'Hello. Yes, I can talk. I'm all alone here. My sister and her husband drove in from Bayport and picked up the children this morning.
They'll be staying out there for, oh, for a while, anyway. They thought it would be better for the children and easier for me. I didn't really want them to take the kids, but I didn't have the strength to argue, and maybe they're right, maybe it's better this way.'
'You sound a little shaky.'
'Not shaky. Just very drawn, very worn out. Are you all right?'
'I'm fine.'
'I wish you were here.'
'So doI .'
'Oh, dear.I wish I knew how I felt about all of this. It frightens me.
Do you know what I mean?'
'Yes.'
'His lawyer called earlier. Have you spoken to him?'
'No. Was he trying to get in touch with me?'
'He didn't seem very interested in you, as a matter of fact. He was very confident about winning in court, and when I said that you were trying to find out who really killed that woman, he seemed- how shall I put it? I got the impression that he believed Jerry was guilty. He intends to get him acquitted, but he doesn't really believe for a minute that he's really innocent.'
'A lot of lawyers are like that, Diana.'
'Like a surgeon who decides it's his job to remove an appendix.
Whether there's anything wrong with the appendix or not.'
'I'm not sure it's exactly the same thing, but I know what you mean. I wonder if there's any point in my contacting that lawyer.'
'I don't know. What I was starting to say … Oh, it's silly, and it's hard to say. Matthew? I was disappointed when I picked up the phone and it was the lawyer. Because I was hoping, oh, that it would be you.'
Pause. 'Matthew?'
'I'm here.'
'Should I not have said that?'
'No, don't be silly.' I caught my breath. The telephone booth had gotten unbearably warm. I opened the door a little. 'I wanted to call you earlier. I shouldn't be calling now, really. I can't say I've made very much progress.'
'I'm glad you called, anyway. Are you getting anywhere at all?'
'Maybe.Did your husband ever say anything to you about writing a book?'
'Me write a book? I wouldn't know where to start. I used to write poetry. Not very good poetry, I'm afraid.'
'I meant did he say anything about the possibility of him writing a book.'
'Jerry? He doesn't read books, let alone write them. Why?'
'I'll tell you when I see you. I'm learning things. The question is whether or not they'll fit together into something significant. He didn't do it. I know that much.'
'You're more certain of it than you were yesterday.'
'Yes.' Pause. 'I've been thinking about you.'
'That's good. I think it's good. What sort of thoughts?'
'Curious ones.'
'Good curious or bad curious?'
'Oh, good, I guess.'
'I've been thinking, too.'
Chapter 11
I wound up spending the evening in the Village. I was oddly restless, possessed of an undirected energy that enervated me and kept me moving. It was a Friday night, and the better downtown bars were crowded and noisy as they always are on Fridays. I hit the Kettle andMinetta's and Whitey's andMcBell's and the San Giorgio and the Lion's Head and theRiviera and other places the names of which I don't remember. But because I couldn't settle in anywhere I wound up having only one drink to a bar and walking off most of the effect of the alcohol between drinks. I kept moving and I kept drifting west, away from the tourist area and closer to where the Village rubs up against theHudson River .
It must have been around midnight when I hitSinthia's . It was fairly far west onChristopher Street , the last stop for gay cruisers on their way to meet the longshoremen and truckers in the shadow of the docks. Gay bars do not threaten me, but neitherare they places I habitually seek out. I sometimes dropped in toSinthias's when I was
