pulling trash out of the car, beginning with the backseat. Fast food wrappers, discarded packaging from batteries and car care products, old newspapers, brown paper bags that had probably held things that shouldn’t have been consumed in a moving automobile. Rachel shook her head. When the seats and floors were clear she started probing under the seats, grimacing.
More trash: an apple core, a broken pencil. A roll of toilet paper, crushed and soggy. And, suddenly more interesting, a pair of women’s panties, with a red heart just above the crotch, slightly soiled. Rachel wrinkled her nose and stuffed them into the trash bag.
Billy was having a more interesting time in the car than she had suspected. She wondered who the girl was. And how on earth do you wind up leaving your panties in the car? Rachel sighed and probed farther under the seat.
She grasped what felt like the wooden handle of a hammer. When she dragged it out it turned out to be a hatchet. Rachel stared at it unmoving for a few seconds, just kneeling there with an elbow on the back seat.
Something had been smeared and then dried dark red on the blade.
She stood up, bringing the hatchet into the sunlight. Oil, she thought. Someone smeared dirty oil on it. Yet she had never seen oil that shone this deep reddish brown. She raised her free hand to run a finger over it but hesitated.
Rachel tossed the hatchet onto the ground. If it was blood, there wasn’t all that much of it. About as much, she judged, as you would get if you cut off somebody’s finger.
Maybe a thumb, Rachel thought, and laughed at herself. She remembered Matt killing chickens with an axe, when they had kept chickens. She was fairly confident Billy could explain a bloody hatchet, even if a car was a strange place to keep it.
She glanced at her watch and went back to work. She was expected in town in an hour, and there was a lot of work left to do. Ask him, she thought. Just ask Billy about it. There has to be a reasonable explanation.
“You have lived the life I dreamed about.”
Catherine Avery had taken a degree in French at the University of Illinois in the nineteen fifties, married a medical student with roots in Dearborn County and come back with him to settle there. She had proceeded to teach French at North County High School for thirty-five years, beleaguering legions of farm youths with the conjugation of -ir verbs and mostly failing to communicate her passion for Flaubert, Rimbaud and Boris Vian.
Mrs. Avery gave a wistful smile as she filled Rachel’s cup with coffee. In retirement she was avian and brisk, a small woman with an excess of energy and iron-gray hair pinned up haphazardly in a vaguely Anna Magnani look. Her living room was full of pictures of children and grandchildren, a coffee table volume on Impressionist painters the only visible sign of suppressed Francophilia. “A package tour to Paris every four or five years doesn’t really scratch the itch.”
Rachel returned the smile. “After about six months it’s just the place where you live. You have plumbing problems, and dealing with the syndic is a pain. The romance wears off a little.”
“Still, it is Paris.”
“Oh, yes. I was happy there.” Rachel raised her cup to her lips. “Mostly.”
“I guess that’s all we can aspire to.” The smile faded, but the wistful look remained as Mrs. Avery set down the coffee pot. “I’d have to say I’ve been happy here, too, mostly. It’s not a particularly . . . stressful place to live. Unless, of course, you’ve taken on too much debt, or the factory job that’s seeing you through the lean years has suddenly gone to China.”
“I grew up with it all, but I’ve been away too long. It all feels foreign to me now.”
“And as the wife of a country doctor I’ve become more of an expert on the rural economy than I ever dreamed I would. I suppose that’s what happens when you marry outside your caste, so to speak. I was supposed to wind up
More trash: an apple core, a broken pencil. A roll of toilet paper, crushed and soggy. And, suddenly more interesting, a pair of women’s panties, with a red heart just above the crotch, slightly soiled. Rachel wrinkled her nose and stuffed them into the trash bag.
Billy was having a more interesting time in the car than she had suspected. She wondered who the girl was. And how on earth do you wind up leaving your panties in the car? Rachel sighed and probed farther under the seat.
She grasped what felt like the wooden handle of a hammer. When she dragged it out it turned out to be a hatchet. Rachel stared at it unmoving for a few seconds, just kneeling there with an elbow on the back seat.
Something had been smeared and then dried dark red on the blade.
She stood up, bringing the hatchet into the sunlight. Oil, she thought. Someone smeared dirty oil on it. Yet she had never seen oil that shone this deep reddish brown. She raised her free hand to run a finger over it but hesitated.
Rachel tossed the hatchet onto the ground. If it was blood, there wasn’t all that much of it. About as much, she judged, as you would get if you cut off somebody’s finger.
Maybe a thumb, Rachel thought, and laughed at herself. She remembered Matt killing chickens with an axe, when they had kept chickens. She was fairly confident Billy could explain a bloody hatchet, even if a car was a strange place to keep it.
She glanced at her watch and went back to work. She was expected in town in an hour, and there was a lot of work left to do. Ask him, she thought. Just ask Billy about it. There has to be a reasonable explanation.
“You have lived the life I dreamed about.”
Catherine Avery had taken a degree in French at the University of Illinois in the nineteen fifties, married a medical student with roots in Dearborn County and come back with him to settle there. She had proceeded to teach French at North County High School for thirty-five years, beleaguering legions of farm youths with the conjugation of -ir verbs and mostly failing to communicate her passion for Flaubert, Rimbaud and Boris Vian.
Mrs. Avery gave a wistful smile as she filled Rachel’s cup with coffee. In retirement she was avian and brisk, a small woman with an excess of energy and iron-gray hair pinned up haphazardly in a vaguely Anna Magnani look. Her living room was full of pictures of children and grandchildren, a coffee table volume on Impressionist painters the only visible sign of suppressed Francophilia. “A package tour to Paris every four or five years doesn’t really scratch the itch.”
Rachel returned the smile. “After about six months it’s just the place where you live. You have plumbing problems, and dealing with the syndic is a pain. The romance wears off a little.”
“Still, it is Paris.”
“Oh, yes. I was happy there.” Rachel raised her cup to her lips. “Mostly.”
“I guess that’s all we can aspire to.” The smile faded, but the wistful look remained as Mrs. Avery set down the coffee pot. “I’d have to say I’ve been happy here, too, mostly. It’s not a particularly . . . stressful place to live. Unless, of course, you’ve taken on too much debt, or the factory job that’s seeing you through the lean years has suddenly gone to China.”
“I grew up with it all, but I’ve been away too long. It all feels foreign to me now.”
“And as the wife of a country doctor I’ve become more of an expert on the rural economy than I ever dreamed I would. I suppose that’s what happens when you marry outside your caste, so to speak. I was supposed to wind up
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