He was chewing these thoughts over lazily when Ann said, ‘Terrible about the Glick boy.’
‘Ralphie? Yes,’ Bill said.
‘No, the older one. He’s dead.’
Ben started. ‘Who? Danny?’
‘He died early yesterday morning.’ She seemed surprised that the men did not know. It had been all the talk.
‘I heard them talking in Milt’s,’ Susan said. Her hand found Ben’s under the table and he took it willingly. ‘How are the Glicks taking it?’
‘The same way I would,’ Ann said simply. ‘They are out of their minds.’
Well they might be, Ben thought. Ten days ago their life had been going about its usual ordained cycle; now their family unit was smashed and in pieces. It gave him a morbid chill.
‘Do you think the other Glick boy will ever show up alive?’ Bill asked Ben.
‘No,’ Ben said. ‘I think he’s dead, too.’
‘Like that thing in Houston two years ago,’ Susan said. ‘If he’s dead, I almost hope they don’t find him. Whoever could do something like that to a little, defenseless boy -’
‘The police are looking around, I guess,’ Ben said. ‘Rounding up known sex offenders and talking to them.’
‘When they find the guy they ought to hang him up by the thumbs,’ Bill Norton said. ‘Badminton, Ben?’
Ben stood. ‘No thanks. Too much like you playing solitaire with me for the dummy. Thanks for the nice meal. I’ve got work to do tonight.’
Ann Norton lifted her eyebrow and said nothing.
Bill stood. ‘How’s that new book coming?’
‘Good,’ Ben said briefly. ‘Would you like to walk down the hill with me and have a soda at Spencer’s, Susan?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Ann interposed swiftly. ‘After Ralphie Glick and all, I’d feel better if-’
‘Momma, I’m a big girl,’ Susan interposed. ‘And there are streetlights all the way up Brock Hill.’
‘I’ll walk you back up, of course,’ Ben said, almost formally. He had left his car at Eva’s. The early evening had been too fine to drive.
‘They’ll be fine,’ Bill said. ‘You worry too much, Mother.’
‘Oh, I suppose I do. Young folks always know best, don’t they?’ She smiled thinly.
‘I’ll just get a jacket,’ Susan murmured to Ben, and turned up the back walk. She was wearing a red play skirt, thigh-high, and she exposed a lot of leg going up the steps to the door. Ben watched, knowing Ann was watching him watch. Her husband was damping the charcoal fire.
‘How long do you intend to stay in the Lot, Ben?’ Ann asked, showing polite interest.
‘Until the book gets written, anyway,’ he said. ‘After that, I can’t say. It’s very lovely in the mornings, and the air tastes good when you breathe it.’ He smiled into her eyes. ‘I may stay longer.’
She smiled back. ‘It gets cold in the winters, Ben. Awfully cold.’
Then Susan was coming back down the steps with a light jacket thrown over her shoulders. ‘Ready? I’m going to have a chocolate. Look out, complexion.’
‘Your complexion will survive,’ he said, and turned to Mr and Mrs Norton. ‘Thank you again.’
‘Anytime,’ Bill said. ‘Come on over with a six-pack tomorrow night, if you want. We’ll make fun of that goddamn Yastrzemski.’
‘That would be fun,’ Ben said, ‘but what’ll we do after the second inning?’
His laughter, hearty and full, followed them around the corner of the house.
2
‘I don’t really want to go to Spencer’s,’ she said as they went down the hill. ‘Let’s go to the park instead.’
‘What about muggers, lady?’ he asked, doing the Bronx for her.
‘In the Lot, all muggers have to be in by seven. It’s a town ordinance. And it is now exactly eight-oh-three.’ Darkness had fallen over them as they walked down the hill, and their shadows waxed and waned in the streetlights.
‘Agreeable muggers you have,’ he said. ‘No one goes to the park after dark?’
‘Sometimes the town kids go there to make out if they can’t afford the drive-in,’ she said, and winked at him. ‘So if you see anyone skulking around in the bushes, look the other way.’
They entered from the west side, which faced the Municipal Building. The park was shadowy and a little dreamlike, the concrete walks curving away under the leafy trees, and the wading pool glimmering quietly in the refracted glow from the streetlights. If anyone was here, Ben didn’t see him.
They walked around the War Memorial with its long lists of names, the oldest from the Revolutionary War, the newest from Vietnam, carved under the War of 1812. There were six home town names from the most recent conflict, the new cuts in the brass gleaming like fresh wounds. He thought: This town has the wrong name. It ought
