That amber moon, though, is not as done with him as he’d hoped. It is looking in, lurking about. When he opens the box, alone and on the bed, it casts an unwanted patina of gold across Astrid’s pillow and his memory of the face she wore on the night of their wedding. She had been in a rented white gown that had draped itself around her and looked as radiant as her happiness, a radiance that burned out the shadows and struck up the band.
They were married in the 1960s but there was no early rock-’n’-roll for them. They danced their first dance to Ella Fitzgerald singing “It’s Only a Paper Moon.” And Ella was right; it didn’t matter whether that moon was sailing over a cardboard sea or not. Because they had each other.
His right hand was aflame in the small of her back as his thumb found the valley that led to and from everything he would ever want. That hand held the entirety of her as she slid and stepped around the floor, creating a gravity of her own.
He would have followed her anywhere. And he did until he no longer could.
Morten shuffles the wedding photos to the back of the pile and looks over others that have already faded to yellow and bronze on their own. They are the usual fare and surprising only for the amount of plaid worn over the years. There, Marcus. There, Sigrid. The cat, black with a white chest. Astrid had named him Roman. He and his mate produced a litter. Astrid called them Roman’s Legions. They dug into everything.
Morten recalls sitting down with the kittens once and explaining how, in Norway, there are seven legal ways to kill cats. He described each one as they mutilated the edges of their sofa. They called his bluff.
More flipping of photos. He looks at the faces of his wife, his children.
Sigrid had said “depression.”
No, it wasn’t depression they had faced together. It was the other thing.
Morten had told his children that their mother’s death wasn’t their fault because it wasn’t. Marcus had started to blame him, and after that, he started to blame himself. Morten tried to dispel both notions, but children will blame themselves for the rising and setting of the moon, such is their certainty of their own power and centrality. And they will blame their parents for the same, such is their confusion about the difference between power and authority.
What could Marcus have meant by “It happened again”?
Morten replaces the photos and seals the lid. Seeing the faces of his family brings a tempest of emotions but no insights. This is little surprise, as few storms are productive; best to keep a lid on all of it. He slides the box back to its own spot beneath the bed, realigning the dusty edges.
Most Acts of Violence
Outside Gloria Dillane’s house, the three police officers sit in the patrol car. The bulletproof partition is open. The black vinyl seats bake their thighs and the warm air stifles their lungs until Irv starts the engine and the cold air begins to flow through the vents.
“What kind of contact have you had with Mr. and Mrs. Jones until now?” Sigrid asks. “It is strange that Lydia’s death—the second death in a single family that has not resulted in justice—has not made matters worse. And it is very strange that pressure to solve her death has slowed down.”
“The momentum for justice has not slowed down,” says Irv. “The commissioner wants us to find Marcus and lock him up. It will help calm down the situation caused by Jeffrey.”
“Jeffrey didn’t cause anything,” Sigrid says. “Roy caused it.”
“I meant what Jeffrey’s death caused.”
“What you’re describing is pressure from the top. From politicians. I’m talking about pressure from below. From citizens. I don’t understand why there’s less pressure from below. We have to see Mr. and Mrs. Jones,” Sigrid says. “They’re Lydia’s parents. Jeffrey’s grandparents. They should be central to this.”
“I’ve already spoken to them,” Irv says. His voice is barely audible over the air conditioner.
“You two ask the wrong questions,” Sigrid says. “I’ve heard you. I need to speak to them myself. Nothing about this case makes sense. Lydia’s death does not make sense to me. Marcus’s sense of responsibility and disappearance does not make sense. The politics around all this don’t make sense. Call them, Melinda. Please?” Sigrid removes an old napkin from her pocket and wipes her forehead.
Melinda turns to Irv for guidance but he looks out the window. Sigrid repeats herself, and without Irv’s explicit objection, Melinda places the call.
Sigrid isn’t done with Irv, though:
“Is the police commissioner white?” Sigrid asks.
“Yes. Why?”
“Was he elected like you?”
“He’s a civilian political appointee. So he wasn’t elected, but he’s part of the executive office.”
“So he’s political, like you, rather than a career professional, like me.”
“I suppose.”
“Our situation, as I now understand it, is that the white politicians want to lock up Marcus for Lydia’s death. But the black community does not.”
“Not exactly. They don’t know about Marcus. He’s still a missing person to the general public assuming they have any thoughts about him at all. We haven’t charged Marcus. We haven’t implicated him publicly in any way,” Irv says. “There’s no reason anyone—outside the police system—would suspect Marcus or want us to arrest him. Unless Chuck has started blathering, but I haven’t heard that happening yet and I already put the fear of God into him. So the pressure is all from the inside at the moment.”
“Who exactly is Fred Green?” Sigrid asks. “Gloria mentioned him.”
Melinda’s call has been answered and she’s speaking quietly into the phone. Sigrid catches the phrase “yes, ma’am.”
“Reverend Fred Green,” says Irv, “is the pastor at First Baptist. It’s a mostly black church. He buried Jeffrey. And Lydia. He’s very close to the
