before they
do?”
“That’d be a first,” Roscoe said. “Maybe close the horse rooms.”
“Is that a yes? I’ll start making the rounds.”
“Let me talk to Patsy.”
“Right. You take Gladys home the other night?”
“Why do you ask?”
“She said you did.”
“Don’t you believe her?”
“I like to make sure she gets home safe,” Mac said.
Roscoe saw O.B. coming at quick time across the lawn to the portico.
“Patsy wants the autopsies,” O.B. said to Mac.
“I’ve got them,” Roscoe said. “I’ll see he gets them.”
“This thing is almost over,” O.B. said. “I’m not going to the cemetery. I’ll ride back with you, Mac.”
“Mac says word’s around about a crackdown, maybe on gambling. You hear that?” Roscoe asked O.B.
“Twice a week, every week.”
“We should take it seriously. Patsy’ll probably want to close the horse rooms. Let ’em do phone business.”
“You don’t think the troopers’ll tap the phones?”
“The bookies take that risk, not us.”
“They’re gonna scream,” O.B. said.
“You ever know a bookie didn’t scream?” Roscoe asked.
O.B. and Mac went down the steps and toward Mac’s car, and Roscoe crossed the lawn to hear the boys’ choir singing “Nearer My God to Thee.” He saw Gladys sitting at the
end of a row with, guess who, Trish, also Minnie Hausen, who handled legislative patronage for Patsy, and Hattie Wilson, dear old Hat. Roscoe stood in Gladys’s sight line until she eyed him,
then he went to her, took her aside.
“Did you tell Mac I took you home from the mill?”
“No.”
“Why would he say you did?”
“I said you offered to. He keeps tabs on me.”
“Not on my account.”
“It’s everybody.”
Roscoe stood with Patsy for the rest of the hymn singing, wondering whether Gladys or Mac was lying, and why. At hymn’s end the Episcopal dean opened his prayer book, and Roscoe heard the
snort of a horse. He turned to see Gilby riding out from the stable, a collie and a German shepherd at the heels of Jazz Baby, the eleven-year-old Thoroughbred gelding that had held such promise
for Elisha as a racehorse until he turned into a bleeder, going too fast too young, and Elisha brought him back, but as a riding horse, and gave him to Gilby for his tenth birthday. Gilby, his
black coat and tie both gone, his sleeves rolled, at home in the saddle, rode Jazz Baby slowly toward the wake and stopped at the outer edge of the crowd.
“My father didn’t say goodbye to Jazz Baby,” Gilby said. He ducked his head, moved the horse forward under the canopy. The mourners stepped back to make room.
“Bizarre,” said Gordon Fitzgibbon.
“Not at all,” said Roscoe, and he walked ahead of the horse, slowly, as Gilby positioned Jazz Baby’s head facing Elisha in the coffin.
Veronica was smiling for the first time in three days, and Roscoe, a sap for animals, was near tears. Gilby held the horse for a long look, then said, “Okay, Baby.” He threaded the
horse between coffin and mourners and, on the lawn, broke into a canter toward the woods.
Elisha smiled up at Roscoe. “EP thinks that boy is ready ratoo,” he said. “Right on the bibbity bing.”
The Gossip Begins
Six days after the funeral Roscoe walked up the wide, curving path to the Tivoli swimming pool where Veronica said she’d be if he came over before noon. The walkway was
sculpted with gray stone that Duke Willard had carted down from the Helderbergs in his wagons when Ariel leveled part of the south meadow to build tennis courts for his wife, Millicent, the mother
of Elisha. Roscoe and Elisha played on the courts as boys, but after Ariel caught Millicent naked with her tennis teacher and divorced her, she ceased being mentioned in the family, and tennis as a
pastime went to hell. Elisha, in turn, excavated the courts out of existence, building in their place the swimming pool Veronica wanted. Roscoe remembered two suckling pigs rotating on the spit,
do?”
