“little one.” She also called him Sparky when he was too fidgety to sit still.
She sometimes called him Tiny Tim when he was calm. Calm and sitting in an armchair, just reading. They read books a lot. Sitting in their armchairs. In their pretty little house.
Maybe outside it snowed. Or rained. Or just wind, blowing. But inside—armchairs and books and often hot chocolate.
After an hour of running up and down stairs, Jocko grew worried. Erika should have returned. She went into town for cinnamon rolls.
Something happened to her. Maybe hit by a truck. Maybe hit by two trucks. Maybe rap music.
Maybe a bear got her. There were grizzly bears. Bears in the woods. Jocko had never seen one. But they were
there
. The woods were a bear toilet.
Maybe Jocko was now alone in the world.
When the maybes started, they didn’t stop.
Jocko hurried to the front door. It was flanked with sidelights. Beyond lay the front porch.
He looked out the left sidelight. Beyond the porch: the long gravel driveway. Leading out of sight to the county road. No car.
Jocko peeked through the right sidelight. Same porch, same driveway, still no car.
Left sidelight. Right sidelight. Left, right, left, right.
A window in the top third of the door. Above Jocko’s head. He jumped, glimpsed the porch, driveway, no car. Jumped. No car. Jumped. No car.
Left sidelight, jump, right sidelight, jump, left sidelight, jump: no car, no car, no car, no car, no car.
Maybe he shouldn’t hope to see Erika’s car approaching. Maybe he would hope and hope and hope, and it would appear, but it would be driven by a bear.
Erika must be dead. She would be home by now if she wasn’t dead. Jocko was alone in the world again. Alone with the blanket-draped TV. And bears watching from the woods. And birds circling in the sky.
Without her, he would have to live in sewers again. In storm drains. Coming out at night for food. Sneaking along dark alleys.
He was a monster. People didn’t like monsters. They would beat him with buckets, shovels, with whatever was near at hand. They had beaten him before, when he’d struggled to live on his own and people came upon him by accident. Buckets, shovels, brooms, umbrellas, canes, lengths of chain and garden hoses, large pepperoni sausages.
He whimpered with grief and fear. His whimpering scared him.
To distract himself, to avoid a full-blown emotional crisis, Jockopirouetted. Pirouetted room to room. Then cartwheeled through the house. He juggled red rubber balls. Juggled fruit. Juggled vegetables. He hurried up and down the stairs on his hands. Up and down, up and down. He rearranged the contents of all the cabinets in the kitchen—and then put everything back where it belonged. He opened a bag of dried pinto beans and counted them. Then he counted them by twos. By threes.
Still, Erika did not return.
chapter
16
Carson and Michael owned a pale-yellow Victorian house with gingerbread millwork painted blue. The place looked as though it had been built by a crew of pastry chefs from a show on the Food Network.
Inside, glossy white woodwork, yellow walls, and rich red-mahogany floors lifted Carson’s spirits every time she came home. In each room, an ornate plaster medallion surrounded the ceiling light fixture.
Previously, in New Orleans, Carson had no interest in decor. To her, a house had been a place to sleep and eat and clean her guns. Michael’s idea of decorative style had been a La-Z-Boy and a pine table with a built-in lamp and magazine rack on which to stand his beer and a bag of Cheetos.
Their last case as New Orleans homicide detectives had taken them into dark and desperate places as perverse and full of threat as any chambers in Hell. Their choices and actions since had been largely in reaction to those experiences. Case closed, they left the sweltering, fecund bayous and moved to this city built on hills, where oceanwinds and crisp fogs continually cleansed the streets and redeemed each day.
She sometimes called him Tiny Tim when he was calm. Calm and sitting in an armchair, just reading. They read books a lot. Sitting in their armchairs. In their pretty little house.
Maybe outside it snowed. Or rained. Or just wind, blowing. But inside—armchairs and books and often hot chocolate.
After an hour of running up and down stairs, Jocko grew worried. Erika should have returned. She went into town for cinnamon rolls.
Something happened to her. Maybe hit by a truck. Maybe hit by two trucks. Maybe rap music.
Maybe a bear got her. There were grizzly bears. Bears in the woods. Jocko had never seen one. But they were
there
. The woods were a bear toilet.
Maybe Jocko was now alone in the world.
When the maybes started, they didn’t stop.
Jocko hurried to the front door. It was flanked with sidelights. Beyond lay the front porch.
He looked out the left sidelight. Beyond the porch: the long gravel driveway. Leading out of sight to the county road. No car.
Jocko peeked through the right sidelight. Same porch, same driveway, still no car.
Left sidelight. Right sidelight. Left, right, left, right.
A window in the top third of the door. Above Jocko’s head. He jumped, glimpsed the porch, driveway, no car. Jumped. No car. Jumped. No car.
Left sidelight, jump, right sidelight, jump, left sidelight, jump: no car, no car, no car, no car, no car.
Maybe he shouldn’t hope to see Erika’s car approaching. Maybe he would hope and hope and hope, and it would appear, but it would be driven by a bear.
Erika must be dead. She would be home by now if she wasn’t dead. Jocko was alone in the world again. Alone with the blanket-draped TV. And bears watching from the woods. And birds circling in the sky.
Without her, he would have to live in sewers again. In storm drains. Coming out at night for food. Sneaking along dark alleys.
He was a monster. People didn’t like monsters. They would beat him with buckets, shovels, with whatever was near at hand. They had beaten him before, when he’d struggled to live on his own and people came upon him by accident. Buckets, shovels, brooms, umbrellas, canes, lengths of chain and garden hoses, large pepperoni sausages.
He whimpered with grief and fear. His whimpering scared him.
To distract himself, to avoid a full-blown emotional crisis, Jockopirouetted. Pirouetted room to room. Then cartwheeled through the house. He juggled red rubber balls. Juggled fruit. Juggled vegetables. He hurried up and down the stairs on his hands. Up and down, up and down. He rearranged the contents of all the cabinets in the kitchen—and then put everything back where it belonged. He opened a bag of dried pinto beans and counted them. Then he counted them by twos. By threes.
Still, Erika did not return.
chapter
16
Carson and Michael owned a pale-yellow Victorian house with gingerbread millwork painted blue. The place looked as though it had been built by a crew of pastry chefs from a show on the Food Network.
Inside, glossy white woodwork, yellow walls, and rich red-mahogany floors lifted Carson’s spirits every time she came home. In each room, an ornate plaster medallion surrounded the ceiling light fixture.
Previously, in New Orleans, Carson had no interest in decor. To her, a house had been a place to sleep and eat and clean her guns. Michael’s idea of decorative style had been a La-Z-Boy and a pine table with a built-in lamp and magazine rack on which to stand his beer and a bag of Cheetos.
Their last case as New Orleans homicide detectives had taken them into dark and desperate places as perverse and full of threat as any chambers in Hell. Their choices and actions since had been largely in reaction to those experiences. Case closed, they left the sweltering, fecund bayous and moved to this city built on hills, where oceanwinds and crisp fogs continually cleansed the streets and redeemed each day.
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