PART IX
THE HALL
SANDRA
Here’s Caroline:
Gripping Richard Walker’s pistol tightly in one hand, while a man tries to wrestle it away from her; ignoring the crowd of people shouting instructions, pushing past her, calling for the police. There is a small hole in the ceiling, and a fine sift of plaster raining down onto the assembled guests. The front door hangs open like a mouth; standing on the front porch is a woman.
The man with the black hair has Caroline in a bear hug. “No, Caroline. Caroline, stop.”
“What the hell is she doing here?” Caroline’s voice is shrill. “Get her out. I want her out.”
“Mom.” Then Minna comes tearing around the corner, and Trenton, and Amy, until Trenton seizes her around the waist and forces her to stay back. The cops follow, eyes bulging and chests puffed out like they’re about to cream in their pants with importance. Vivian hangs back.
“Move aside,” Danny says, squeezing through the knot of people. “Everyone clear out. Move aside.”
The other guests hang back, conversing in whispers, trying hard not to show their excitement. They look like scavengers tailing a dump truck.
“Mom, come on. Come with me.” Minna puts an arm around her mother. Caroline is trembling like a wire about to snap.
“Get her out.” Her voice crests to a high shriek, like steam out of a kettle. Everyone is frozen and horrified. One woman has a smile plastered on her face, as wide and ugly as a Halloween jack-o’-lantern.
Minna puts an arm around Caroline’s shoulders. “Shhh, Mom. Come on.” Caroline doesn’t budge.
“She shouldn’t be here,” Caroline says. “She has no right, do you hear me? No right.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” Minna glares at the woman on the porch. “Who the hell are you?”
She’s dressed in black, and for a moment, backlit by the sun, her features are all in shadow. Then she takes a step into the hall. She looks like a dog that’s been kenneled and only half groomed: she has a bewildered, panicked look, like she has no idea where she is, and even though she’s dressed for a funeral, the hem of her slip is showing beneath her skirt and her black top is stained. She has dark red hair, frizzy, graying at the temples, hanging in a long braid down her back.
Her jaw is moving soundlessly—up and down, up and down. It takes me a second to realize she’s saying I’m sorry, barely breathing it, so quietly I’m sure no one else can hear.
Danny unhooks a pair of handcuffs from his belt and takes two steps toward Caroline. Trenton steps quickly in front of his mother.
“You must be fucking kidding me,” Minna says.
“I’m sorry, Minna,” he says quietly. “I really don’t have a choice.”
“No way.” Now Trenton steps up.
Amy starts to cry.
“Look.” Danny leans in close to Minna. “I don’t like this any more than you do. But your mother just fired a gun at someone. And we have a complaint about her on file already. I don’t want to have to cuff her. If she’ll just come with me quietly—”
“Screw you, Danny.”
“Don’t make this worse.” Danny moves Minna forcibly out of the way. “Caroline Walker, you’re under arrest for aggravated assault—”
“My fault.”
The two words, spoken quietly from the doorway, make even Danny go silent.
The woman clears her throat and tries again: “It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”
“Who are you?” Trenton says.
Her big eyes keep traveling over everyone, like insects refusing to settle. “My name is Adrienne,” she says. “Adrienne Cadiou.”