, I followed her into the church basement and stopped just inside to watch her.
She could’ve been a model in her flowered dress. Her hair was pulled back, tied with a ribbon. She seemed to know everyone and greeted them with a hug and a dazzling smile. But when she thought no one was looking, a sad expression crossed her face like mist clouding the sun.
She noticed me standing with my offering and hurried over. “John, I’m so glad you came.”
She showed me where to put the tub—on the end of a long table covered with a red-and-white checked oilcloth and laden with casseroles, salads, meat and cheese trays, and condiments. Then she insisted on introducing me around.
Surviving prison leaves you with a peculiar skill set, one tool of which is the ability to closely observe what’s going on around you while seeming to attend to something else. So I was able to observe Rhiann while shaking hands with the Reverend and Mrs. Poplar.
The reverend and his wife watched Rhiann with concern, as if waiting to offer comfort at the first sign it was needed. And why not. Her husband was only three months in his grave.
I noticed two others watching her. Frank Farmer, the old man she introduced as her boss, eyed her with longing.
Deputy Sinter—out of uniform but no less officious than when we’d first met—leered at her when he thought no one was looking, especially the brassy woman with him whom I took to be his wife.
When Sinter saw me he flushed, and his jaw muscles knotted. I’d met men like him. In prison, they were guards or gang bosses. Bullies. You didn’t want to give them trouble in front of witnesses—they couldn’t stand to lose face. But you never wanted to let them back you down.
When Rhiann said, “Rory, you’ve met my new neighbor,” she didn’t smile.
Neither did h
e. He said, “Devlin.”
“And this is Marie,” Rhiann told me.
I gave her a friendly nod—though not too friendly. “Mrs. Sinter.”
Sinter turned a shade darker. The expression “if looks could kill” crossed my mind.
Marie Sinter smiled. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Devlin.” Her smile faded as she noticed her husband’s reaction. She looked from him to me to Rhiann, clearly hoping for an explanation.
Ignoring Marie’s confusion, Rhiann took my arm, saying, “Excuse us, Marie.” To me she said, “John, you’ve got to meet Abel. He desperately needs help with his old car.”
Before we retreated, I saw Sinter whisper something to his wife. Marie looked alarmed.
Sinter made a point to get me alone later. “I got my eye on you. You step outta line you’ll be back in jail so fast you won’t know what hit you.”
I didn’t bother to answer. I’d done five years—didn’t bother to apply for parole. So when I got out, I was a free man—or as free as you can be when you’ve killed someone.
Most people are willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but there were always the Sinters…
Rhiann
After I introduced John around, I left him with Abel Smith who’d had problems with his Ford Taurus ever since he got it.
I knew inviting John was a mistake when I saw Rory Sinter working his way around the room, bending the ear of every man still speaking to him. When I saw him buttonhole Frank, I decided to try limiting the damage his malicious gossip might do. I started with the Poplars.
“John’s had some trouble in his past. But whatever Rory’s told you, John’s trying to straighten his life out.”
Reverend Poplar is a great preacher—he understands the world as well as the Word. He patted my arm. “Then it’s a good thing you brought him to us.” To his wife he said, “Come on, my dear,” and led her toward where John was still talking to Abel.
Jimmy
“The library is closing.”
I came awake in a panic. Where was I?
Greenville. The library.
Where was Beth?
The librarian didn’t push me—maybe she saw how bummed I was—but I could tell she wanted to go home. So I said, “Thanks,” and “Good night,” and went out to sit in my car.
There was no sign of Beth or Stephanie or Stephanie’s car. I finally gave up and went looking for Steve. I didn’t find him. When I spotted the Greenville goons’ car in the Mickey D’s parking lot, I decided it was time to go to my grandmother’s.
The Wilding house must’ve been the biggest one in Greenville. Big old elm trees shaded it, and there were tons of bushes along the drive out front. The porch wrapped all around and had a roof so, on rainy days, you could sit out and watch traffic splash by.
I climbed the front steps and knocked.
Mrs. Wilding opened the door herself. Again. She frowned, and—for a minute—I thought she was gonna repeal her invitation. Then she said, “Do you have a suitcase?”
Weird.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looked past me, at my Chevy—and her mouth formed a hard, straight line. I guess the car didn’t meet her standards. Like I cared. But I was starting to wonder why I was here. The trip had been an excuse to see Beth again. Without Beth, it was nuts to put up with Mrs. Wilding. Ma would’ve called her rude. Maybe that was why they didn’t get along.
Mrs. Wilding said, “You can park behind the house, next to the garage. Come to the back door and I’ll let you in.”
The back door opened onto the same big porch that surrounded the front of the house. Mrs. Wilding stood back to let me into the biggest kitchen I’d ever seen. I bet most hotels have smaller ones.
A little old black lady was sitting at the table, peeling potatoes. She was wearing a white uniform, an apron, and nurse’s shoes.
“This is Rosa,” Mrs. Wilding said. She told Rosa, “This is William’s son, James.”
Rosa looked surprised.
“Rosa was your father’s nanny,” Mrs. Wilding said. “Would’ve been yours.”
“Master James,” Rosa said. Softly.
