Alice laughs, a sound like dolphin chatter.
“It might bother other mothers, fussy-tidy types. But it was fine with me. It’s not like we had fancy dinners or anything, it’s been just us these last twelve years. He’d shut himself in there for hours, even jam rolled-up towels under the French doors. Said he needed ‘ultimate quiet’ so he could concentrate. By that I think he meant my TV—I like it loud, at least twenty-five on the volume.”
“Can you show us?”
“The French doors back down the hall. You go on ahead.”
I walk fast, Alice at my heels.
“We need to go,” she whispers. “Father Carl will be back from dinner at eight.”
I press on the brass door handle. Double doors squeal open to a tiny dining room wallpapered in velvet. Olive drapes still on their rods have been removed from the windows and propped vertically against the wall. Three chairs have been pulled from the table and stacked roughly; the fourth is angled like someone got up and left minutes before. A built-in cabinet with flowery china behind glass is the only piece of furniture besides a table with a sheaf of thick blank paper. To the left of the paper, charcoal sticks lay in perfect size order; to the right is a chamois cloth, a sanding block, a foam brush, a knife. The sweet smell of stale weed lingers. In the far corner is an ashtray filled with seeds and a pack of E-Z Wider rolling papers. The walker creaks up behind us.
“It’s like a memorial,” Alice says quietly.
In front of the chair is a half-completed sketch. A bit of charcoal sits on top of a few tendrils of hair, drawn with heavy, saturated strokes.
Yvonne creaks into the doorway. “Who is the girl in that sketch?” I murmur without turning.
“Why, that’s Donny’s girl,” Yvonne says, out of breath. “He was in love. Said she was the best thing that ever happened to him.”
I stare down at the girl from Liv’s eaves. Thick-lidded eyes stare back, one bigger than the other.
“Is this the last picture Donny ever drew?” I say, facing her now.
Yvonne sniffs and pulls a wad of Kleenex from the pocket of her housecoat, lifting her eyeglasses and dabbing underneath.
“We don’t mean to be insensitive,” Alice says.
“No. I needed to come into this room sometime. Probably better not to do it alone,” Yvonne says.
Alice makes a sympathetic noise. I gaze down, realizing I’m looking at the final version of the sketches in Liv’s eaves, with all the details he had decided were right. The masculine brows and the flat plane of the nose, the shy smile above the undefined chin. This was Donald Jessup’s girlfriend.
“He really was talented,” Alice murmurs.
I pull my eyes away and turn to Yvonne. “Do you know how they met?”
“How they all meet these days. On the computer. Donny was a nice boy, handsome. He took care of himself, a very neat dresser. Just shy. Not great at talking one-on-one. They had a number of things in common, he said.”
“Did you ever meet her?” My voice is strained.
“Naw, Donny was a big boy. He didn’t need my approval. Besides, he said she was shy too.”
Alice lifts her sleeve and taps her watch with one finger.
“My therapist will be real pleased that I know this about Donny. He was a gifted artist,” I say. “But we’ve taken up an awful lot of your time, Mrs. Jessup. We ought to go.”
“It’s kind of you to say that. Not everyone’s so kind no more.” She turns and hoists her walker forward, leaning heavier than before. Her shoulders are round and small and I walk extra slowly, so as not to step on her heels. As I detour into the living room and scoop up my coat, I glance at the photos on the mantel, and find myself wondering if there really is anyone in the world who would notice if Yvonne Jessup disappeared.
As Alice and I let ourselves out, Yvonne stands to the side, looking down and away, head bobbing.
“Is there something else you want to tell us, Mrs. Jessup?” I say.
Yvonne stabs her pocket with her hand looking for another Kleenex. Alice pulls a tissue from her jacket and hands it to her. She blows her nose, a dry squeal, and stuffs the Kleenex away.
She grabs my wrist. “I’m sorry for the way he chased you. In the woods. Donny was never a bad boy. He just got his signals mixed up.”
Signals? Again, the Candid Camera moment. I am supposed to agree with this woman, this still-grieving, delusional woman, that her Donny was confused by my begging and my cries.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I manage, wriggling from her gnarled hand.
“At least he’s with our Lord,” Alice says.
Yvonne looks at Alice sideways. “You know Donny killed himself, right?”
Alice’s jaw falls open, then she snaps it shut. “I mean to say, it’s a good thing, I don’t mean it’s a good thing. I mean, as far as society in general is concerned, it’s a good thing…”