“I know that. I was in the auditorium earlier. But I had to leave, because, well . . .”
As his voice trailed off, my mother seemed to take him in for the first time. I watched her face soften in such a way that she appeared more like her usual, serene self. “What is it?”
“It’s . . . well . . . I need your help.”
He pointed to the bushes, and my mother walked toward them. I had the sense that she did not want me to follow, so I lingered behind. The man did too. From the curb, we watched as my mother gathered the hem of her dress and crouched to the ground. Rather than call into the darkness the way he had been doing, she began humming, the same song she hummed on the drive down to Florida to shut out Rose’s bad behavior. At last, when her humming stopped, my mother held her hand into the shadows. I cringed, expecting the rustle and high-pitched snarl.
Except for the wind shaking the palm trees, things were quiet. I looked closer and saw, not far from my mother’s hand, a pair of eyes. Wet and shiny, they made me think of an animal blinking there in the dark. And then, slowly, she appeared. Not an animal. A girl. She was older than me, I could tell, though not by much. Thirteen, I guessed. Maybe fourteen. Her blond hair was matted. Her expression, empty and dazed. She placed her hand in my mother’s. Together, they stood. On the girl’s forehead, my mother made the sign of the cross over and over again, so many times it was not possible to count. When that was done at last, she placed her palms on the girl’s cheeks. Eyes closed, my mother’s lips moved in prayer. “In the name of the Father,” she said finally, “the Son, the Holy Ghost.”
The girl’s hand in hers now, she led her to where we stood by the curb in the spot my uncle’s truck had been only a few moments earlier. As rain began to fall once more, misting my cheeks and dampening my hair, I studied the girl more carefully. No shoes. One sock. Ratty shorts and T-shirt. Her cherub cheeks and arms scratched, same as the man’s. Her bright blue eyes stayed trained on my mother and no one else. She opened her mouth, actually moved it up and down in a vague, marionette sort of way, but no sound came.
Still, my mother seemed to understand. “It’s okay,” she said, turning to the man. “Come take her.”
With my mother’s blessing, he stepped toward the girl and held out his hand. When she took it, he spoke in an astonished voice to my mother, “It’s true what people say. You have a gift.”
She gave a small nod, but that was her only response. After so many years, my mother still did not like to be made the center of attention. And more than likely, her mind was on her oldest daughter, out there on the dark roads with her drunken brother-in-law at the wheel.
Before they turned to go, the man reached out his scratched hand and shook my mother’s. “Thank you, and God bless. My apologies for intruding on your difficulties.”
“It’s okay,” she told him. “You needed help. And certain kinds of help are hard to come by in this world.”
“Well, I’m grateful to you for understanding,” he said. “By the way, my name is Albert Lynch and this is my daughter, Abigail.”
Chapter 9
Little Things
WITNESS SURFACES WHO MAY CLEAR SUSPECT IN KILLING OF FAMOUS MARYLAND COUPLE.
The headline could not be missed on the newspaper folded neatly in the wastebasket by Boshoff’s desk. When I walked into his office the morning after Halloween, I glanced down to see those words and Albert Lynch’s unlined face—his bald head, long nose, and wispy mustache—staring up at me.
I’d been avoiding stories about my parents’ case in the papers ever since Cora gave me what I thought was her only worthwhile advice: “The things people write will mess with your head. Better off letting the detectives and lawyers keep you abreast of what you need to know.” So I did my best to focus on Boshoff, who unwrapped a cough drop and placed it on his pink farm-animal tongue before telling me, “I read a poem last night that put me in mind of you, Sylvie.”
“A poem?”
“Yes. I’ve been anxious to tell you about it all day.” As I took a seat, he went on to say that when he had trouble sleeping, he read poetry. Cookbooks were his favorite reading material, but he had worked through all the titles on his shelf, and they were too costly to buy more. “Some people would claim that’s not much of a change, since recipes are little poems in their own way. Wouldn’t you agree?”