Chat by Archer Mayor Page B

homage to a cultural heritage.”
    “We came out of the caves eating other people, period,” his mother corrected him. “Go see who it is.”
    The other oddity, of course, was that the doorbell belonged to the front entrance, which almost everyone knew to ignore in favor of the kitchen door, around to the side, where the car was parked at the bottom of the wheelchair ramp.
    As a result, Joe was expecting either a salesman or a Bible thumper as he opened the door.
    Instead, there was a tall, slim, long-haired woman, looking both expectant and nervous.
    Joe stared at her in astonishment, his hand frozen on the doorknob and his mouth half open in a generic greeting he didn’t deliver.
    He knew her, but not from around here. It was from a case a couple of years ago, when they’d met in Gloucester, Massachusetts, and he’d interviewed her in her capacity as a local bartender. She’d been helpful, aiming him toward someone who proved useful later on, but more importantly, in giving him a single kiss after a conversation laced with a subtle and meaningful subtext. That gesture had filled his head with thoughts, questions, yearnings, and possibilities that he’d retained ever since. By then, he and Gail had begun their slide away from each other, if only in small increments, and the woman now standing before him had loomed as an occasionally comforting fantasy to ease the transition.
    But he’d never called her, had never thought of her except at odd moments, and had certainly never expected to lay eyes on her again. He didn’t even know her last name.
    At his stunned befuddlement, her nervousness yielded to an embarrassed smile. She stuck her hand out. “Joe Gunther . . .”
    “Evelyn,” he blurted, interrupting her.
    She wrinkled her nose, the smile expanding. “You remember. I never figured how that got out. It’s my real name—Evelyn Silva—after my grandmother.” She added with a laugh, “But I don’t like it much. Wasn’t too crazy about her, either. Most people just call me Lyn.”
    He was still processing her appearance. Names could come later. “What are you doing here?” he asked, the host in him hoping it didn’t sound too hostile, while the cop wondered if maybe it should.
    “I read about your family’s accident in the paper,” she explained. “I wanted to see if you needed any help.”
    He stared at her. “In the Gloucester paper?”
    She shook her head, her cheeks flushing. “No, no. The Brattleboro Reformer . I live in Brattleboro now. I moved.”
    “Who is it, Joe?” his mother asked from behind him.
    Joe stepped aside to reveal his mother rolling up to them. Lyn broke into a wide smile. “You’re all right,” she exclaimed. “They said you were in the hospital.” She hesitated only a moment and then took one step forward and stuck her hand out. “I’m Lyn Silva, Mrs. Gunther. I’m really just an acquaintance of your son’s, but I wanted to see how you were doing.”
    Joe’s mother looked at her son. “I’m freezing. You’re heating the whole state.” Then she smiled brightly at their unexpected guest and shook hands. “He’s still in training. I’m happy to meet you.”
    Joe removed his fingers from the knob as if it had been electrified. Like most locals, he was usually compulsive about open doors and drafts. He reached out and gently steered Lyn across the threshold. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Wasn’t paying attention.”
    “Come into the living room,” his mother said, preceding them. “We have a fire going in the woodstove. Where are you from, Miss Silva?”
    “Brattleboro now,” Lyn told her, entering the cluttered, homey living room, adding, “Oh, I love this room. When was the house built?”
    “Eighteen-thirties,” Joe told her, bringing up the rear. “And we haven’t done much to it since, except for the modern amenities.”
    He studied the back of their guest as if she might suddenly pull a gun. He kept retrieving fragments of the one time