Possibly, it was his own way of looking in the mirror.
But first he wanted to make sure that Dolly was okay with it. He strolled down the gravel path to her house and found her having tea in the breakfast nook with Evan. In profile, their delicate features looked nearly identical. Both mother and son seemed defeated and downcast. Still, she greeted Mitch with a cheery smile and insisted that he join them for a cup. He did so, sliding into the nook next to Evan.
“We were just talking about poor Tal,” she told Mitch, her voice quavering with emotion. “What I keep thinking is if only I had known what was going on inside that mind of his. Perhaps I could have influenced him somehow. In a positive direction, I mean. Surely I could have prevented all of this from…” Dolly shook her head, gazing down into her teacup. “If only I had known.”
“But you didn’t know,” Mitch pointed out. “So you mustn’t beat yourself up. You’re not responsible for what he did.”
“He’s right, Mother.” Evan reached across the table for her hand. “You know he’s right.”
“I know that he’s not,” said Dolly, her porcelain-blue eyes puddling with tears. “I know that Tal Bliss killed three people because of me. I know that I shall have to carry this around for the rest of my life.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and said it again. “If only I had known.”
“My paper wants me to write about it, Dolly. Seeing as how I do have a rather unusual point of view. And I’d like to do it. But I’ll tell them no if you aren’t comfortable with the idea. This wasn’t part of the deal when I signed the lease,” he added, smiling at her.
Dolly glanced across the table at Evan, her mouth tightening. “Why on earth would I object, Mitch? I think it’s a simply wonderful idea.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely. Because you’re not a tabloid gossip monger-you’re a clear-eyed and sympathetic individual. Someone we all trust. Please do it. It’s the only real chance we’ll have for a fair, honest portrait to come out.”
Mitch had not been expecting this response from her. He’d been positive that she would be much more interested in seeing the whole matter buried and forgotten. But he should have known better, he now realized. Because if there was one constant about his life on Big Sister it was that he really, truly did not understand these people. “Do you feel the same way, Evan?”
“I do,” Evan replied softly, running both of his hands through his wavy black hair. “And I must tell you that I’m feeling a bit responsible for what happened, too. I’m the one who saw Bliss parked out here that day. I’m the one who told you about it. I didn’t have to. I could have kept quiet.”
“Instead of kicking yourself,” Mitch said, “just be thankful he didn’t decide to handle the situation differently.”
Evan frowned at him curiously. “Like how?”
“By killing you so you couldn’t tell anyone, that’s how. He could have gone after you, Evan. And me. He could have killed me instead of just trying to scare me. We should both consider ourselves lucky to be alive. And leave it at that.”
And so Mitch Berger, the most influential film critic in America, found himself at work on a real-life story of sex, murder and suicide in a small New England town.
Lacy e-mailed him that evening to say: “Welcome to the fun-filled world of participatory journalism. This may be the start of a whole new you.”
To which Mitch replied: “It’s the same old me. The world’s getting weirder, though.”
Way weirder. When word got out about it, no less than seven A-list Hollywood producers, each of them anxious to curry Mitch’s critical favor, called his literary agent to find out if he was interested in signing a development deal.
Mitch politely declined.
A special memorial service was held for Tal Bliss at the white steepled congregational church. It was bright and airy inside the lovely church, with two stories of windows to let in the sunlight. It was crowded, too. The whole village seemed to be in attendance. The islanders certainly were. Red and Bitsy Peck were there. Bud and Mandy Havenhurst. Dolly, Evan and Jamie Devers. Mitch was there, too. The rest of the media were kept out by burly young state troopers.
Bud delivered a stirring eulogy about how he had looked up to Tal Bliss since they were little boys, and how he would always remember just how fair and decent Tal was. “This is the way I choose to remember my friend,” he said in a strained voice. “This is my right.” The red-bearded minister spoke at great length on how within each human being there is strength and there is weakness and that these two forces are constantly at war with each other. Tal Bliss, he concluded sadly, just happened to lose his war.
One elderly white-haired woman sat by herself on the aisle sobbing loudly throughout the ceremony. Mitch asked Bitsy who she was.
“Why, that’s old Sheila Enman,” Bitsy replied, gazing over at her fondly. “Gracious, she must be pushing a hundred and thirty by now. She ran the volunteer ambulance corps for years and years. And before that, she taught English over at the high school. Tal was her pet. He’s been keeping an eye on her for the past few years, poor dear.”
Later that afternoon, Mitch jumped into his truck and headed up Route 156 into the farm country, where the air smelled not of the sea but of moist, freshly turned earth and cow manure. The corn was getting up now, and the dogwoods and lilacs were in full bloom. Hawks circled slowly overhead, searching for prey. Sheila Enman lived on Dunn’s Cove in an old mill house that was built right out over the Eight Mile River at the base of a twenty-foot waterfall.
“My great-granddaddy built it,” the old woman explained as they stood on her front porch watching the white water race over the polished rocks and directly under them. “I’ve lived here since I was a little girl. Back then, we generated our own electricity-for this place and a dozen others down river. There were no paved roads here. We raised most of our own food. And I went to a one-room schoolhouse, grades one through eight. But those days are gone. Too damned bad, you ask me. People were happier back then. Look around you, Mr. Berger. No one’s happy now. Got too little time and too damned many credit cards.”
Sheila Enman was the kind of hard-nosed character who was known around the village as a cranky Yankee. Mitch liked her right away. She was feisty. She was opinionated. She was totally no-bull. Her blue eyes were clear and alert, her hair a snowy white. She wore a ragged old yellow cardigan, dark blue slacks, ventilated orthopedic shoes and reading glasses on a chain around her neck. Her age didn’t seem to have slowed her mind down one bit. Just her stooped, big-boned body-she needed a cane to get around.
“It’s my bad hip,” she sniffed. “Doctors keep saying they want to give me a new one, but that just seems so wasteful, don’t you think? I’ll be ninety years old next month. Someone younger would get a lot more mileage out of it. But enough about that-it’s really not a very interesting story. Now how can I help you? You said on the phone you’re living in Dolly’s old caretaker cottage…?”
“That’s right,” said Mitch, pulling his eyes away from the waterfall, which he found positively hypnotic. “And I’m writing an article about what happened. I’d like to know more about Tal Bliss. I understand you two were close.”
“Knew him his whole life,” she confirmed, her eyes misting over.
“What sort of a kid was he? Can you describe him for me?”
“I can do you one better than that, Mr. Berger. I can show you.”
“Do you mind if I tape our conversation?” Mitch had brought along the microcassette recorder that he used for the interviews he occasionally did with directors and stars.
“Hell, no. I got nothing to be ashamed of. Take a seat, stay awhile.”
There were two rockers out on the porch. He sat in one while she hobbled inside, her cane thumping on the wooden flooring. He set the recorder on the table between the two rockers and flicked it on. She came thumping back a moment later, balancing a tray on one arm. There was a plate of homemade oatmeal cookies on it, two glasses of milk and an old, slim high school yearbook.
“Can I help you with that?” Mitch offered, climbing to his feet.
“You stay right where you are,” she commanded him. “I don’t keep doing things for myself I’ll end up in a wheelchair over at Essex Meadows, sitting in a puddle of my own urine and not even minding.” She managed to set the tray down without spilling any of the milk. She sat in the rocker next to him with a heavy grunt. She opened the yearbook.
