a tear, Meg continued reading.
The teen also received minor injuries. He was treated in Springfield Community Hospital’s
emergency room and released without being admitted
.
Due to the youth’s age, police did not release any further information on his identity
or the charges, if any, that would be filed against him. District Attorney Webb Jones
would only say, “We are studying the case and currently the boy has been turned over
to his parents.”
Richards, an employee of
. . .
Meg stopped reading and once again looked out the window, her eyes involuntarily filling
with tears. The paper had been no help. All she wanted to know was who had killed
her husband, and no one or nothing could or would tell her.Charging back into the living room, she pulled a phone book from the end table drawer
and scanned its pages for a home number for the district attorney. It wasn’t there.
Calling information, she learned that the number was unlisted. She once more hit the
Internet, but Google gave her the same information as everything else.
Temporarily defeated, she headed back to the bathroom and finished her shower. Pulling
on some jeans and a sweater, she applied her makeup, fixed her shoulder-length, light
brown hair, and opened a can of tuna fish. She ate directly from the container. Like
everything else in her life, the meal left her unsatisfied.
8
F OR TWO HOURS , M EG CLEANED UP HER KITCHEN, SIPPED ON A C OKE, AND reread six stories about Steve’s death online. Finally, with no new information coming
to light and no one whom she could call in order to gain any more knowledge, she accepted
she’d have to wait until the next morning to get what she needed. At exactly nine
tomorrow she’d get in touch with the district attorney’s office and demand he tell
her who killed Steve.
Yet tomorrow seemed like forever and the way the minutes crept so slowly by echoed
that fact. After leafing through a half dozen magazines and searching in vain for
something to watch on television, Meg once again found herself overcome with loneliness.
Turning off the TV, she walked back over to her window.
Mr. Fudge had returned from church and swept his walk, and the Smith kids had ruined
the beauty of the apartment’s smooth, snow-covered yard by building a snowman. Up
in the elm tree, a gray and red female cardinal fluttered nervously from branch to
branch.
Until Meg spotted the bird, she had forgotten about the events of the morning. Then,
when she saw the Fudges’ fat yellow cat gracefully balancing on the old couple’s porch
railing,the episode came back in vivid detail. Pulling on her coat, Meg walked out to her
balcony just in time to see the cardinal swoop down and discover the place where Meg
had pushed its mate that morning. Bouncing all the way around the now cold, scarlet
bird, the female tilted her head one way and then the other, waiting for the fallen
mate to rise up and fly home with her. Meg observed the scene for a few minutes then,
overwhelmed with a wave of sudden emotion, rushed down the steps and screamed at the
poor, confused cardinal.
“He’s dead! He’s dead!” she yelled. “And you can’t do anything to bring him back.”
Startled, the cardinal took flight, landing in one of the elm tree’s lower branches.
Standing directly below the bird’s perch, tears now streaming down her face, Meg glared
at the frightened bird and sobbed, “Do you want to know who did it? Do you? I’ll tell
you who, it was Tom, the cat. Yes, that yellow one across the street. He killed your
mate without mercy. And he did it just for the thrill of the kill.”
As her tears fell in the snow, Meg looked back at the confused bird and cried out,
“At least you know who is responsible. I’d give anything for just that much!”
As if taking a cue from the woman’s words, the bird flew from the limb and swooped
down at the unsuspecting, sleeping cat. Never
The teen also received minor injuries. He was treated in Springfield Community Hospital’s
emergency room and released without being admitted
.
Due to the youth’s age, police did not release any further information on his identity
or the charges, if any, that would be filed against him. District Attorney Webb Jones
would only say, “We are studying the case and currently the boy has been turned over
to his parents.”
Richards, an employee of
. . .
Meg stopped reading and once again looked out the window, her eyes involuntarily filling
with tears. The paper had been no help. All she wanted to know was who had killed
her husband, and no one or nothing could or would tell her.Charging back into the living room, she pulled a phone book from the end table drawer
and scanned its pages for a home number for the district attorney. It wasn’t there.
Calling information, she learned that the number was unlisted. She once more hit the
Internet, but Google gave her the same information as everything else.
Temporarily defeated, she headed back to the bathroom and finished her shower. Pulling
on some jeans and a sweater, she applied her makeup, fixed her shoulder-length, light
brown hair, and opened a can of tuna fish. She ate directly from the container. Like
everything else in her life, the meal left her unsatisfied.
8
F OR TWO HOURS , M EG CLEANED UP HER KITCHEN, SIPPED ON A C OKE, AND reread six stories about Steve’s death online. Finally, with no new information coming
to light and no one whom she could call in order to gain any more knowledge, she accepted
she’d have to wait until the next morning to get what she needed. At exactly nine
tomorrow she’d get in touch with the district attorney’s office and demand he tell
her who killed Steve.
Yet tomorrow seemed like forever and the way the minutes crept so slowly by echoed
that fact. After leafing through a half dozen magazines and searching in vain for
something to watch on television, Meg once again found herself overcome with loneliness.
Turning off the TV, she walked back over to her window.
Mr. Fudge had returned from church and swept his walk, and the Smith kids had ruined
the beauty of the apartment’s smooth, snow-covered yard by building a snowman. Up
in the elm tree, a gray and red female cardinal fluttered nervously from branch to
branch.
Until Meg spotted the bird, she had forgotten about the events of the morning. Then,
when she saw the Fudges’ fat yellow cat gracefully balancing on the old couple’s porch
railing,the episode came back in vivid detail. Pulling on her coat, Meg walked out to her
balcony just in time to see the cardinal swoop down and discover the place where Meg
had pushed its mate that morning. Bouncing all the way around the now cold, scarlet
bird, the female tilted her head one way and then the other, waiting for the fallen
mate to rise up and fly home with her. Meg observed the scene for a few minutes then,
overwhelmed with a wave of sudden emotion, rushed down the steps and screamed at the
poor, confused cardinal.
“He’s dead! He’s dead!” she yelled. “And you can’t do anything to bring him back.”
Startled, the cardinal took flight, landing in one of the elm tree’s lower branches.
Standing directly below the bird’s perch, tears now streaming down her face, Meg glared
at the frightened bird and sobbed, “Do you want to know who did it? Do you? I’ll tell
you who, it was Tom, the cat. Yes, that yellow one across the street. He killed your
mate without mercy. And he did it just for the thrill of the kill.”
As her tears fell in the snow, Meg looked back at the confused bird and cried out,
“At least you know who is responsible. I’d give anything for just that much!”
As if taking a cue from the woman’s words, the bird flew from the limb and swooped
down at the unsuspecting, sleeping cat. Never
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