Page 29 of A Matter of Pedigree
“Ohmigod!” exclaimed Frank, pacing back and forth, clutching the accident report in his fist and pumping it up and down. “What have you done?”
“It wasn’t my fault,” insisted Carole. “Really. The guy must be an idiot. Who pulls out without looking, hunh?”
“Maybe somebody who just got off a plane from Peru and isn’t used to city traffic,” said Frank. “Do ya think?”
An awful suspicion was growing in Carole’s mind. “This guy’s from Peru?”
“Yeah. And you know what his name is?”
“I haven’t actually read the report because of the dog,” said Carole, noticing for the first time that Poopsie had jumped up on their twenty-thousand-dollar, custom-made sectional and was tossing the Fortuny silk pillows around in an effort to find a biscuit she had hidden there. “Stop that!” she ordered the dog, who paused to give her a challenging stare before resuming the task at hand. “I was late getting back to walk the dog because I spent the most of the day investigating, like you wanted.”
“Investigating is fine,” growled Frank. “Sending Jonathan Browne to the hospital is another.”
“The Jonathan Browne? Hosea’s brother?”
“Yeah,” said Frank, reaching for the scotch.
While Frank made himself a drink, Carole started calling hospitals. She finally discovered that Jon Browne has been admitted to Rhode Island Hospital and was in stable condition following surgery. She took down his room number and got right on the horn to Frey Florists over on Radcliffe Avenue; they had gorgeous arrangements, and she ordered a huge bouquet to be sent to him in the hospital. She struggled a bit over the wording of the note; she didn’t want to admit culpability—that was the first rule of accidents—so she settled for a simple “Wishing you a speedy recovery.”
That done, she went back to the living room, where Frank was in his usual spot in the leather recliner with Poopsie on his lap, watching the sports network. Carole replaced the cushions on the sectional and sat down.
“That Jonathan Browne got here from Peru awfully fast,” said Carole. “I had lunch with Susan Weaver today—you know, the real estate lady—and she said he was sort of an Indiana Jones, off digging up bones in the Andes.”
“Yeah, well, when there’s a lot of money lying around, people tend to be in a big hurry to hear what the will says,” observed Frank.
“He’s probably already rich,” speculated Carole.
“You’re never rich enough,” said Frank, scratching Poopsie behind her ears. She closed her eyes and extended her neck, letting Frank know he was the best ear-scratcher in the world and pointedly ignoring Carole.
“Do you think there’ll be a funeral? Should we go?” asked Carole.
“Probably one of those memorial services,” suggested Frank. “Not worth the trouble, really. Won’t be any tears with all those stiff-upper-lip types. Besides,” he added, “we probably wouldn’t be welcome. I wouldn’t be surprised if they think we’ve got some sort of vendetta going and will pull out knives from our socks.”
“Vendetta? Socks?”
“Yeah, like we’re out to destroy the family.”
“I know what vendetta means,” said Carole. “But that’s crazy. Why would we do that?
“We wouldn’t. But you gotta admit, Carole, it don’t look good. They think I killed Hosea, and here you go, smashing into his brother and sending him to the hospital.”
“But I didn’t know who he was,” said Carole.
“Try telling that to the judge.”
Carole stared at him. “I haven’t been charged with anything.”
“Not yet,” said Frank.
Carole leaned back against the cushions. Was he right? Were the cops going to put two and two together and come up with five? Was she going to get slapped with driving to endanger or maybe attempted vehicular homicide? It was too awful to think about; she needed a drink.
In the kitchen, she poured herself a big glass of chardonnay with shaking hands, then carried it into the bedroom, away from the noise of the TV. There she stood at the window, hoping to calm herself by looking at the view she loved so much. There was the Coca-Cola sign, a flamboyant swirl of red neon in the evening darkness. The streetlights marked out Promenade Street, running along the Woonasquatucket River, which gleamed like a ribbon of black satin. Farther along, in the distance, she could see the streaming white and red lights of the cars on Route 95; the evening rush hour was in full swing. Beyond, she saw the bridge over the highway that led up to the Hill, where the lights from the houses and restaurants gave the misty air a soft, golden glow.
She took a swallow of wine, holding it in her mouth and savoring the fruity, buttery taste. Then she swallowed, tasting the lingering touch of bitterness, and took a deep yoga breath, concentrating on letting the tension out. Only after three breaths, in and out, did she allow herself another sip of wine.
She was feeling better already. She loved it here, high up, looking out at the city and thinking of all the people hurrying home to their families, all the people gathering together with their loved ones around their dinner tables, all the moms cooking meat loaf and pot roast and pork chops, and all the kids doing homework or playing video games until they were called to supper.
Then, suddenly, her peaceful reverie was shattered by the scream of sirens, lots of sirens. At first, she didn’t see anything; she couldn’t tell where the fire trucks were headed, but then one and then two and then more all went roaring past on Promenade Street. She followed their progress, watch ing as they began to gather just past the bridge to the hill, where Valley Street began, at the Factory.
