The Geographer's Library

The Geographer’ s Library
row for a single car, though it swelled slightly as it dead-ended unceremoniously
at a patch of scraggly trees and dirt. Across from each other and closest
to the turnoff from the main road, two identical flagstone houses with grayblue
shutters and wraparound porches stood like sentries in silent communication
with each other. On a different street or a different day, the effect would
have been precious; here it was unsettling, particularly as smoke rose from
both chimneys but I could see lights in neither house.
The next home back on the left was a large, rambling, yellowish clapboard
house that looked as though it had been airlifted in from Rockport or
Gloucester, right down to the widow’s walk on top. Across from it was number
4, Pühapäev’s house: squat and brown, with peeling white trim and sagging
gutters. A forlorn-looking maple tree stood in the center of a yard of
patchy grass, mud, and twigs. On the small front porch, a swing that still bore
a few scabs of pink paint had come off its chain on one side, and it slumped
on the porch like a fat old man too tired to move.
I pulled in behind a Lincoln police car—the Lincoln police car, actually.
As I walked toward the house, I glanced across the street and saw a hand
draw the shade back from an upstairs window. I knocked at the open front
door of Pühapäev’s house, then called out and stepped over the threshold.
“Jesus Christ,” said an exasperated voice. “This isn’t a museum; this is
somebody’s house.”
“Is it also a crime scene?” I asked, stepping back outside and craning my
neck in.
“That your business? You a tourist or looking to be a homeowner?” A
pudgy policeman packed into his uniform like a sausage stepped into view,
holding his cap under one arm and a clipboard in the other. He had a goofy
little sleeping-caterpillar mustache parked on his upper lip, and several
strands of reddish hair whirled strategically around an otherwise bald head. I
had seen him before but never met him: my father always advised keeping
well away from small-town cops, and as a result I had never even gotten a
parking ticket in Lincoln. I usually saw him with a partner, a slender guy who
always seemed about to disappear from sheer vagueness. If Art had ever told
me his name, I had forgotten it. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m from the Carrier. Name’s Paul.” I extended my hand, and he shook
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