Long Bright River(60)

—No. It was scary. I wasn’t scared.

—Good, I say. I’m glad to hear it.

But later that night, after I put Thomas to bed in his own room, I am awakened by the pattering of little feet, and there is Thomas, wrapped up in a blanket, looking, in fact, much like the protagonist of the movie he watched today.

—I’m scared, he announces, solemnly.

—That’s all right, I say.

—I lied because I am scared after all.

—That’s all right, I say again.

He pauses, biting his lip, looking down at the floor. I know what will come next.

—Thomas, I say, warningly.

—Can I sleep in your bed? he says, but in his voice there is resignation. He already knows the answer.

I stand and go to him. I take his hand and walk him back down the hallway to his room.

—You’re nearly five years old, I say to him. You’re getting very grown up. Can you be brave for me?

In the darkened hallway, I see him nod.

I steer him into his room and turn on the night-light for him. He climbs into his bed and I tuck the blankets over him and put one hand on his head.

—Guess what, I tell him. I talked to Carlotta’s and Lila’s mothers to invite them to your birthday party.

He’s silent.

—Thomas? I say.

He won’t look at me. Just for a moment, I hesitate. And then I think of everything I’ve ever read about how one instills strength and self-sufficiency in a child, how teaching a child confidence and independence young is essential to ensure the child will ultimately be a well-adjusted citizen and adult.

—They said yes, I tell him.

Then I give him a kiss on his forehead and quietly leave the room.





I have to go to court the next morning to testify. The trial is for the domestic assault case from last week. Robert Mulvey, Jr., is the accused; it seems his wife has decided, despite her earlier reluctance, to press charges. Both Gloria Peters and I will be called to the witness stand.

It would be a routine case, and a routine day, except for the deep discomfort I experience each time I look at Mulvey. His gaze is unwavering and trained on me, and every time our eyes meet—always against my will—I know I recognize him. Again and again, I try to place him, but I can’t.

I don’t stay to see whether he’s convicted.



* * *



—

Back in my vehicle, I compulsively check the clock on my dashboard.

There are not many things I know about Connor McClatchie, but one of them is that at approximately 2:30 p.m. each day, he is at Mr. Wright’s store, shooting up and getting warm. Which means, of course, that he is out of the house at that time.

Don’t do anything stupid, Truman said to me yesterday. But it isn’t stupid, I believe, to follow through on leads. In fact, it only seems reasonable.

It’s eleven a.m. now, which means I have several hours to go until I can safely conduct my own reconnaissance of the place. I do my best not to focus on the time. But I can’t help driving, twice, down the little street called Madison—not too many times, not enough to alert or alarm anyone—and craning my neck to see down the alley that Truman described.

If the layout of Center City—all right angles and symmetry—is evidence of the staid and rational minds that planned Philadelphia, Kensington is evidence of what happens when intention is distorted by necessity. Here and there, the landscape is dotted with small parks, many of which are oddly shaped. Aside from the firm and upright line of Front Street, and the diagonal one of Kensington Ave, the rest of Kensington’s streets are all vaguely askew, tilted just slightly off the firm equator of Center City streets like Vine and Market and South. Kensington’s streets start and stop without warning; they go from one to two lanes with equal abruptness. Madison is different than East Madison; West Susquehanna runs unapologetically below East Cumberland. Most of the small streets in Kensington are residential; on them, brick and stucco-fronted rowhomes stand shoulder to shoulder, except where they have been demolished, leaving behind empty lots that look to me like missing teeth. Some blocks are relatively well kept, and harbor only one or two abandoned, shuttered homes. Other blocks have been ravaged by the misfortunes of their residents; on these blocks, nearly every house looks empty.

Many of Kensington’s side streets are intersected by even smaller alleys, which themselves are lined by the rears of houses that look as if they’re angry with the passerby, have turned their backs in a huff. These alleys are generally not passable by cars.

It is down one such alley that I now peer, searching for the house with three Bs on it that Truman described.

But if there is such a house, it’s not visible from where I am.



* * *



—

When the time draws near, I park my assigned vehicle and enter Alonzo’s shop. He looks up and, judging correctly that I’m not there to purchase a coffee, points wordlessly to the closet where he’s keeping my change of clothes.

—Thank you, Alonzo, I say to him, and go into the bathroom, and then, with as much dignity as I can muster, reemerge clad in my black, overlarge sweatpants and T-shirt.

I say nothing. Only nod, and place my uniform and its bag back on the shelf, and then disappear out the door. This time, I leave my radio and my weapon with it. I have no way to invisibly holster it under my civilian clothes.