“That’d be a first,” Roscoe said. “Maybe close the horse rooms.”
“Is that a yes? I’ll start making the rounds.”
“Let me talk to Patsy.”
“Right. You take Gladys home the other night?”
“Why do you ask?”
“She said you did.”
“Don’t you believe her?”
“I like to make sure she gets home safe,” Mac said.
Roscoe saw O.B. coming at quick time across the lawn to the portico.
“Patsy wants the autopsies,” O.B. said to Mac.
“I’ve got them,” Roscoe said. “I’ll see he gets them.”
“This thing is almost over,” O.B. said. “I’m not going to the cemetery. I’ll ride back with you, Mac.”
“Mac says word’s around about a crackdown, maybe on gambling. You hear that?” Roscoe asked O.B.
“Twice a week, every week.”
“We should take it seriously. Patsy’ll probably want to close the horse rooms. Let ’em do phone business.”
“You don’t think the troopers’ll tap the phones?”
“The bookies take that risk, not us.”
“They’re gonna scream,” O.B. said.
“You ever know a bookie didn’t scream?” Roscoe asked.
O.B. and Mac went down the steps and toward Mac’s car, and Roscoe crossed the lawn to hear the boys’ choir singing “Nearer My God to Thee.” He saw Gladys sitting at the
end of a row with, guess who, Trish, also Minnie Hausen, who handled legislative patronage for Patsy, and Hattie Wilson, dear old Hat. Roscoe stood in Gladys’s sight line until she eyed him,
then he went to her, took her aside.
“Did you tell Mac I took you home from the mill?”
“No.”
“Why would he say you did?”
“I said you offered to. He keeps tabs on me.”
“Not on my account.”
“It’s everybody.”
Roscoe stood with Patsy for the rest of the hymn singing, wondering whether Gladys or Mac was lying, and why. At hymn’s end the Episcopal dean opened his prayer book, and Roscoe heard the
snort of a horse. He turned to see Gilby riding out from the stable, a collie and a German shepherd at the heels of Jazz Baby, the eleven-year-old Thoroughbred gelding that had held such promise
for Elisha as a racehorse until he turned into a bleeder, going too fast too young, and Elisha brought him back, but as a riding horse, and gave him to Gilby for his tenth birthday. Gilby, his
black coat and tie both gone, his sleeves rolled, at home in the saddle, rode Jazz Baby slowly toward the wake and stopped at the outer edge of the crowd.
“My father didn’t say goodbye to Jazz Baby,” Gilby said. He ducked his head, moved the horse forward under the canopy. The mourners stepped back to make room.
“Bizarre,” said Gordon Fitzgibbon.
“Not at all,” said Roscoe, and he walked ahead of the horse, slowly, as Gilby positioned Jazz Baby’s head facing Elisha in the coffin.
Veronica was smiling for the first time in three days, and Roscoe, a sap for animals, was near tears. Gilby held the horse for a long look, then said, “Okay, Baby.” He threaded the
horse between coffin and mourners and, on the lawn, broke into a canter toward the woods.
Elisha smiled up at Roscoe. “EP thinks that boy is ready ratoo,” he said. “Right on the bibbity bing.”
The Gossip Begins
Six days after the funeral Roscoe walked up the wide, curving path to the Tivoli swimming pool where Veronica said she’d be if he came over before noon. The walkway was
sculpted with gray stone that Duke Willard had carted down from the Helderbergs in his wagons when Ariel leveled part of the south meadow to build tennis courts for his wife, Millicent, the mother
of Elisha. Roscoe and Elisha played on the courts as boys, but after Ariel caught Millicent naked with her tennis teacher and divorced her, she ceased being mentioned in the family, and tennis as a
pastime went to hell. Elisha, in turn, excavated the courts out of existence, building in their place the swimming pool Veronica wanted. Roscoe remembered two suckling pigs rotating on the spit,
Similar Books
