Page 70 of A Winter of Discontent for Henry Milch
“And you have no idea who he might have been with?”
“No idea.”
I could tell she wanted someone to blame. Someone other than Denny. But this wasn’t like other situations where someone sold you something and it killed you—it wasn’t a car that exploded on impact and you had assumed it was safe. It wasn’t a new drug that had a nasty side effect of giving people strokes. No, this was a situation where Denny knew exactly what mighthappen. He knew that meth might kill him. And he had to have known the longer he took it the more likely it was that itwouldkill him. None of this was a surprise.
“It’s Denny’s own fault.”
“Don’t say that to Carl. If he wants to blame the man in the moon let him.”
“The man in the moon isn’t real.”
“And stop taking things literally. At least for an hour.”
Carl Burke lived with his mother, Ivy Greene, north of Masons Bay a half a mile from Patty Gauthier. M-22 turned inland around there and began to climb, which was why Ivy Greene’s lot was much larger than Patty’s. Patty’s house took up nearly her entire lot, while Ivy’s was built into the side of a hill and sloped down to the water.
The house was surrounded by trees, mostly evergreen and, given all the snow, looked like it belonged in the Alps. It was three stories, an odd three stories. The front door led into what was really the cellar. You went through the laundry room into a family room. I assumed there was a living room upstairs with a kitchen, dining room and bedrooms, though I’d never been there.
We knocked and waited. When nothing happened, Opal pushed the unlocked door open and went in.
“Really?”
“We have a baby with us. We can’t stay out here in the cold.” Then she called out, “Ivy! Carl!”
From deep in the house, Ivy called out, “Coming.”
We went into the family room with its beat-up leather sectional and TV. Emerald was beginning to fuss, so I unbelted her and took her out of the car seat. I bounced her around and swung her back and forth until she was giggling. Opal stared at us, and then muttered, “So wrong.”
Ivy came down the stairs. She was in her mid-forties but looked much younger, had dyed red hair which needed a touch up, and her lips were beginning to crease from having been pursed so much. Immediately, she walked over to Opal and hugged her.
“Thank you for coming. Carl needs his friends.” Then she looked at me with a touch of confusion. “I didn’t know you and Carl were close. Or do you just show up when people die?”
“Henry’s the one who found Denny. I thought he might be able to answer any questions Carl had.”
She looked at me suspiciously, as though I might suddenly start attacking people, but then Emerald let out a burp much too large for someone her size.
“My goodness. Is this your sister?”
“Emerald.”
“May I?” Ivy held her arms out to take the baby. I passed her over.
It’s strange the way we pass babies around. They’re precious things, valuable. We’d never dream of asking to hold other valuable things. If I had a rare piece of ancient pottery, no one would say, ‘oh lemme hold it’ and if they did, and I said, ‘no’ they’d understand. But if I said, ‘No, you can’t hold my sister, she’s too precious’ no one would understand. Reluctantly, I handed her over.
After making a bunch of ridiculous sounds at my sister, Ivy asked me, “And how is your mother?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“That’s right. I heard that she abandoned her baby. Although, I don’t know how she could. Emmie’s just so adorable.”
“Emerald,” I corrected.
Here’s the thing about relatives. When I say my mother abandoned us—and yes, I know I say that a lot—it’s one thing. But when other people say it, well, it’s vaguely insulting.
“She had some things to take care of,” I said, holding my arms out for me sister.
Reluctantly, Ivy gave the baby back to me. Then asked, “What sort of things?”
“She got married to Emerald’s father.”
