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With his mass of curly black hair and dark eyes that set in his spare face like saucers, he looked a bit like Charlie Chaplin, actually— which was to say, he supposed, like Chaplin he was compact of build, wiry in a way one associates with dancers and acrobats, and, like Chaplin, semitic. Put a bit of friction tape beneath his nose, a shabby bowler hat on his head and wicker cane in his hand—yes, Chaplinesque, he supposed. No need for the oversized shoes or the splayed walk. Even in the absence of the rest of the costume, you could recognize the personage. At some masque ball, you’d know who he’d come as.
He heard about this through Emily, his bride, who thought it was funny. “Charlie Chaplin then?” Judah had asked. “Is that what he said, is it? I’m not sure how to take that.”
Suppressing a smile, Emily had turned her back to him, trying to stave off a row. Anything having to do with her father could get Judah going. “Charlie Chaplin, that’s all. Well, Chaplin—with an attitude.”
Emily had laughed, in this soft, sweet laugh she used to have, and the steam let out of his objection, Judah then laughed as well, saying, “Oh, right. Well, that makes it easier to hear, doesn’t it.” Of course, that had been when they still liked one another, a very long time ago.
Judah thought of what lay ahead of him, the evening to come.
Despite her ultimatum, Emily would return to the house with the girls, electrician or no. Where else could she go to, her parents?
Wouldn’t that be a wheeze?! Maybe it was better the other way around. Spend a few days away himself, maybe longer. Give things a chance to cool down. That was probably the smart thing. A few days apart wouldn’t hurt either one. Who’d want to end up like so many others? Hamstringing the kids in a custody fight. Divorces fought out with bazookas. Yeah, a few days apart was the right thing to do, for things were coming to the point where they’d one day explode.
Judah opened the case file. “Which one’s this again?”
“Lawrence. Good he came to his senses, might have beat her to death.”
“Good she got to a phone.”
Bassett asked, “What’s Emily’s dad building now, did he show you?”
“A galleon. He’s up to the rigging, actually. Making it to scale. I helped him after dinner. I can still smell the glue on my fingers. He never knows what to do with them once he’s finished, of course.
Odd, that. I don’t see the point. But he seems to enjoy it.”
“Gives him something to do with his time, I imagine.”
“That’s what I’ve heard, Bassett. Can we do all this and still get you to the inquest in time to give your testimony?”
“Been postponed.”
“Oh.”
“Read me the address.”
“It’s up ahead. Lawrence, Florence Lawrence. She’s still pressing charges?”
“While we’re there, let’s talk to the neighbor on the other side again, Mr. Bleakhouse.”
“Then we’ll go from door to door.”
“He remind you a little of Thigpen, Zuk?”
“The Chesterfield cottage. Right.”
The Chesterfields’ cottage had been within walking distance of a Tudor school and a gray flint parish church, the picture of domesticity. It’s odd, what you remember, Bassett thought. The teapot on the table, a midday paper spread out its full width, a pepper pot. Thigpen, of course. How dainty he’d been, how methodical. He’d fixed himself a bite to eat, read the paper, then washed the dishes in the sink and stacked them in the drainer.
Surprised the couple on a lazy afternoon. The two of them trussed up like that. You could see it in their faces, something terrible had happened. They were sure they were dead.
Then Thigpen, the woman’s first husband, reclining in an easy chair, a box of matches in his lap, a glass of ginger-pop on the floor beside him. His shoes were off. He’d made himself at home.
You could smell the gas from several blocks away. His partner had been the first through the door. The room was such that Thigpen was hidden. He was a thin, sorry little man with thin flaxen hair.
People had probably been entering rooms without seeing him for most of Thigpen’s life.
Thigpen said, “She never made it easy. I tried to get on. It’s really not my fault. Life’s full of funny things, ain’t it. She’s cold, that’s all, she’s not a warm person. But I love her all the same. You understand, I hope. I didn’t come here intending no harm. I just couldn’t go on without her. We’re both of us Catholic, you see. We don’t do with divorce. She’s cast her mortal soul away. Now I’m casting mine. We’ll be hand in hand in hell for all of eternity. I thought she’d go along, but you can see she was very resistant. I don’t know what else to say, really. It’s the only way I can think to keep us together. I must have passed the point where it was safe to let go.”
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