sprawled onto the concrete, her hair spreading in that uneven splash which the cameras later recorded. Her knees had drawn up into a fetal curve, then straightened.
And all that time, the doctor’s wife had been standing there at the upstairs window, left hand to mouth, her flesh a rigid, mortal concrete.
“I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even speak. All I could do was just watch him.”
Joe Murphey’s oddly thin-wristed right hand had come up, hurled the kris in a short arc onto the lawn. Unhurriedly, he had walked around his wife’s body, avoided the spreading patch of red that trailed down the concrete. Presently, he’d merged with the shadows of trees where the driveway entered the street. Sarah had heard a car motor start. Its lights had flashed on. The car had roared away in a gritty scattering of gravel.
Then, and only then, Sarah had found she could move. She’d called an ambulance.
“Andy?”
The voice brought Thurlow back from a far distance. Ruth’s voice? he wondered. He turned.
She stood at his left just behind the car, a slender woman in a black silk suit that smoothed her full curves. Her red hair, usually worn close around her oval face, was tied in a severe coil at the back of her neck. The hair bound so tightly—Thurlow tried to put out of his mind all memory of the mother’s hair spread on the driveway.
Ruth’s green eyes stared at him with a look of hurt expectancy. She had the appearance of a tired elf.
Thurlow opened his door, slipped out to the wet grass beside the road.
“I didn’t hear your car,” he said.
“I’ve been staying with Sarah, living with her. I walked up from the house. That’s why I’m so late.”
He could hear the tears in her voice and wondered at the inanity of their conversation.
“Ruth… damn it all! I don’t know what to say.” Without thinking about it, he crossed to her, took her in his arms. He could feel her muscles resisting him. “I don’t know what to say.”
She pulled out of his embrace. “Then… don’t say anything. It’s all been said anyway.” She looked up at his eyes. “Aren’t you still wearing your special glasses?”
“To hell with my glasses. Why wouldn’t you speak to me on the phone? Was that Sarah’s number they gave me at the hospital?” Her words were coming back to him, “… living with her.” What did it mean?
“Father said…” She bit her lower lip, shook her head. “Andy, oh, Andy, he’s insane and they’re going to execute him…” She looked up at Thurlow, her lashes wet with tears. “Andy, I don’t know how to feel about him.
I don’t know…”
Again, he took her in his arms. She came willingly this time. How familiar and right it felt for her to be there. She began to sob gently against his shoulder. Her crying felt like the spent aftermath of sorrow.
“Oh, I wish you could take me away from here,” she whispered.
What was she saying? he asked himself. She was no longer Ruth Murphey. She was Mrs. Neville Hudson. He wanted to push her away, start throwing questions at her. But that wouldn’t be professional, not the right psychological thing to do. He decided it wasn’t what he wanted to do after all. Still, she was another man’s wife. Damn! Damn! Damn! What had happened? The fight. He remembered their fight—the night he’d told her about the fellowship grant. She hadn’t wanted him to take it, to be separated for a year. Denver had sounded so far away in her words. “It’s only a year.” He could hear his own voice saying it. “You think more of your damn career than you do of me!” The temper matched her hair.
He’d left on that sour note. His letters had gone into a void—unanswered. She’d been “not home” to his telephone calls. And he’d learned he could be angry, too—and hurt. But what had really happened?
Again, she said: “I don’t know how to feel about him.”
“What can I do to help?” It was all he could say, but the words felt
And all that time, the doctor’s wife had been standing there at the upstairs window, left hand to mouth, her flesh a rigid, mortal concrete.
“I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even speak. All I could do was just watch him.”
Joe Murphey’s oddly thin-wristed right hand had come up, hurled the kris in a short arc onto the lawn. Unhurriedly, he had walked around his wife’s body, avoided the spreading patch of red that trailed down the concrete. Presently, he’d merged with the shadows of trees where the driveway entered the street. Sarah had heard a car motor start. Its lights had flashed on. The car had roared away in a gritty scattering of gravel.
Then, and only then, Sarah had found she could move. She’d called an ambulance.
“Andy?”
The voice brought Thurlow back from a far distance. Ruth’s voice? he wondered. He turned.
She stood at his left just behind the car, a slender woman in a black silk suit that smoothed her full curves. Her red hair, usually worn close around her oval face, was tied in a severe coil at the back of her neck. The hair bound so tightly—Thurlow tried to put out of his mind all memory of the mother’s hair spread on the driveway.
Ruth’s green eyes stared at him with a look of hurt expectancy. She had the appearance of a tired elf.
Thurlow opened his door, slipped out to the wet grass beside the road.
“I didn’t hear your car,” he said.
“I’ve been staying with Sarah, living with her. I walked up from the house. That’s why I’m so late.”
He could hear the tears in her voice and wondered at the inanity of their conversation.
“Ruth… damn it all! I don’t know what to say.” Without thinking about it, he crossed to her, took her in his arms. He could feel her muscles resisting him. “I don’t know what to say.”
She pulled out of his embrace. “Then… don’t say anything. It’s all been said anyway.” She looked up at his eyes. “Aren’t you still wearing your special glasses?”
“To hell with my glasses. Why wouldn’t you speak to me on the phone? Was that Sarah’s number they gave me at the hospital?” Her words were coming back to him, “… living with her.” What did it mean?
“Father said…” She bit her lower lip, shook her head. “Andy, oh, Andy, he’s insane and they’re going to execute him…” She looked up at Thurlow, her lashes wet with tears. “Andy, I don’t know how to feel about him.
I don’t know…”
Again, he took her in his arms. She came willingly this time. How familiar and right it felt for her to be there. She began to sob gently against his shoulder. Her crying felt like the spent aftermath of sorrow.
“Oh, I wish you could take me away from here,” she whispered.
What was she saying? he asked himself. She was no longer Ruth Murphey. She was Mrs. Neville Hudson. He wanted to push her away, start throwing questions at her. But that wouldn’t be professional, not the right psychological thing to do. He decided it wasn’t what he wanted to do after all. Still, she was another man’s wife. Damn! Damn! Damn! What had happened? The fight. He remembered their fight—the night he’d told her about the fellowship grant. She hadn’t wanted him to take it, to be separated for a year. Denver had sounded so far away in her words. “It’s only a year.” He could hear his own voice saying it. “You think more of your damn career than you do of me!” The temper matched her hair.
He’d left on that sour note. His letters had gone into a void—unanswered. She’d been “not home” to his telephone calls. And he’d learned he could be angry, too—and hurt. But what had really happened?
Again, she said: “I don’t know how to feel about him.”
“What can I do to help?” It was all he could say, but the words felt
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