There was a pale silk drawstring bag attached to the neck of the hanger. Hawley yanked it free and stuffed his hand inside. He pulled out a piece of lace. There were a few bobby pins in the bottom, but nothing else.
Talbot’s wife held out her hand and Hawley passed her the veil. She didn’t put it on, just pulled the lace across her lap and fingered the edges. Hawley listened for Talbot. He listened for Jove. But all he could hear was the toilet running. “Where else?”
“There’s a pocket,” she said. “He put the letter there, the one I was telling you about. I carried it with me down the aisle.”
Hawley groped the skirt, pushed the tulle aside, and then he felt the pocket, hidden on the left, just where the bride’s hip curved out from the waist. He pushed his fingers inside and found what they’d been searching for, there beneath the folds, cold and hard and waiting.
The watch was not nearly as large as he had expected it to be, but it was heavy, resting in the center of his palm, a precious thing from another century. He ran his thumb over the winding key and the intricate carving of a deer on the cover before he pushed on the knob and the clamshell flipped open, revealing a face set with luminous numbers and four smaller dials, including a flyback chronograph, a calendar indicating the day and month and a window displaying the phases of the moon. Hawley pressed the crown for a second time and the gold lid split in two. This was the feature he’d been told to look for—the rotating sky chart hidden within the lid, set with hundreds of tiny stars and constellations—yellow diamonds and sapphires of the brightest, darkest blue. Hawley wound the key and lifted the watch to his ear. The gears connected. The heart of the machine began to whir.
“Was it there?” the woman asked.
“Yes.” Hawley closed the shell. He slipped the piece into his front pocket. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. “I’m going to get my friend and we’re going to leave. Then your husband’s going to take you to the hospital.”
“All right,” she said. But Hawley could tell she didn’t believe him.
“I’m sorry about your dress,” he said.
“I just want to lie down.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Hawley was afraid she’d bleed out. “Talbot,” he shouted. “You still there?”
“Yeah,” the old man answered.
“Here comes your wife.”
The woman tried to stand, then fell back on the floor.
Hawley bent next to her. “Hold on to me,” he said, and together they got off the ground, his good arm at her waist, his bad arm holding the gun. They stood on the drawings. She clutched the veil in one hand and with the other hand she kept the pot holder pressed to her throat. Hawley half-carried her down the hall, his shoulder streaming with pain, the wood slippery under their feet.
She began to mumble, her breath close to his ear.
“You want something?” Hawley asked.
“The letter,” she said. Her voice was so soft it could have been a secret, it could have been the name of someone she loved.
“Maureen?” Talbot called, but she was too weak to say anything else, too weak to walk, too weak, Hawley could see, to make it to the hospital.
“I’m going to open the door now,” said Hawley, “and you’re going to take her and put her in the car and then you’re going to drive her to the doctor.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “Deal?”
“Deal.” Talbot’s voice sounded like it was coming from the other side of the keyhole. Close enough to shoot point-blank. Hawley positioned himself behind the woman. He switched the revolver back to his good arm, then he unlocked the door.
Talbot looked the same as he did on the coffee mug: like he was from another time; like that watch could have belonged to him when it was brand-new. He was wearing a fisherman’s vest, with all of the extra pockets and zippers. But his hair was wild and gray and thick with curls, the sideburns stretching along the edge of his chin and nearly touching. He was as tall as Hawley and strong, despite his age. One of those tough guys who thickened with muscle as he got older.
Talbot’s eyes grew wide as he caught sight of his bloodied wife. Hawley was afraid the old man was having a stroke—but Talbot rushed forward and took the woman in his arms and started shaking her instead. Shaking her like she was choking and he was trying to dislodge a bone that had caught, until the pot holder fell to the porch and exposed the gaping wound, and a stream of blood splattered across the floor. The old man still had his rifle. His hands clutched the barrel as tightly as they clutched his wife.
“Give me the gun.”
“If my wife dies I’m going to kill you,” said Talbot. “I’m going to hunt you out of your fucking hole and rip your guts out.”
Hawley bent down slowly and picked up the pot holder with his bad hand, keeping the .45 pointed at Talbot. It hurt to use his fingers but he lifted the cloth and passed it over. Talbot exchanged his rifle for the pot holder without another word, pressing the thick quilted square against his wife’s neck. The woman looked worse than ever; with each passing moment her violet eye became more like the clouded eye, unfocused and turning. And then she coughed out a stream of blood all over Talbot’s fishing vest.
Together they managed the woman across the lawn and over to the pickup truck. Talbot cranked open the giant red doors. Hawley lifted her and Talbot climbed in and laid her across the backseat, then he hurried around and started scrambling into the front. Hawley held the door open a moment longer and took in the wife’s swollen nose, her milky eye searching the sky behind him. She was still holding the veil.
“She wants that letter you wrote,” said Hawley. “The one in the dress.”
“It’s gone,” said Talbot. “I threw it out.”
“Then tell her what it said. Tell her while you’re driving,” said Hawley, and he slammed the door shut on them both. Talbot revved the engine and tore down the road, spitting gravel and dust, and it was only then that Hawley thought of the stolen car they’d left blocking the road. He waited. He waited some more. Then he heard the crash and crunch of metal and the sound of the Talbots’ monstrous truck pushing past the gate.
Back inside the house the carpet was soaked with water. Hawley made his way down the hall, then opened the door to the bathroom. Jove was right where he’d left him, the bathtub full to the brim and overflowing across the tile floor. It looked like Jove was sleeping. His head was tilted back against the lip of the porcelain and his face was covered with tiny white blisters.