of the letters unopened. Green stole a surreptitious peek, wondering whether she had received another letter from Rosten. The smell of stale food, mildew, and booze hung in the air. Marilyn glared at him, tears of shame glinting in her eyes. She clenched her fists. “Oh, why did you have to come? Damn it, Mike, leave me be!”
He turned in a slow circle, searching for the right words as he surveyed the chaos. “You need help with this, Marilyn. This is too much work for anyone alone. Are you eating? Sleeping?”
She still hovered in the hall, as if the room repulsed her. “I have … pills. Luke’s pills. I do get some sleep. I just — I just … I’m doing it one day at a time.”
Green reached down to pile some clothes back into the box nearest him. “Look, I’m off for the weekend. Why don’t I help you —”
“Please don’t touch that.”
He looked at the jacket in his hand. It was an old plaid work jacket, smudged with paint. “At least let me bring a couple of my officers out here and we’ll help you clear this out.”
“No!” She clutched the doorframe and whipped her head back and forth. Pink blotched her pale cheeks. “This is my job. My house. I don’t want strangers pawing through Luke’s possessions. Throwing them out like he doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Okay, I get that.” Green set the jacket down again gently. In his work he’d seen grief take many paths. Jackie Carmichael’s room had been left untouched throughout the trial, as if she had just stepped out to go to class. And for three years after his mother’s death, his own father had been unable to move a single item of hers, including her nightgown.
Now he turned toward the kitchen. “Let’s make tea. We can have it outside on your patio. The spring sun is out.”
She seemed to relax marginally when he left the living room. The ritual of preparing tea also soothed her, so that by the time she carried the tray outside, her step was steadier and her eyes clear.
There was a small stone patio outside the kitchen door, on which sat a glass table and two plastic chairs, all covered with dead leaves and winter grime. Piled in the corner outside the door were more boxes, and Green noticed another jumble in the fire pit by the shed.
Without bothering to wipe the table, Marilyn placed the tray down and sank into a chair. “I’m sorry, Mike. I didn’t mean to be rude. This …” she nodded toward the boxes, “is difficult but it has to be done.”
“What about your friend? Wasn’t she going to help?”
“I don’t want …” She took a deep breath to refocus. “This is private.”
“But —”
“And I’m not selling the house, so it doesn’t matter how long it takes.”
“What about your fresh start?”
“I was premature. I’m sorry your two officers came out here for nothing. But there are too many memories here. Too much of Luke and Jackie in every nook and cranny.” She broke off. Her hands clutched her teacup and her jaw quivered.
He tried for a lighter tone. “How’s the streetwalking book club?”
“I put all that off for now. Too much else on my plate at the moment.”
Green’s gaze drifted to the jumble of boxes by the door, the decaying remnants of last year’s garden, the leaves waiting to be raked, and the tangled rose canes to be pruned.
The mound of garbage waiting to be burned.
It looked overwhelming, even for him. This frail, worn-out widow was in no shape to tackle it alone. Yet she had almost panicked at the offer of help. What had caused her abrupt reversal? And that scream? Was it simply the next twist in her mourning, or had something else happened? Something to do with her selfish, uncaring children?
Or perhaps with James Rosten?
G reen knew Archie Goodfellow was a busy man, who spent much of his day not cloistered in a musty church but on his motorcycle visiting prisons and group homes. He had a chaplaincy office in Belleville, but rarely lighted long enough to check his
He turned in a slow circle, searching for the right words as he surveyed the chaos. “You need help with this, Marilyn. This is too much work for anyone alone. Are you eating? Sleeping?”
She still hovered in the hall, as if the room repulsed her. “I have … pills. Luke’s pills. I do get some sleep. I just — I just … I’m doing it one day at a time.”
Green reached down to pile some clothes back into the box nearest him. “Look, I’m off for the weekend. Why don’t I help you —”
“Please don’t touch that.”
He looked at the jacket in his hand. It was an old plaid work jacket, smudged with paint. “At least let me bring a couple of my officers out here and we’ll help you clear this out.”
“No!” She clutched the doorframe and whipped her head back and forth. Pink blotched her pale cheeks. “This is my job. My house. I don’t want strangers pawing through Luke’s possessions. Throwing them out like he doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Okay, I get that.” Green set the jacket down again gently. In his work he’d seen grief take many paths. Jackie Carmichael’s room had been left untouched throughout the trial, as if she had just stepped out to go to class. And for three years after his mother’s death, his own father had been unable to move a single item of hers, including her nightgown.
Now he turned toward the kitchen. “Let’s make tea. We can have it outside on your patio. The spring sun is out.”
She seemed to relax marginally when he left the living room. The ritual of preparing tea also soothed her, so that by the time she carried the tray outside, her step was steadier and her eyes clear.
There was a small stone patio outside the kitchen door, on which sat a glass table and two plastic chairs, all covered with dead leaves and winter grime. Piled in the corner outside the door were more boxes, and Green noticed another jumble in the fire pit by the shed.
Without bothering to wipe the table, Marilyn placed the tray down and sank into a chair. “I’m sorry, Mike. I didn’t mean to be rude. This …” she nodded toward the boxes, “is difficult but it has to be done.”
“What about your friend? Wasn’t she going to help?”
“I don’t want …” She took a deep breath to refocus. “This is private.”
“But —”
“And I’m not selling the house, so it doesn’t matter how long it takes.”
“What about your fresh start?”
“I was premature. I’m sorry your two officers came out here for nothing. But there are too many memories here. Too much of Luke and Jackie in every nook and cranny.” She broke off. Her hands clutched her teacup and her jaw quivered.
He tried for a lighter tone. “How’s the streetwalking book club?”
“I put all that off for now. Too much else on my plate at the moment.”
Green’s gaze drifted to the jumble of boxes by the door, the decaying remnants of last year’s garden, the leaves waiting to be raked, and the tangled rose canes to be pruned.
The mound of garbage waiting to be burned.
It looked overwhelming, even for him. This frail, worn-out widow was in no shape to tackle it alone. Yet she had almost panicked at the offer of help. What had caused her abrupt reversal? And that scream? Was it simply the next twist in her mourning, or had something else happened? Something to do with her selfish, uncaring children?
Or perhaps with James Rosten?
G reen knew Archie Goodfellow was a busy man, who spent much of his day not cloistered in a musty church but on his motorcycle visiting prisons and group homes. He had a chaplaincy office in Belleville, but rarely lighted long enough to check his
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