“No,” I said. “Just Jimmy.”
Rosa threw a look at Mrs. Wilding. She didn’t seem to be listening. She was walking around the room like she expected to find something out of place. Who knows what? The room looked like an ad in one of my ma’s House and Garden magazines.
Rosa said, “Jimmy,” very softly.
“And not master, Rosa,” I added. “President Lincoln freed the slaves.”
She chuckled. “You got your daddy’s sense a humor. But you got to know master’s an old-fashioned word. Means a young man’s not old enough to be a mister.”
I grinned; Rosa winked.
Mrs. Wilding said, “Come along, Will—Ah, James.”
A Freudian slip! My dad told me about them. Cops use ’em to trip up criminals. I just said, “Yes, ma’am.”
The house was like Dr. Who’s Tardis—big as it was on the ouside, it seemed bigger inside. Mrs. Wilding led me through a huge dining room and even bigger front room. All the furniture was old-fashioned—dark wood, heavy. They looked to me like antiques. And like they didn’t get used very much.
The room she called the library had twelve-foot ceilings and bookshelves that went all the way up and were full of books—lots of ’em with matching covers. I’m sure there were more than in the public library.
“Did you read all these?” I asked her.
She got a funny look on her face—like I’d caught her doing something she shouldn’t. “Most of them. Not all.”
I only own three books—Catch-22, Catcher in the Rye, and Breakfast of Champions—but I’ve read ’em all. At least twice.
We finally got to a huge staircase and I followed her up the steps.
She stopped at the top to get a breath, and I took the opportunity to ask, “Where’s Grandpa?”
“Your grandfather is resting.” She hesitated. “He’s not well.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
She gave me a look—you know, “How rude”—that I ignored. Finally, she said, “He’s losing his mind.” She seemed almost ready to cry, but she didn’t.
I said, “I’m sorry.”
The staircase ended in a hallway that went right and left. Each side ended at a really tall window. She turned left. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. It’s not your fault.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stopped and turned to face me. “Call me ‘grandmother.’ Please.” I nodded. She said, “You are welcome here. Whatever your mother may’ve said.”
“She didn’t say anything.”
“Good.”
She turned and went farther down the hall, then opened one of the doors and went in. I followed her.
“This was your father’s room,” she said.
No shit, Sherlock. It looked like my room at home—if I was into peace signs, and Jim Morrison, and rock concerts in muddy fields.
“Make yourself at home. The bathroom’s across the hall. Dinner is served at eight.”
When I nodded, she went out and closed the door behind her. I wondered what I was supposed to do in the meantime. I had almost an hour, so I decided to check out the room, then clean up.
Everything seemed to be the way it was when Billy left home—his posters and books and records, even his clothes in the closet and shoes under the bed. Except there was no dust. Someone had to be cleaning it every once in a while.
Rosa was in the library, reading. She put the book down when I came in and looked at me like she was waiting for me to ask her something.
So I said, “You read all these books?”
“All of ’em.”
“Wow!”
“I been workin’ here a long time.”
“They—Mrs. Wilding doesn’t treat you very well. Why do you stay?”
She laughed. “The way humans is made, you can’t take care of somethin’ without comin’ to love it or
hate it.
“An’ Mr. Wilding—when he was still hisself—treated me with respect.”
“Did you know Billy?”
“Your daddy. He was the best of the lot. They didn’t ’preciate that till he was gone.” She shrugged and got up. “Mrs. Wilding had me set up with the good china for dinner. Wear your church clothes.”
Dinner was worse than final exams. We were all dressed up—except Rosa, who was still in her nurse’s uniform—and there was no one there but the Wildings and me.
There was enough silverware around each plate for two people—two forks and three spoons and two kinds of knife. I was starting to panic, when I caught Rosa’s eye. “Start at the outside an’ work in,” she whispered. “Watch your grandmama.”
Rosa didn’t eat with us. She tied a small tablecloth around Grandpa’s neck, like a giant bib, and fed him like a baby. Mrs. Wilding sort of ignored them. She asked me all sorts of questions: How was I doing in school? What sports did I play? Did I have a girlfriend?
I asked her pretty much the same questions about Billy.
“He used to date your mother. I didn’t think they were serious until they ran away and got married. Just as well, I guess.”
We were almost finished with dessert when she asked, “What made you decide to trace your roots now?”
So I told her about Dad getting killed. And that pretty much ended the small talk for the rest of the meal.
John
Saturday took me to Chicago on business. I got there early. A cold breeze off the lake and a brief early rain combined to turn the sun-warmed streets misty and mysterious. I parked in one of the overpriced city garages and walked to my appointment. Afterward I moved the Jeep to the Grant Park garage so I could visit the Art Institute.
As a boy, I’d read how Daedalus built the maze to imprison the Minotaur. The first time I’d entered the Chicago treasure trove, I felt Daedalus had had a hand in its design. But on subsequent visits, I came to realize it was more a labyrinth—convoluted, but not confusing—than a maze. Like classic labyrinths, despite its twists and turns, it formed a single path to a center—representing God in certain schemes, enlightenment, or art, or some similar grail.
M.I.A. Page 6