Little Deaths(28)

“Just one car so far. A woman in it.”

“Probably Ruth’s mom.” Another mouthful. “Did she look like she had a poker up her ass?”

She giggled, then stopped as suddenly as she’d started. “Fuck, Gina, shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Miss Eissen . . . are you sure you’re up to this?”

She took a mouthful, then another. “Got to go in. Promised Ruth I’d go. He needs someone who knew him. Not just Christmas cards like her”—a scornful jerk of her head at the church—“but someone who knew his favorite toys, and that he din’t like carrots.” She sniffed. “Someone who knew him.”

And she turned and walked toward the church, limping a little on her broken heel, legs as thick as tree trunks below her frayed hem, stuffing the bottle back in her bag.

Pete caught up to her, took her arm. “Let me take you in.”

“I’m fine. I just . . .”

“Really, let me help.”

And before she could say anything else, they were at the church door and he was holding it open for her.

The service was short: just Pete and Gina in one pew and the old woman across the aisle. Gina nodded toward her and muttered, “That’s her. Grandma Kelly.”

Pete watched the woman during the service: her dry eyes, her set lips. She ignored them both. The priest approached her afterward, sat down heavily beside her, patted her hand. They began to speak in low voices.

As Pete looked on, she turned, almost as though she felt his gaze. He saw the lines etched into her face. Took in her tight gray curls, the black hollows under her eyes.

He bowed his head, glad they couldn’t see his skin flush, and followed Gina out of the church, grateful for the warmth and the heat after the dark chill inside.

“Can I give you a lift home, Miss Eissen?”

She took the bottle out again, drank from it, shrugged. Tottered behind him to the car.


Gina was asleep before they reached the main road. He glanced over at her, slumped sideways and snoring, the tracks of tears still visible through her thick makeup, and he wondered how the hell he was going to get her out of the car.

But she woke when he pulled up on 72nd Drive and turned the engine off. Gazed around her blearily, rubbed her eyes, looked over at him. Then she sighed and stared out through the windshield. There was still a small crowd of reporters out there, buzzing around the apartment building like flies around rotting meat. It was almost five. Still hot.

Without looking at him, she said, “Thanks for bringing me home. And for coming in with me.”

“Sure. Listen, can I ask you a few questions? About Mrs. Malone.”

“Nope.” She took out her cigarettes, lit one.

“I just want to get a . . .”

“I said no. Thanks for the lift, but Ruth don’t need some damn reporter poking and prying into her life. Like the cops ain’t bad enough.”

Her voice was slurred but her anger was clear.

She exhaled, squinted at him through the smoke. “She got fired, did you know that? Not even three weeks since it happened. She can’t go into work, so she lost her job. So you”—jabbing her cigarette toward Pete—“you need to give her a fucking break. Leave her alone.”

She opened the car door, swung her legs out, and then sagged forward, her cigarette falling to the ground, her head drooping almost gracefully toward her knees.

Pete waited a moment, and then another, and when she remained still, he reached forward and tapped her lightly on her wide flat back.

Gina nodded. Mumbled something. Flapped her hand without raising her head.

“Just need a moment. Just a little . . . a moment.”

She was quiet again, this time for long enough that he wondered if she’d passed out. And then she gave a long sigh, raised her head, and stood up in one smooth movement.

She paused to stretch, to light another cigarette, and then made her slow, meandering way across the sidewalk, through the crowd of press men, and crossed the lawn. As she reached the steps leading up to the front door of the building, she lifted her hand without turning, and wiggled her fingers back in his direction.

Pete sat for a moment. He could smell her Scotch and cigarettes.

He took out his own pack, slid one out and tapped it against the dash, lit up and sat quietly smoking, watching the light change and the afternoon die around him. He could hear the World’s Fair in the distance: music, the rise and fall of a voice calling to customers.

People passed his car: mostly women, in twos and threes, carrying bags or with arms linked or pushing strollers. Groups of children raced along the sidewalk, yelling threats and insults, their faces blurred above bright T-shirts. The children didn’t see him. Doubtless they’d been warned since the Malone kids were taken, but the habits of childhood were stronger than the words of their parents. To them, it was just an idea. Just another scary story.

But the women noticed him. They looked right at him and frowned, and kept their eyes fixed on him while they dipped their chins and squared their shoulders and spoke to one another in low tones about the strange man in the car. A couple wrote down his license plate number, ostentatiously, hoping that would be enough to make him go away, and when it was not, they wrote over the letters to make them thicker and darker: an insurance policy against something bad happening again.

Pete thought about the empty refrigerator in his apartment, reached into his jacket for his wallet, and felt the crinkle of his mother’s latest letter.