softly.
He said, “Magda.”
“Yes, Magda. She was a very nice girl, wasn’t she?”
But I had lost him. He turned away, deep in his own thoughts, if indeed they were thoughts.
I wondered what kind of melodies James Talley heard.
—
At ten-thirty, after I had said hello to Gene, Sergeant Brooks answered his phone.
“Got it,” he said when I gave him my name.
“The file? Really?”
“Right here in front of me.”
“It’ll take me an hour.”
“I’m here all day.”
—
I enjoy driving. My monthly trips to Oakwood were a special joy for all the years that I made them from St. Stephen’s. There was something about being alone in a car, being the captain of my own ship, that I found satisfying.Now, driving to Brooklyn to see the file on the Talley murder. I thought of Frost and the road not taken. But I thought of it happily. The road that I was traveling right now was that road, and I was taking it.
There were things I missed that I had left behind at St. Stephen’s, good friends, a way of life rich in fulfillment. I remember the first time I saw the convent, before I entered it, when I went up as a visitor. It was awesome, as the young girls say now, big and heavy and very beautiful, on landscaped grounds shared with the college in which I would later study and even later teach. There was a warmth from the nuns, a girlish friendliness from the novices.
“And you know,” one of them said as we toured the grounds, “we have such a lovely view of the Hudson River.”
I couldn’t see it, but I didn’t want to say so, afraid that I would unwittingly insult my guide. Later, when I myself was a novice, I realized it was a joke. “The view of the river” that everyone mentioned now and then, especially to visitors and prospective novices, didn’t exist. It was all a myth. Even in winter, when every branch was bare and the air cool and dry and you could see for miles, there was no river.
Once, I had climbed to the top floor of the Mother House and stolen a look out the windows that faced west. There was no river. It had saddened me to know it, but I had kept the secret. The nuns would have their jest.
—
“I went through it this morning,” Sergeant Brooks said, indicating a thick file tied with string that lay on his desk. “I have to tell you, I had some funny feelings reading it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there were some loose ends I didn’t like. Maybe somebody could have worked a little harder.”
“Maybe it wasn’t necessary.” I heard myself become the devil’s advocate. “Maybe the twins were just guilty and that was that.”
“I don’t know. I think if it had been my case, I would’ve followed up on a couple of things.”
“What kind of things?” I tried not to sound too eager.
“For one thing, the knife.”
“Why?”
“Let me show you.” He opened the top desk drawer and pulled out a twelve-inch ruler. “Here’s a knife you’re about to stab me with. Show me how you hold it.”
I took it in my right hand and wrapped my fingers around it. “Something like this.”
“I can see you’re no pro. It’s got to go in this way.” He turned my clenched hand so that the ruler was horizontal. “Gets stuck in the ribs the other way. Very messy. But look at where your fingers are. They’re more on the edge than on the flat surface. But the prints on the cards are nice, clear, whole prints. And some of them came from the blade.”
“I read that in one of the papers,” I said, feeling a ripple of excitement. “I had a feeling the twins might have picked it up to look at it out of curiosity, not to use it.”
“That makes two of us. And there was something else. I thought they should have followed up a little better on other people that might have visited the apartment, maybe some guy hanging around the building that might have followed them upstairs.”
“The gas man,” I said, remembering Selma Franklin.
“Like that, right. But you can’t look
He said, “Magda.”
“Yes, Magda. She was a very nice girl, wasn’t she?”
But I had lost him. He turned away, deep in his own thoughts, if indeed they were thoughts.
I wondered what kind of melodies James Talley heard.
—
At ten-thirty, after I had said hello to Gene, Sergeant Brooks answered his phone.
“Got it,” he said when I gave him my name.
“The file? Really?”
“Right here in front of me.”
“It’ll take me an hour.”
“I’m here all day.”
—
I enjoy driving. My monthly trips to Oakwood were a special joy for all the years that I made them from St. Stephen’s. There was something about being alone in a car, being the captain of my own ship, that I found satisfying.Now, driving to Brooklyn to see the file on the Talley murder. I thought of Frost and the road not taken. But I thought of it happily. The road that I was traveling right now was that road, and I was taking it.
There were things I missed that I had left behind at St. Stephen’s, good friends, a way of life rich in fulfillment. I remember the first time I saw the convent, before I entered it, when I went up as a visitor. It was awesome, as the young girls say now, big and heavy and very beautiful, on landscaped grounds shared with the college in which I would later study and even later teach. There was a warmth from the nuns, a girlish friendliness from the novices.
“And you know,” one of them said as we toured the grounds, “we have such a lovely view of the Hudson River.”
I couldn’t see it, but I didn’t want to say so, afraid that I would unwittingly insult my guide. Later, when I myself was a novice, I realized it was a joke. “The view of the river” that everyone mentioned now and then, especially to visitors and prospective novices, didn’t exist. It was all a myth. Even in winter, when every branch was bare and the air cool and dry and you could see for miles, there was no river.
Once, I had climbed to the top floor of the Mother House and stolen a look out the windows that faced west. There was no river. It had saddened me to know it, but I had kept the secret. The nuns would have their jest.
—
“I went through it this morning,” Sergeant Brooks said, indicating a thick file tied with string that lay on his desk. “I have to tell you, I had some funny feelings reading it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there were some loose ends I didn’t like. Maybe somebody could have worked a little harder.”
“Maybe it wasn’t necessary.” I heard myself become the devil’s advocate. “Maybe the twins were just guilty and that was that.”
“I don’t know. I think if it had been my case, I would’ve followed up on a couple of things.”
“What kind of things?” I tried not to sound too eager.
“For one thing, the knife.”
“Why?”
“Let me show you.” He opened the top desk drawer and pulled out a twelve-inch ruler. “Here’s a knife you’re about to stab me with. Show me how you hold it.”
I took it in my right hand and wrapped my fingers around it. “Something like this.”
“I can see you’re no pro. It’s got to go in this way.” He turned my clenched hand so that the ruler was horizontal. “Gets stuck in the ribs the other way. Very messy. But look at where your fingers are. They’re more on the edge than on the flat surface. But the prints on the cards are nice, clear, whole prints. And some of them came from the blade.”
“I read that in one of the papers,” I said, feeling a ripple of excitement. “I had a feeling the twins might have picked it up to look at it out of curiosity, not to use it.”
“That makes two of us. And there was something else. I thought they should have followed up a little better on other people that might have visited the apartment, maybe some guy hanging around the building that might have followed them upstairs.”
“The gas man,” I said, remembering Selma Franklin.
“Like that, right. But you can’t look
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