share my plan.
“Rebecca said I should start at the beginning,” I told her. “Where else can the beginning be but at Jim Osborn’s home?”
She nodded.
“I’m glad you agree,” I said.
She turned her back on me, and sauntered to my wingback chair. I guess cats don’t like sarcasm.
I didn’t have time to worry about sensitive feline feelings. From the refrigerator, I pulled the casserole I’d baked a few days before when I got stuck for the next scene in The Swamp Witch (changing my focus to cooking sometimes helps me get past a bout of writer’s block). I uncovered the baking dish. The ziti and cheese with chicken, mushrooms, and broccoli would serve my purpose. After a funeral, people expend so much energy in mourning they don’t prepare proper meals. This casserole would disguise my real reason for stopping by.
***
Most of the houses on the Pine Avenue side of downtown Niagara Falls were two-story wood-frame homes built before the Second World War. The Osborns’ was newer—a brick ranch set on a well cared-for plot of land. In the spring and summer, the driveway and the front of the house would be lined with tulips, sunflowers, black-eyed Susans. When Jimmy was off duty, while Marge sunned herself on a lawn chair, he would be on his knees gardening. That is, when he didn’t go off to hoist a few at Flannery’s, the neighborhood bar the Falls cops frequented. On this late winter afternoon, the perennials hadn’t yet begun to poke through the frozen soil, and, as if it, too, was in mourning, the leafless willow on the front lawn drooped under the weight of snow.
Parked at the curb in front of the house was the green ’67 Chevy Malibu Sean Ryan had restored.
I pulled into the driveway behind a silver Pontiac. Of indeterminate age, the car had a dented rear fender and a tied-down trunk. The trim around all the doors was rusted. This was the vehicle Jimmy drove the fifteen blocks to the police station each day. Next to the Pontiac was a sporty new Corvette.
Not the kind of car a cop owns, I thought as I lifted the casserole from the seat beside me.
The Osborns’ daughter answered the door when I rang the bell. I handed her the casserole and said, “Jenny, I’m so sorry about your father.”
She offered me her right cheek to kiss. Though she turned away, I again saw the dark ring under her left eye. At another time I would have said something about the bruise. This day, though, my mind was locked firmly on what brought me here.
“Is your mom up for company?” I asked.
Silently, Jennifer stepped aside to let me in.
Other than the bedrooms and kitchen, the house consisted of a single large room—what decorators call an open design. The living room set was in a semicircle around a low glass coffee table. These furnishings were oriented with the couch placed in front of the oriel window. Farthest from the front door was a formal dining area: a glass table, six chairs upholstered in a light fabric, and a heavy china cabinet. In contrast to Marge’s appearance at the funeral, the house was perfectly neat.
I leaned in to look around the wall at the entry. Marge was stretched out on the couch. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was pulled back into a tight pony tail, and she’d changed from her funeral dress into a floral housecoat that almost hid an expanded waistline.
What kind of friend have I been, I thought, not to have noticed how she’s let herself go?
Jennifer held the casserole to her chest. As I’ve mentioned, she was a younger version of her mother: same color hair, same delicate features. But she was several inches shorter (in that, she took after her father). At twenty-two, gravity had already pulled her upper body down around her waist and thighs.
“Mom’s resting,” Jen said, but didn’t move. Though she’d had her adenoids removed along with her tonsils when she was six, she still spoke with a decidedly nasal undertone.
“Is it all right if I see her?” I
“Rebecca said I should start at the beginning,” I told her. “Where else can the beginning be but at Jim Osborn’s home?”
She nodded.
“I’m glad you agree,” I said.
She turned her back on me, and sauntered to my wingback chair. I guess cats don’t like sarcasm.
I didn’t have time to worry about sensitive feline feelings. From the refrigerator, I pulled the casserole I’d baked a few days before when I got stuck for the next scene in The Swamp Witch (changing my focus to cooking sometimes helps me get past a bout of writer’s block). I uncovered the baking dish. The ziti and cheese with chicken, mushrooms, and broccoli would serve my purpose. After a funeral, people expend so much energy in mourning they don’t prepare proper meals. This casserole would disguise my real reason for stopping by.
***
Most of the houses on the Pine Avenue side of downtown Niagara Falls were two-story wood-frame homes built before the Second World War. The Osborns’ was newer—a brick ranch set on a well cared-for plot of land. In the spring and summer, the driveway and the front of the house would be lined with tulips, sunflowers, black-eyed Susans. When Jimmy was off duty, while Marge sunned herself on a lawn chair, he would be on his knees gardening. That is, when he didn’t go off to hoist a few at Flannery’s, the neighborhood bar the Falls cops frequented. On this late winter afternoon, the perennials hadn’t yet begun to poke through the frozen soil, and, as if it, too, was in mourning, the leafless willow on the front lawn drooped under the weight of snow.
Parked at the curb in front of the house was the green ’67 Chevy Malibu Sean Ryan had restored.
I pulled into the driveway behind a silver Pontiac. Of indeterminate age, the car had a dented rear fender and a tied-down trunk. The trim around all the doors was rusted. This was the vehicle Jimmy drove the fifteen blocks to the police station each day. Next to the Pontiac was a sporty new Corvette.
Not the kind of car a cop owns, I thought as I lifted the casserole from the seat beside me.
The Osborns’ daughter answered the door when I rang the bell. I handed her the casserole and said, “Jenny, I’m so sorry about your father.”
She offered me her right cheek to kiss. Though she turned away, I again saw the dark ring under her left eye. At another time I would have said something about the bruise. This day, though, my mind was locked firmly on what brought me here.
“Is your mom up for company?” I asked.
Silently, Jennifer stepped aside to let me in.
Other than the bedrooms and kitchen, the house consisted of a single large room—what decorators call an open design. The living room set was in a semicircle around a low glass coffee table. These furnishings were oriented with the couch placed in front of the oriel window. Farthest from the front door was a formal dining area: a glass table, six chairs upholstered in a light fabric, and a heavy china cabinet. In contrast to Marge’s appearance at the funeral, the house was perfectly neat.
I leaned in to look around the wall at the entry. Marge was stretched out on the couch. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was pulled back into a tight pony tail, and she’d changed from her funeral dress into a floral housecoat that almost hid an expanded waistline.
What kind of friend have I been, I thought, not to have noticed how she’s let herself go?
Jennifer held the casserole to her chest. As I’ve mentioned, she was a younger version of her mother: same color hair, same delicate features. But she was several inches shorter (in that, she took after her father). At twenty-two, gravity had already pulled her upper body down around her waist and thighs.
“Mom’s resting,” Jen said, but didn’t move. Though she’d had her adenoids removed along with her tonsils when she was six, she still spoke with a decidedly nasal undertone.
“Is it all right if I see her?” I
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