Other people talked among themselves about Hayden’s quarterback, about the weather, about the new restaurant going in at the Rio Mesa Hotel. Someone behind me talked about the five-point buck he’d spotted at Yellow Jacket Pass. I thought of Amy Raye Latour, and checked my cell phone in case Colm had called. As I descended the bleachers, I saw a program on the concrete beneath one of the seats. I picked up the booklet, folded it, and tucked it in my coat pocket.
Inside the school building, along the painted cinder-block walls, were signs the students had made for the game. Groups of parents stood together talking. I walked down the long hallway that led to the lobby and then to the locker rooms. Displayed in the lobby were the trophy cases and the pictures of the school’s graduating classes. The pictures dated back as far as 1917. I recognized many of the family names, even recognized some of the faces of the men and women who still lived in the area. I brought the folded program out of my pocket. There was a special insert for the evening’s ceremony, with a picture and small blurb of each of the players. The photos were organized by the players’ class rank, with the sophomores toward the end. There was Joseph, his neck long like mine. His light eyes looked like glass in the black-and-white photo. Neither his dad nor I had blue eyes. Sometimes I was sure Joseph looked like the son Brody and I would have had.
Joseph and his friend Corey walked toward me. I watched my son, his uneven gait, the way his body rocked, his feet slightly turned out. Groups of other players were making their way down the wide corridor as well, none of them looking too happy.
Joseph’s left hand was shoved into the front pocket of his jeans. He was wearing his jersey and carrying a yellow rose in his right hand. His hair was still wet and hung over his broad forehead. “Thanks for coming to the game,” he said. He handed me the rose.
I wrapped my arm around his shoulders. “Joseph, I’m sorry. I thought the ceremony was at halftime.”
“Is the woman okay?” he asked.
“We haven’t found her yet.” And then, “Do I dare talk about the game?”
“Offense sucked,” Corey said. “Three turnovers on the fourth down. They should have punted.”
“Coach’s call,” I said. “You got plans tonight?”
“Maybe. I don’t know yet,” Joseph said.
“Want to walk me to my truck?”
Joseph and I stepped outside and walked across the parking lot. “You played well,” I said. “We’ll do dinner.”
“Okay.”
Another inch of snow had fallen while we’d been inside the school and was still coming down. I unlocked the truck and set the rose inside. “Be careful,” I said. “The roads will be slick. Curfew is eleven thirty.”
“I know.”
He stepped toward me, and I gave him a hug.
“Did she have any kids?” he asked.
My head rocked forward. “A stepdaughter and a son. Say a prayer for them,” I said.
“Okay, I will.”
—
I drove toward town. My wheels spun occasionally over patches of compressed slush that was beginning to freeze. At the center of town, I parked in front of the post office, a small, nondescript brick building. My post office box was on the right-side wall inside the foyer. I opened the box and scooped out the large pile of mail. I stopped at a nearby counter to sort through the items and discard the advertisement flyers in a recycling bin. The post office felt as cold and empty as it was. I would go home and build a fire, wait for the house to get warm.
My phone rang. It was Colm.
“They lost,” I said when I answered.
“I know. I heard the score on the radio.”
“You should be asleep by now,” I told him.
“So should you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m on my way home now.”
“I called Hank Ruckman. As soon as this snow lets up, he’s going to meet me out there and have a look.”
Hank was the district wildlife manager for the DOW.
“You’re thinking more about the lion,” I said.
“I guess I am. Even if she did take her life, I’d like to know what happened to her body.”
“What did Hank say?”
“He said when a lion makes a kill, most of the bleeding is done on the inside. The rest of the blood can easily be absorbed on the clothes or the thickness of the brush. The lion may have dragged her a hundred yards to a steep ledge, behind a rock crevice, a canyon, somewhere in the timber, and covered her to keep her cool. He said the lion could have finished her off in a couple of days. By the time we found the hat and the gun, there might not have been much left.”
“What about clothing or her backpack?”
“I’m not sure. But the lion’s scent could have thrown off Kona, could have covered up the scent of the subject.”
“So her committing suicide is questionable,” I said.
“It’s always been questionable,” he said.
“If she was attacked by a lion, would she have had time to fire the gun?” I asked.
“She might have if she’d spotted the lion before it attacked.”