head. Not then, or later. I imagined the thrill of showing him my great-grandfatherâs letters. It amazed me that he and I had ancestors who drilled for oil in the same unlikely place, although I knew it wouldnât be right to let somebody like him see our family papers.
After lunch, I found myself having one of my useless conversations with Hindrance. Per usual, I tried not to listen, because Hindrance sounded like Sal blowing hot air.
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A Sobering Conversation with Hindrance
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Hindrance: John Pilkie is mean and cruel, Mouse, and you better watch out.
Me: What if he didnât mean to hurt his wife?
Hindrance: He wanted her out of the way and he didnât really like you either.
Me: He does so, Hindrance.
Hindrance: Who would like you? Youâre short and skinny, and you walk like a duck.
Me: Thatâs not fair. Besides Mr. Pilkie asked me about my great-grandfather.
Hindrance: Listen to you! Youâre all puffed up because somebody asked you about your stupid composition. Well, sucks like you get fooled sooner than you can say Jack Robinson. So you better watch out or youâll get murdered too. See you later, alligator.
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MAYBE HINDRANCE HAD A POINT. I felt flattered because a murderer listened to me talk about my school composition. What on earth was I thinking? I didnât want him to know I was interested in him â although I was. Wasnât everybody?
9
MADOCâS LANDING ABSORBED THE KILLERS LIKE WATER IN A PAIL absorbed a stone. But we didnât see John Pilkie or the other prisoners on the hospital grounds during the two weeks before Easter. For one thing, they couldnât wander around the hospital grounds like the harmless patients. Then Sal heard that John might go to the Anglican Church on Easter Sunday with his mother, who was a pot-licker (or Protestant) like us. In our kitchen, John had used the word âdoganâ to describe himself. It meant Irish Catholic and Iâd been surprised because âdoganâ was usually said by a pot-licker with the word âbloodyâ or âdamnâ in front of it.
Now none of that mattered. Mrs. Pilkie had asked Dr. Shulman to let John worship with the Anglicans so John, along with the hospital guards, was coming to our church for Easter Sunday. Light-headed with excitement, I put on my new felt skirt and starched blouse plus my white ankle socks. For the first time in months, it was a mild spring day so I could go outside without my long woolen stockings.
WE DROVE TO CHURCH IN my motherâs old Ford station wagon. Morley was off on a call. Going to the eleven oâclock service wasnât something required of the men in my family. As I struggled out of the backseat, my grandmother reached for my hand, and I politely shook my head. I didnât want the Bug House kids calling me a suck who clung to her grandmotherâs skirts. Luckily, the Bug House kids were still in Sunday School. So, one step at a time, I humped Hindrance up the stairs and into the church. As I took my seat in our pew, I spotted John standing near the vestry with two of the other prisoners. He carried his full-length raccoon coat over his arm and he had on the smartlooking striped chocolate-brown suit he had worn at the train station. Sib Beaudry and two other hospital guards stood nearby in the hospital uniform: a serge suit and bowtie that made them resemble the friendly baker in the Wonder Bread advertisement. The prisoners took off their hats and shrugged off their jackets. Then they sat down, clearing their throats and bowing their heads. The guards sat down, too. Mrs. Pilkie sat six rows behind them and something about the stiff way she held herself suggested she thought that everyone was watching her son. But neither the women, in their white gloves and Easter bonnets, nor their hatless men were looking at the killers. The same pride that lay behind our townâs attitude to the hospital kept them from gawking
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