as rude as clog dancing in a chapel. Lilly’s anguish cast a shroud over
this humble house, no less tangible than a velvet pall on a casket, as
though Jimmy had already been found dead.
Out of respect for my condition, the only light came from the digital
clock on the oven, from the blue gas flame under the teakettle on one of
the cook top burners, and from a pair of fat, yellow candles. The
candles, which were set in white saucers on the dinette table, emitted a
vanilla fragrance that was inappropriately festive for this dark place
and these solemn circumstances One side of the table was adjacent to a
window, allowing space for three chairs. In the same jeans and flannel
shirt she’d been wearing earlier, Lilly sat in the chair facing me.
Bobby remained by the door, watching the backyard, and Sasha went to the
stove to check the teakettle.
I pulled out a chair and sat directly across the table from Lilly.
The candles in the saucers were between us, and I pushed them to one
side.
Lilly was sitting forward on her chair, her arms on the pine table.
“Badger, ” I said.
Brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, lips pressed tightly together, she gazed
at her clasped hands with such fierce attention that she seemed to be
trying to read the fate of her child in the sharp points of her
knuckles, in the patterns of bones and veins and freckles, as if her
hands were tarot cards or I Ching sticks.
“I’ll never stop, ” I promised her.
From the subdued nature of my entrance, she already knew that I hadn’t
found her son, and she didn’t acknowledge me.
Recklessly, I promised her, “We’re going to regroup, get more help, go
back out there and find him.” At last she raised her head and met my
eyes. The night had aged her mercilessly. Even by the flattering light
of candles, she looked gaunt, worn, as if she’d been beaten by many
cruel years rather than by a few dark hours. Through a trick of light,
her blond hair seemed white. Her blue eyes, once so radiant and lively,
were dark now with sorrow, fear, and rage.
“My phone doesn’t work, ” Lilly said in an emotionless and quiet voice,
her calm demeanor belied by the powerful emotions in her eyes.
“Your phone? ” At first I assumed that her mind had broken under the
weight of her fear.
“After the cops were gone, I called my mom. She remarried after Dad
died. Three years after. Lives in San Diego. My call couldn’t be
completed. An operator broke in. Said long-distance service was
disrupted.
Temporarily. Equipment failure. She was lying.” I was struck by the odd
and utterly uncharacteristic patterns of her speech, the clipped
sentences, staccato cadences. She seemed to be able to speak only by
concentrating on small groups of words, succinct bits of information, as
if afraid that while delivering a longer sentence, her voice would break
and, in breaking, would set loose her pent-up feelings, reducing her to
uncontrollable tears and incoherence.
“How do you know the operator was Lying? ” I prodded when Lilly fell
silent.
“Wasn’t even a real operator. You could tell. Didn’t have the lingo
right. Didn’t have the voice. Tone of voice. Didn’t have the attitude.
They sound alike. They’re trained. This one was jive.” The movement of
her eyes matched the rhythms of her speech. She looked at me repeatedly
but each time quickly looked away, laden with guilt and a sense of
inadequacy, I assumed that she couldn’t bear the sight of me because I’d
failed her. Once she’d shifted her attention from her clasped hands, she
was unable to focus on anything for more than a second or two, perhaps
because every object and surface in the kitchen summoned memories of
Jimmy, memories that would shatter her selfcontrol if she dared to dwell
on them.
“So I tried a local call. To Ben’s mother. My late husband’s mother.
Jimmy’s grandma. She lives across town. Couldn’t get a dial tone.
Now the phone is dead. No phone at all.” From the far end of the kitchen