Acre Under a Green Sky

"Something's gone and happened," Irene was saying into the phone. Mrs. Moskowitz walked over and put her arm around Irene's waist.

Janet's son, who was sitting across from us, smiled self-consciously and lowered his head.

"Yes, Janet's been murdered," Irene went on –– talking more loudly as if to cover a long distance.

"The phone hasn't stopped ringing," the son said.

My father had brought Danny and me over to pay our respects. At least, that was the reason he was giving for the visit. My mother wouldn't come. Janet's son had arrived just that morning from Lima, Ohio; and together he and Irene would take Janet back for burial.

I can't tell you the son's name. I never hear names when I'm introduced to people, but he was tall and wore thick eyeglasses that magnified his eyes making him look popeyed. He had a bad habit of twirling his wedding ring round his ring finger with his thumb. He performed this one-handed tic constantly, and it was maddening. I wanted to lunge for that hand and make it be still. Without the slightest hint of insistence, Mrs. Moskowitz put out her hand for the phone. Irene said, "Oh!"; and looked at the chattering phone as if she couldn't imagine what it was doing in her hand and gave it to Mrs. Moskowitz. Mrs. Moskowitz said something into the phone and took it into the dining room, while Irene made her way back to her chair. She was like a blind woman feeling her way with outstretched hands from room to room –– from chair to chair. She was befuddled by grief.

"I'm not going to live here anymore, you know? I'm never coming back. Never."

Irene said it as if she were commenting on the cherry Kool-Aid she and Mrs. Moskowitz had served.

"She'll stay with us until she feels better," the son said, placing a tender hand on her knee, "And then she can do whatever she likes."

"But I'll never come back here," Irene assured us. And then; as if to verify the plan with Janet's son, she said, "I'll live with you."

"Whatever you like," he said with that same self-conscious smile to us.

"Do you have any idea who might have done this?" my father finally asked.

The son piped up, "The police have been all over this. She doesn't know anything."

"...anything," Irene added like an echo.

But we all knew that Irene was lying –– that she knew a great deal more than nothing. You could see it in her eyes. She cowered at the question. I'm sure she had a pretty good idea who killed Janet, and I'm just as sure that she wanted the killer to pay for Janet's death; but she was afraid for her own life, and the combination of fear and grief was crippling.

I could see the frustration in my father's eyes and I reveled in it. I hated him. I hated his dishonesty. It didn't occur to him to "pay our respects" until I asked if Janet had ever shared her secret suspicions with him. She thought she knew who the killer was. I told him that. I asked if Janet ever talked to him about it. She said she might talk to him about it. Suddenly, we couldn't get over to Irene's house fast enough. Now, I wanted to see how he would maneuver us out of that house.

"Of course, there's going to be a memorial service here in town, but I won't be there," Irene was saying. "I don't know how they'll manage at the library."

Mrs. Moskowitz was tiptoeing back into the room. Irene turned on her with some concern, "We never thought about the library. Perhaps I should . . . "

"They'll be fine," Mrs. Moskowitz said.

"You've called them then?"

"First thing."

"I suppose they'll have to close down. For a while, at least. For goodness sake, Janet is the library."

Then Irene looked right into my eyes, and her face froze startled there for an instant and tears clouded her eyes.

"What am I talking about?" she said, "Janet hasn't been with the library for years. I'm losing my mind."

She was crying openly now into her old hands. Mrs. Moskowitz embraced her and the son patted her knee.

And then I started to cry, too, and I hated myself for it. It had erupted so suddenly it nearly overwhelmed me. But I stopped it. I bit through that impulse to cry like it was a carrot stick. That old woman's tears had caught me off guard. I would have to be more watchful. I would have to use sheer cussedness to steel myself against ever feeling anything other than evil, self-immolating rage. I ran out of their house damning myself and I hid under the Eagle's porch with Austin by my side.