Blind Descent

Roxbury wasn't a common name, and Carlsbad was a small town. So small, in fact, the public phones actually had phone books attached to them. Only one Roxbury was listed. Having neither pen nor pencil, A

It didn't take long to put herself and the Neon outside the cyclone fence around the widow's house on the northwestern edge of town. Low to the ground and built of brick, the Roxburys' home was indistinguishable from the others in the same tract built in the sixties. A brick sided carport, the bricks mortared in an open lattice to the windward side, housed a dusty burgundy 1985 Honda Accord, the kind A

This aggressive tedium didn't cause her to question the accuracy of the address she'd memorized. Two tricycles with identical pink ribbons feathering down from the handlebars were parked to one side of the front door. Two kiddie swings with offensive but safety-minded plastic bucket chairs hung from a branch of a leafless tree in the front yard.

Two child-restraint seats peeked through the rear window of the Honda.

Mary Chapin Carpenter's "I Feel Lucky" was on the Neon's radio. A

Mrs. Roxbury would be no different. Because of the boyfriend she'd have a giant chip on her shoulder that was bound to be dislodged by A

Mrs. Roxbury answered the bell almost the instant A

"I'm A

"I recognize you from the funeral," Mrs. Roxbury said politely, her voice a soft Southern drawl. "Won't you come in?" The children, lying on their identical bellies in front of a television set alive with the abrasive colors of a cartoon show, didn't even turn to see who was calling. A

"Brent did so much work with the Park Service we wanted to write an obituary for him for Ranger Magazine," A

"That's very nice," Mrs. Roxbury said, and sat down, leaning slightly forward, eyes wide, the personification of being "all ears."

"How long had your husband been interested in caving?" A

"Oh, forever," the Mrs. said. She looked expectantly at A

"I forgot pen and paper," A

"I'll get some." She hopped happily to her feet and bustled out of the kitchen.

Ineptness, a wonderful tool. Guaranteed to take people off their guard. And in this instance A

Brent was a graduate in geology from a college "somewhere in Virginia." He was an only child, his mother was dead and his father "long gone." A

"Previous marriages?" A

"No," Amy answered readily. "A first for the both of us."

A

"Brent was a late bloomer. His mother suffered a long illness. He stayed with her. I never knew Mother Roxbury. She died before we met."

"Do you still work?" A

"I'm a hygienist for a dentist here in town," she said, and she blushed. "But I'm hoping to quit soon so I can spend more time at home with the girls. Brent and I just never had the money."

A

Roxbury might have had life insurance, but that would be icing on the cake. The blush pretty much told it all. Though death, violence, and infidelity intruded, A

"I don't like it here," Amy said with sudden candor. Coffee, chat, and an interested ear fooled her into thinking she'd found a friend. Stifling a stab of conscience, A

"It's too… too everything. Except green. Everything just dries up and blows away. Even the people are dry. Tough and strong. Stringy." She laughed. "I guess you can tell I'm a southern girl. I don't want to climb and ride horses and fight rattlesnakes. And nobody goes to church. Not that I'm a real churchy person, but it's good for children to be raised in the church, a community, something to give them a sense of morals, of their place in God's world. Potluck is a dirty word here, and only Indians play bingo. Jeff… my boss… well, I've got a chance to move to Memphis. Now that-" Realizing too late she'd chattered beyond the limits set by a formal interview, Amy buried her nose in her coffee cup. When Amy came up for air, A