grandson was a crucial element of the legend Davey had passed on to Nora. An adoptable baby had been found in New Hampshire” Alden and Daisy traveled there, won the child for their own, named him after the first infant, and raised him in the dead boy’s place.
Davey had worn the dead Davey’s baby clothes, slept in his crib, drooled on his bib, mouthed his rattle, taken formula from his bottle. When he grew old enough, he played with the toys set aside for the ghost baby. As if Lincoln Chancel had foreseen that he would not live to see the child turn four, he had purchased blocks, balls, stuffed bunnies and cats, rocking horses, electric trains, baseball gloves, bicycles in graduated sizes, dozens of board games, and much else besides” on the appropriate birthdays these gifts had been removed from boxes marked DAVEY and ceremoniously presented. Eventually Davey had understood that they were gifts from a dead grandfather to a dead grandson.
Ever since the night drunken Davey had careered around the living room while declaiming this history, Nora had begun to see him in a way only at first surprising or unsettling. He had always imagined himself under the pitiless scrutiny of a shadow self—imagined that the rightful David Chancel called to him for recognition or rescue.
13
THE DETECTIVE SKIRTED a dolphin-colored boulder and came forward, regarding Nora with a combination of official reserve and private concern. She could not imagine how she could have mistaken his blue suit and ornate red necktie for a police uniform. He had a heavy, square head, a disillusioned face, and a thick brown mustache that curved past the ends of his mouth. When he came close enough for her to notice the gray in the Tartar mustache, she could also see that his dark brown eyes were at once serious, annoyed, solicitous, and far down, at bottom, utterly detached, in a way that Nora assumed was reserved for policemen. Some portion of this man reminded her of Dan Harwich, which led her to expect a measure of sympathetic understanding. Physically he was not much like Harwich, being blocky and wide, heavy in the shoulders and gut, a Clydesdale instead of a greyhound.
“Are you okay?” he asked, which corresponded to her unconscious expectations, and when she nodded, he turned to Davey, saying, “Sir, if you’re just being curious, I’d appreciate your getting this lady and yourself away from here,” which did not.
“I wanted to see Natalie’s house again,” Davey said. “My name is Davey Chancel, and this is my wife, Nora.”
Nora waited for the detective to say,
I thought you were brother and sister,
as some did. Instead he said, “You’re related to the family on Mount Avenue? What’s that place? The Poplars?”
“I’m their son,” Davey said.
The man stepped closer and held out a large hand, which Davey took. “Holly Fenn. Chief of Detectives. You knew Mrs. Weil?”
“She sold us our house.”
“And you’ve been here before?”
“Natalie had us over a couple of times,” Nora said, for the sake of including herself in the conversation with Holly Fenn. He was a hod carrier, a peat stomper, as Irish as Matt Curlew. One look at this guy, you knew he was real. He leveled his complicated gaze at her. She cleared her throat.
“Five times,” Davey said. “Maybe six. Have you found her body yet?”
Davey’s
trait
, that which had caused Nora second and third thoughts about the man she had intended to marry, was that he stretched the truth. Davey did not lie in the ordinary sense, for advantage, but as she had eventually seen, for an aesthetic end, to improve reality.
Davey was still nodding, as if he had gone over their visits and added them up. When Nora added them up for herself, they came out to three. Once for drinks, a week after they started looking at houses” the second time for dinner” the third time when they had dropped in to pick up the keys to the house on Crooked Mile Road.
“Which is it?” Fenn
Davey had worn the dead Davey’s baby clothes, slept in his crib, drooled on his bib, mouthed his rattle, taken formula from his bottle. When he grew old enough, he played with the toys set aside for the ghost baby. As if Lincoln Chancel had foreseen that he would not live to see the child turn four, he had purchased blocks, balls, stuffed bunnies and cats, rocking horses, electric trains, baseball gloves, bicycles in graduated sizes, dozens of board games, and much else besides” on the appropriate birthdays these gifts had been removed from boxes marked DAVEY and ceremoniously presented. Eventually Davey had understood that they were gifts from a dead grandfather to a dead grandson.
Ever since the night drunken Davey had careered around the living room while declaiming this history, Nora had begun to see him in a way only at first surprising or unsettling. He had always imagined himself under the pitiless scrutiny of a shadow self—imagined that the rightful David Chancel called to him for recognition or rescue.
13
THE DETECTIVE SKIRTED a dolphin-colored boulder and came forward, regarding Nora with a combination of official reserve and private concern. She could not imagine how she could have mistaken his blue suit and ornate red necktie for a police uniform. He had a heavy, square head, a disillusioned face, and a thick brown mustache that curved past the ends of his mouth. When he came close enough for her to notice the gray in the Tartar mustache, she could also see that his dark brown eyes were at once serious, annoyed, solicitous, and far down, at bottom, utterly detached, in a way that Nora assumed was reserved for policemen. Some portion of this man reminded her of Dan Harwich, which led her to expect a measure of sympathetic understanding. Physically he was not much like Harwich, being blocky and wide, heavy in the shoulders and gut, a Clydesdale instead of a greyhound.
“Are you okay?” he asked, which corresponded to her unconscious expectations, and when she nodded, he turned to Davey, saying, “Sir, if you’re just being curious, I’d appreciate your getting this lady and yourself away from here,” which did not.
“I wanted to see Natalie’s house again,” Davey said. “My name is Davey Chancel, and this is my wife, Nora.”
Nora waited for the detective to say,
I thought you were brother and sister,
as some did. Instead he said, “You’re related to the family on Mount Avenue? What’s that place? The Poplars?”
“I’m their son,” Davey said.
The man stepped closer and held out a large hand, which Davey took. “Holly Fenn. Chief of Detectives. You knew Mrs. Weil?”
“She sold us our house.”
“And you’ve been here before?”
“Natalie had us over a couple of times,” Nora said, for the sake of including herself in the conversation with Holly Fenn. He was a hod carrier, a peat stomper, as Irish as Matt Curlew. One look at this guy, you knew he was real. He leveled his complicated gaze at her. She cleared her throat.
“Five times,” Davey said. “Maybe six. Have you found her body yet?”
Davey’s
trait
, that which had caused Nora second and third thoughts about the man she had intended to marry, was that he stretched the truth. Davey did not lie in the ordinary sense, for advantage, but as she had eventually seen, for an aesthetic end, to improve reality.
Davey was still nodding, as if he had gone over their visits and added them up. When Nora added them up for herself, they came out to three. Once for drinks, a week after they started looking at houses” the second time for dinner” the third time when they had dropped in to pick up the keys to the house on Crooked Mile Road.
“Which is it?” Fenn
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