At the front stood a chair and a two-seater sofa in tough green and tan plaid. A low table held books, magazines, and two empty coffee mugs, one marked with lipstick. Stereo components occupied modular shelves that also held records. A door stood open to a bathroom. Dave went just far enough into the larger room to see that the bathroom had a door on its other side. This too stood partway open. And beyond it he glimpsed, in a band of sunlight, an unmade bed and the corner of a television set. He stepped outside again, pulled the door shut, and went quietly away.
7
T ERENCE MOLLOY WORE A new bathrobe but food had spilled down it and dried. He stood clutching the shiny bars of a walker, and screwed up his face against the bright hot daylight outside the screen door. His face was twisted anyway, mouth drooping at the left corner, left eyelid drooping. His thick gray hair had been slicked down with water, but his beard was bristly—he’d gone a couple of days without a shave.
He croaked, “Who are you? What do you want?”
Dave gave his name and stated his business. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Molloy. I know you’re not well. Is your wife at home?”
The street of clipped hedges and Spanish-style bungalows was quiet. Dave heard a toilet flush inside the house, heard footsteps hurrying. Faith Molloy appeared, a dumpy woman in a faded house dress. Molded shoes made her feet look big. Above them, her ankles were swollen. “It says no salesmen or solicitors.”
Her husband said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s about Paul. You always go off half-cocked.” He hiked the walker forward and fumbled with a trembling hand at the screen-door latch. “Come in.”
“Oh, sure,” Faith Molloy said. “I haven’t got anything to do but entertain strangers.”
“I won’t be long.” Dave pulled open the screen door and stepped inside. He told the old man, “Thank you.”
“Go crazy around here with only her for company,” Terence Molloy said. “My glad-hearted colleen. Look at her. Face like a sour apple.”
“He’s not himself,” Faith Molloy said.
“On the night Paul died,” Dave said, “did Angela bring the children and stay here with you?”
“I needed her. This one was acting up. Of course, I needed two more children. A sixty-five-year-old one isn’t enough.” Faith Molloy snatched up scattered sections of the morning Times. The furniture was puffy overstuffed covered in a yellow and pink flower print. She kneed the Off button of a television set. A game show quit in the middle. “Sit down. I suppose you’ll be wanting coffee?”
“Not if it’s any trouble.” Dave sat on the sofa.
“I wouldn’t know how to handle it, if it wasn’t trouble.” She went away with the crumpled newspaper.
Dave asked the old man, “Paul was working nights so he could help you out financially. Do you know what he was hauling, who he was working for?”
“He never said.” The old man shuffled in his shiny rack to the easychair that faced the television set. “And I wasn’t about to pry. None of my business.” He threw Dave a warning scowl. “No, don’t get up and help me, God damn it. I can manage.” He wangled the rack into position and dropped onto the sagging cushions. With his good foot, in a fake leather bedroom slipper, he pushed the rack clumsily aside. “Going to miss Paul. He was a real son to me.”
“Where was Gene that night?” Dave said.
“He’s over there, isn’t he? At Angie’s? That’s where you come from, I suppose.” Terence Molloy looked at the small table beside his chair. The lamp was painted china with a fluted shade. Under it clustered pill containers and medicine bottles. He frowned. Then he began poking with his hand down between the chair arm and the cushion. He came up with a round snuff can, fidgeted it open, tucked snuff into his cheek. He looked anxiously over his shoulder, closed the can, tossed it to Dave. “Hide that. They want you to
7
T ERENCE MOLLOY WORE A new bathrobe but food had spilled down it and dried. He stood clutching the shiny bars of a walker, and screwed up his face against the bright hot daylight outside the screen door. His face was twisted anyway, mouth drooping at the left corner, left eyelid drooping. His thick gray hair had been slicked down with water, but his beard was bristly—he’d gone a couple of days without a shave.
He croaked, “Who are you? What do you want?”
Dave gave his name and stated his business. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Molloy. I know you’re not well. Is your wife at home?”
The street of clipped hedges and Spanish-style bungalows was quiet. Dave heard a toilet flush inside the house, heard footsteps hurrying. Faith Molloy appeared, a dumpy woman in a faded house dress. Molded shoes made her feet look big. Above them, her ankles were swollen. “It says no salesmen or solicitors.”
Her husband said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s about Paul. You always go off half-cocked.” He hiked the walker forward and fumbled with a trembling hand at the screen-door latch. “Come in.”
“Oh, sure,” Faith Molloy said. “I haven’t got anything to do but entertain strangers.”
“I won’t be long.” Dave pulled open the screen door and stepped inside. He told the old man, “Thank you.”
“Go crazy around here with only her for company,” Terence Molloy said. “My glad-hearted colleen. Look at her. Face like a sour apple.”
“He’s not himself,” Faith Molloy said.
“On the night Paul died,” Dave said, “did Angela bring the children and stay here with you?”
“I needed her. This one was acting up. Of course, I needed two more children. A sixty-five-year-old one isn’t enough.” Faith Molloy snatched up scattered sections of the morning Times. The furniture was puffy overstuffed covered in a yellow and pink flower print. She kneed the Off button of a television set. A game show quit in the middle. “Sit down. I suppose you’ll be wanting coffee?”
“Not if it’s any trouble.” Dave sat on the sofa.
“I wouldn’t know how to handle it, if it wasn’t trouble.” She went away with the crumpled newspaper.
Dave asked the old man, “Paul was working nights so he could help you out financially. Do you know what he was hauling, who he was working for?”
“He never said.” The old man shuffled in his shiny rack to the easychair that faced the television set. “And I wasn’t about to pry. None of my business.” He threw Dave a warning scowl. “No, don’t get up and help me, God damn it. I can manage.” He wangled the rack into position and dropped onto the sagging cushions. With his good foot, in a fake leather bedroom slipper, he pushed the rack clumsily aside. “Going to miss Paul. He was a real son to me.”
“Where was Gene that night?” Dave said.
“He’s over there, isn’t he? At Angie’s? That’s where you come from, I suppose.” Terence Molloy looked at the small table beside his chair. The lamp was painted china with a fluted shade. Under it clustered pill containers and medicine bottles. He frowned. Then he began poking with his hand down between the chair arm and the cushion. He came up with a round snuff can, fidgeted it open, tucked snuff into his cheek. He looked anxiously over his shoulder, closed the can, tossed it to Dave. “Hide that. They want you to
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