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“Yes.” The cannula had come askew in his nose and he pushed it straight, his hand moving slowly,
like the hand of a man who is dreaming with his eyes open. “He was shot to death in Longview
Cemetery while he was putting flowers on his parents’ graves. Only a few months after this picture
was taken. The police arrested a man named Bill Turcotte for it—”
Ow. I hadn’t seen that one coming.
“—but he had a solid alibi and eventually they had to let him go. The killer was never caught.” He
took one of my hands. “Mister . . . son . . . Jake . . . this is crazy, but . . . were you the one who killed
my father?”
“Don’t be silly.” I took the picture and hung it back on the wall. “I wasn’t born until 1971,
remember?”
5
I walked slowly down Main Street, back to the ruined mill and the abandoned Quik-Flash convenience
store that stood in front of it. I walked with my head down, not looking for No Nose and Moon Man
and the rest of that happy band. I thought if they were still anywhere in the vicinity, they’d give me a
wide berth. They thought I was crazy. Probably I was.
We’re all mad here was what the Cheshire Cat told Alice. Then he disappeared. Except for the grin,
that is. As I recall, the grin stayed awhile.
I understood more now. Not everything, I doubt if even the Card Men understand everything (and
after they’ve spent awhile on duty, they understand almost nothing), but that still didn’t help me with
the decision I had to make.
As I ducked under the chain, something exploded far in the distance. It didn’t make me jump. I
imagined there were a lot of explosions now. When people begin to lose hope, there’s bound to be
explosions.
I entered the bathroom at the back of the convenience store and almost tripped over my sheepskin
jacket. I kicked it aside—I wouldn’t be needing it where I was going—and walked slowly over to the
piled boxes that looked so much like Lee’s sniper’s nest.
Goddam harmonies.
I moved enough of them so I could get into the corner, then carefully restacked them behind me. I
moved forward step by small step, once again thinking of how a man or woman feels for the top of a
staircase in utter darkness. But there was no step this time, only that queer doubling. I moved
forward, watched my lower body shimmer, then closed my eyes.
Another step. And another. Now I felt warmth on my legs. Two more steps and sunlight turned
the black behind my eyelids to red. I took one more step and heard the pop inside my head. When
that cleared, I heard the shat-HOOSH, shat-HOOSH of the weaving flats.
I opened my eyes. The stink of the dirty abandoned restroom had been replaced by the stink of a
textile mill operating full bore in a year when the Environmental Protection Agency did not exist.
There was cracked cement under my feet instead of peeling linoleum. To my left were the big metal
bins filled with fabric remnants and covered with burlap. To my right was the drying shed. It was
eleven fifty-eight on the morning of September ninth, 1958. Harry Dunning was once more a little
boy. Carolyn Poulin was in period five at LHS, perhaps listening to the teacher, perhaps daydreaming
about some boy or how she would go hunting with her father in a couple of months. Sadie Dunhill,
not yet married to Mr. Have Broom Will Travel, was living in Georgia. Lee Harvey Oswald was in the
South China Sea with his Marine unit. And John F. Kennedy was the junior senator from
Massachusetts, dreaming presidential dreams.