see the long neck of the flashbulb attachment banging him in the chin every time he turned his face. “They better win the fucker,” he growled as I hugged him good-bye.
They did win, of course, and Lawrence dutifully took the photo and wrote the story. According to the date scribbled in the margin, the story ran one week after Easter.
Winning a state title in anything is a big story for a college paper, even in debate. But I doubt too many students read Lawrence’s story. They would have been more interested in another story that ran in that same edition-the one about David Delarosa’s murder.
I flipped through the files, forward and backward. I knew Lawrence hadn’t written any stories himself on David’s murder, of course, but I thought maybe he’d saved some of the stories written by others. If he had saved them, they weren’t in that tub.
But I did find one very small story on Jack Kerouac’s visit to the college the previous November that tickled me. I read it aloud to Eric. “Listen to this: ‘Nationally known avant-garde poet Jack Kerouac will appear at The E Pluribus Unum Coffee House, 2748 West Tuckman St., on Friday, November 23, at 8 PM ’ Paragraph. ‘Kerouac’s novel, The Town and the City, was published in 1949. A new novel, On the Road, will be published some time next year.’ Paragraph. ‘The appearance is sponsored by The Meriwether Square Baked Bean Existentialist Society. Admission is free.’”
Eric was not exactly impressed with Lawrence’s story. “That’s it? The great Jack Kerouac was coming to your puny backwater college and that’s all the ink they gave it?”
I put the little clipping back in the folder. I put the folder back in the Rubbermaid tub. “Kerouac was a nobody then,” I said. I rested my head on the back of the seat, closed my eyes and chewed the head off another marshmallow peep. “We were all nobodies then,” I said.
Eric was thoughtful enough to carry the tub inside for me. But he wouldn’t stay for dinner no matter how many times I asked him. He was anxious to get to Borders, to play chess with his worthless friends. “Go on,” I said, “leave an old woman all alone on a Saturday night.”
I laughed along with him. I wished he’d realized I wasn’t joking.
I watched him back out of my driveway. I watched his truck disappear up my street. I’d lived by myself in that house for forty years, but I couldn’t remember ever feeling more alone than I did that afternoon. Not even James’ silly face could cheer me. I put on my old gardening clothes. It was only four o’clock. I could spend a couple hours in my flower beds before the sun went down. But I made it no farther than the glider on my back porch. I pulled my legs up to my chin. I wrapped my arms around my shins. I rocked myself like a baby in a cradle. I watched the squirrels. I watched the rabbits. I watched the sparrows hop about on my trumpet vines. I watched the daylight fade. I wiped my nose and my eyes on my sweatshirt and went inside.
I dumped a can of tomato soup into a saucepan and put the burner on low. I pulled out my plastic cutting board and assembled my favorite sandwich-two thick pieces of Texas toast, two pieces of provolone cheese, a layer of thinly sliced tomato, a sprinkling of oregano. I sprayed my big iron griddle with Pam. I grilled my sandwich until the provolone was gooey, until the sad scent of oregano filled every inch of my little house. I clicked on the living room TV. I watched the news and then an old Lawrence Welk rerun on PBS. I put on my pajamas and moved my exciting night of television viewing to my bedroom.
Luckily for my mental health there was nothing worth a damn on television that Saturday night. The more I clicked my remote, the angrier I got-at the cable company, at the culture that produced such drivel, at God and the wicked world he created, finally at myself. “Get a grip, Dolly!” I heard myself growl.
I rarely call myself by my real first name like that. So when I do, I know I’d better obey.
I got out of bed and made a mug of Darjeeling tea. I gathered up my portable phone, my address book, some stationery, and a big flat book to write on. I crawled back into bed. I had work to do.
First I called Eric. It was only ten o’clock but he was already home. Knowing Eric, I did not have to ask if he was alone. “I’ve got another person for you to find,” I said. I waited for him to find something to write on. I waited for him to find something to write with. “Her name is Penelope Yarrow. Y.A.R.R.O.W. She’s an old girlfriend of Gordon’s apparently. From the sixties.”
Next I called Andrew J. Holloway III. I expected to get his answering machine, but he, too, was home, and from the silence on the other end, apparently just as alone as Eric and me. I got right to my question: “Exactly how long could a little slip of paper survive in a dump? Before rotting away or whatever paper does?”
“That depends on a lot of things,” he said. “Was it buried? Was it exposed to the air? To moisture? Was it sealed in something? If so, in what?”
“So theoretically, a piece of paper could survive for fifty years or more out there?”
“Under the right conditions-sure.”
I got down to the nitty-gritty. “Did Professor Sweet ever tell his students to be on the lookout for a restaurant receipt? Bags or wrappers with the word Mopey’s on it?”
“Uh-no.”
I put a chuckle in my voice. “Just the Betsy Wetsy dolls, old soda pop bottles and cocoa cans?”
He put a chuckle in his, too. “That’s right.”
Now I made sure my voice sounded deadly serious. “Did you know he actually saved all the cocoa cans-in his personal collection?”
“No, I didn’t,” Andrew said.
Chapter 15
Monday, April 30
I woke up in a surprisingly good mood for a Monday. I hadn’t caught up on any of my yard work over the weekend. And I wasn’t one inch closer to finding Gordon’s murderer. But I had managed to exorcise a demon or two, my what-if-Lawrence-hadn’t-strayed demon in particular, and good gravy, I was just feeling better about things. I took James on a longer walk than usual and doubled up on his treats. I put on a spring blouse and a pair of lightweight khakis. I dug around in the jewelry basket on my dresser for my bluebird brooch.
I got to the morgue right at nine. I made my tea and got to work marking up the weekend papers. At noon I headed down the hill to Ike’s.
“Morgue Mama!” he sang out. “I didn’t know you were rewarding us with your presence today.”
“I didn’t know myself until five minutes ago.”
“Well, it’s good to see your face,” he said. “I just hope you’re in the mood for chicken salad.”
“Sounds delightful.” I sat at a table by the window. It gave me a beautiful, unimpeded view of the empty storefronts across the street.
Ike brought me my tea then got busy making my sandwich. “What kind of bagel you want that on?” he bellowed over the top of his espresso machine.
“Surprise me,” I bellowed back.
He chose pumpernickel. He piled the chicken salad high. He went crazy with the cream cheese.
Ike’s lunchtime rush only lasts about twenty minutes. As soon as things quieted down he joined me, bringing me a free bag of potato chips. “You getting anywhere with that murder?” he asked.
It tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop myself. “You’re pretty well plugged into the black community-right?”
He laughed and helped himself to a potato chip. “I’m black, if that’s what you mean by plugged in.”
I knew I was blushing. “Let me try that again-What’s the general opinion of Shaka Bop?”
He laughed harder. “Good Lord, Maddy, that was even worse than before. There are eighty thousand black people in this city. We don’t exactly get together every Saturday night in some big hall and vote on general opinions.”
If he could tease, I could tease. “No? We white people do.”
“Oh, I know you do!” he answered. “Oh, I know you do!”
