I is for Innocent

"Sure, but she didn't mention it and I didn't ask."

"It was a terrible accident. Isabelle's fault, I'm afraid. This was maybe seven years ago, about a year before Iz died. Iz was drunk and brought the car home and left it in the driveway without pulling the emergency brake. The car started to roll down that horrendous hill, smashing through the underbrush, picking up momentum. Simone was down at the mailbox and it crashed right into her. Crushed her pelvis, crushed her femur. They said she'd never walk again, but she defied 'em on that. You probably saw for yourself. She's really doing very well."

"But no kids."

"That's right. And what made things worse, she was engaged at the time and her fiancé broke it off. He wanted a family. End of story. For Simone, it really was the final straw."

I watched her face, trying to compute the impact of the information. "It's worth some thought," I said.

13

I stopped off at Rosie's on the way back to my place. I don't usually hang out in bars, but I was restless and I didn't feel like being alone just then. At Rosie's, I can sit in a back booth and ponder life's circumstances without being stared at, picked up, hit on, or hassled. After the wine at Francesca's, I thought a cup of coffee might be in order. It wasn't really a question of sobering up. The wine at Francesca's was as delicate as violets. The white wine at Rosie's conies in big half-gallon screw-top jugs you can use later to store gasoline and other flammable liquids.

Business was lively. A group of bowlers had come in, a noisy bunch of women who were celebrating their wi

Ordinarily Rosie doesn't tolerate rowdies, but their spirits were contagious and she didn't object.

I got myself a mug and filled it from the coffeepot Rosie keeps behind the bar. As I slid into my favorite booth, I spotted Henry coming in. I waved and he took a detour and headed in my direction. One of the bowlers was feeding coins into the jukebox. Music began to thunder through the bar along with cigarette smoke, whoops, and raucous laughter.

Henry slid in across from me and put his head down on his arm. "This is great. Noise, whiskey, smoke, life! I'm so sick of being with that hypochondriac of a brother. He's driving me nuts. I swear to God. His health regimen occupied our entire day. Every hour on the hour, he takes a pill or drinks a glass of water… flushing his system out. He does yoga to relax. He does calisthenics to wake up. He takes his blood pressure twice a day. He uses little strip tests to check his urine for glucose and protein. He keeps up a ru

"You want a drink?"

"I don't dare. I couldn't stop. They'd have to check me into detox."

"Has he always been like that?"

Henry nodded bleakly. "I never really saw it till now. Or maybe in his dotage he's become decidedly worse. I remember, as a kid, he had all these accidents. He tumbled out of trees and fell off swings. He broke his arm once. He broke a wrist. He stuck a pencil in his eye and nearly blinded himself. And the cuts. Oh my God, you couldn't let him near a knife. He had all kinds of allergies and weird things going wrong with him. He had a spastic salivary gland… he really did. Later, he went through a ten-year period when he had all his internal organs taken out. Tonsils and adenoids, appendix, his gallbladder, one kidney, two and a half feet from his upper intestine. The man even managed to rupture his spleen. Out it came. We could have constructed an entire human being out of the parts he gave up."

I glanced up to find Rosie standing at my shoulder, taking in Henry's outburst with a placid expression. "He's having a breakdown?"

"His brother's visiting from Michigan."

"He don' like the guy?"

"The man is driving him nuts. He's a hypochondriac."

She turned to Henry with interest. "What's the matter with him? Is he sick?"

"No, he's not sick. He's neurotic as hell."

"Bring him in. I fix. Nothing to it."

"I don't think you quite understand the magnitude of the problem," I said.

"Is no problem. I can handle it. What's the fellow's name, this brother?"

"His name is William."

Rosie said "William" as she wrote it in her little notebook. "Is done. I fix. Not to worry."

She moved away from the table, her muumuu billowing out around her like a witch's cape.

"Is it my imagination or has her English gotten worse lately?" I asked.

Henry looked up at me with a wan smile.

I gave his hand a maternal pat. "Cheer up. Is done. Not to worry. She'll fix."

I was home by 10:00, but I didn't feel like continuing my cleaning campaign. I took my shoes off and used my dirty socks to do a halfhearted dusting of the spiral staircase as I went up to bed. Works for me, I thought.

I was awakened in the wee hours with a telegram from my subconscious. "Pickup," the message read. Pickup what? My eyes came open and I stared at the skylight above my bed. The loft was very dark. The stars were blocked out by clouds, but the glass dome seemed to glow with light pollution from town. The message had to be related to Tippy's presence at the intersection. I'd been brooding about the subject since David Barney first brought it up. If he was inventing, why attach her name to the story? She might have had a ready explanation for where she was that night. If he was lying about the incident, why take the chance? The repair crew had seen her, too… well, not really her, but the pickup. Where else had I come across mention of a pickup truck? I sat up in bed, pushed the covers back, and flipped on the light, wincing at the sudden glare. In lieu of a bathrobe, I pulled on my sweats. Barefoot, I padded down my spiral staircase, turned on the table lamp, and hunted up my briefcase, sorting through the stack of folders I'd brought home from the office. I found the file I was looking for and carried it over to the sofa, where I sat, feet tucked up under me, leafing through old photocopies of the Santa Teresa Dispatch. For the third time in two days, I sca

I pulled out the telephone book and checked the yellow pages under Convalescent Homes amp; Hospitals. The sublistings were Homes, Hospitals, Nursing Homes, Rest Homes, and Sanitariums, most of which simply cross-referenced each other. Finally, under Nursing Homes, I found a comprehensive list. There was only one such facility in the vicinity of the accident. I made a note of the address and then turned the lights out and went back up to bed. If I could link that pickup to the one Tippy's father owned, it might go a long way toward explaining why she was reluctant to admit she was out. It would also verify every word David Barney'd said.

In the morning, after my usual three-mile run, a shower, breakfast, and a quick call to the office, I drove out to the South Rockingham neighborhood where the old man had been killed. At the turn of the century, South Rockingham was all ranchland, flat fields planted to beans and walnuts, harvested by itinerant crews who traveled with steam engines, cookhouses, and bedroll wagons. An early photograph shows some thirty hands lined up in front of their cumbersome, clanking machinery. Most of the men are mustachioed and glum, wearing banda