Millie his fedora. She put it directly onto her head and tipped it back, still squinting up one eye under the sun at him. He got down on the dirt under the buggy, slid himself around so that his head faced the rear of the wagon and his toes the front. The body of the buggy was three feet off the ground. Lots a room for a man to hang in without bumping himself on the road.
He grabbed the center reach bar like a baseball bat. Keeping only the bottoms of his feet still in contact with the dirt, he pulled himself to the bar and held himself there as long as he could: just under two minutes.
"How about that?" he mumbled to himself.
"How about what?" Millie Donnan said.
"Nothing."
Two minutes is plenty of time for a man to unspook his own animal, he thought. Now come on, Charlie. You get a case in front of you and you all of the sudden don't want to be a detective. Well good, go home and mope around the office some more. Crack the seal off another bottle.
Sterno studied the axle for a few seconds. He tried to fit his feet into the spaces the spring bars and axle afforded them. There was barely room. He imagined doing that with a belly full of corn whiskey, moving down that bumpy road back there behind a sprinting horse. He imagined it would have been impossible, just like the girl said.
Sterno sighed again. Deeply. He let the back of his head fall back to rest on the dirt under the buggy. A feeling like draining sand ran coldly through his belly; it had started when he first saw those photos—not the doctor’s, the photos in the house behind him. It was a familiar feeling. He got it every once in a while, on a case--it was his blessing and his curse. He couldn't just look at the facts coldly, like a detective should, count them, stack them, put them in order, discard them when done. Instead, he felt the case. It chased him down, surrounded him, then went inside him; he couldn't do a thing to stop it. Once he had seen the places and the faces, has heard the words and smelled the smells, the events took shape in his head; and once the shapes of the case were forming in his head, the shapes of the emotions surrounding the case took shape in his belly. It was less the procedure of a detective, than it was the way of crime solver. This time, as before, the first thing he felt was the sinking, sandy feeling in his belly. It felt like a murder. It felt like loss, and Sterno knew very well what loss felt like.
He slid out from under the buggy. As he dusted himself off, he took one last stroll around the buggy, head wrenched downward, face pulled in around his squinting eyes. The girl followed his feet; the girl followed his gaze. She stopped, looked at him, eyes blazing green under the brim of his hat. The look on her face was not one of satisfaction, or of victory, but a look that reflected Sterno's. These looks—his and hers—said same thing: there was work to be done.
Now there's the old Charlie.
7.
After she and her Pinkerton had rolled the buggy back into the barn, Millie ran up to the hayloft, watched Mr. Sterno go to the garden to speak with Mother. She watched the exchange very carefully, and when they shook hands, Millie knew he had accepted the case. He then grabbed his grip from the front porch, waved to Pa in the east field, left in his car.
As soon as he was gone Millie flew down the ladder from the mow, sprinted to Tommy’s room. There, listening for Mother, she checked every detail—his closet, his trunk, his drawers, the pictures on his dresser…of all these, only the pictures showed any sign of being handled. Millie replaced them to the exact position in which Tommy had left them—especially the one of him and her at the fair, after winning the three-legged race—and was stepping from his room to the hallway when she was stopped by Mother with the spatula. She had been chasing Millie around
He grabbed the center reach bar like a baseball bat. Keeping only the bottoms of his feet still in contact with the dirt, he pulled himself to the bar and held himself there as long as he could: just under two minutes.
"How about that?" he mumbled to himself.
"How about what?" Millie Donnan said.
"Nothing."
Two minutes is plenty of time for a man to unspook his own animal, he thought. Now come on, Charlie. You get a case in front of you and you all of the sudden don't want to be a detective. Well good, go home and mope around the office some more. Crack the seal off another bottle.
Sterno studied the axle for a few seconds. He tried to fit his feet into the spaces the spring bars and axle afforded them. There was barely room. He imagined doing that with a belly full of corn whiskey, moving down that bumpy road back there behind a sprinting horse. He imagined it would have been impossible, just like the girl said.
Sterno sighed again. Deeply. He let the back of his head fall back to rest on the dirt under the buggy. A feeling like draining sand ran coldly through his belly; it had started when he first saw those photos—not the doctor’s, the photos in the house behind him. It was a familiar feeling. He got it every once in a while, on a case--it was his blessing and his curse. He couldn't just look at the facts coldly, like a detective should, count them, stack them, put them in order, discard them when done. Instead, he felt the case. It chased him down, surrounded him, then went inside him; he couldn't do a thing to stop it. Once he had seen the places and the faces, has heard the words and smelled the smells, the events took shape in his head; and once the shapes of the case were forming in his head, the shapes of the emotions surrounding the case took shape in his belly. It was less the procedure of a detective, than it was the way of crime solver. This time, as before, the first thing he felt was the sinking, sandy feeling in his belly. It felt like a murder. It felt like loss, and Sterno knew very well what loss felt like.
He slid out from under the buggy. As he dusted himself off, he took one last stroll around the buggy, head wrenched downward, face pulled in around his squinting eyes. The girl followed his feet; the girl followed his gaze. She stopped, looked at him, eyes blazing green under the brim of his hat. The look on her face was not one of satisfaction, or of victory, but a look that reflected Sterno's. These looks—his and hers—said same thing: there was work to be done.
Now there's the old Charlie.
7.
After she and her Pinkerton had rolled the buggy back into the barn, Millie ran up to the hayloft, watched Mr. Sterno go to the garden to speak with Mother. She watched the exchange very carefully, and when they shook hands, Millie knew he had accepted the case. He then grabbed his grip from the front porch, waved to Pa in the east field, left in his car.
As soon as he was gone Millie flew down the ladder from the mow, sprinted to Tommy’s room. There, listening for Mother, she checked every detail—his closet, his trunk, his drawers, the pictures on his dresser…of all these, only the pictures showed any sign of being handled. Millie replaced them to the exact position in which Tommy had left them—especially the one of him and her at the fair, after winning the three-legged race—and was stepping from his room to the hallway when she was stopped by Mother with the spatula. She had been chasing Millie around
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