“No surprise,” he said. “I’d have nightmares too if I was writing about a murder committed by my friend. You’re either brave or stupid, Irene.”
My younger sister, Nell, pounded in from the back porch, lugging a carryall bag and kicking the snow off her boots. She’d been at home all day yesterday but evidently hadn’t unloaded her laundry. The old house she shared with other grad students had a murder basement where the washing machines were. Itscared her, so Nell still brought her laundry home every few weeks to my parents’, whose washer was the size of the Apollo 13 spacecraft despite the fact that they were empty nesters who only ever had two kids. I took Nell’s bag so she could shrug out of her coat before laying my warm cheek against her icy one.
I said, “When did it start snowing?”
Nell stared at me. “Midnight? There’s a foot of new snow, Reenie.”
I looked and yes, there was indeed a foot of new snow, more coming down hard. Had I had an actual nightmare, so real that I seemed to be awake? Did I imagine that big bird, its feathers patent leather shiny in the morning sunlight?
“‘Quoth the raven, nevermore!’”
“I swear to you, I looked out the window upstairs and the sky was blue.”
“It’s a big house,” Nell said. “Different climate zone?”
My mom piled my plate and Nell’s with scrambled eggs. Her secret ingredient for this was a spoonful of mayonnaise and a dollop of cream cheese, which sounds disgusting but is very good. It was the one dish my mother could prepare without everyone quietly wishing we had a dog. Miranda set out stacks of ice-cold toast with the butter neat and hard as a coat button on top of each slice. Her culinary abilities would have been a smash hit in Scotland. We often told each other that Dad’s coffee and Mom’s cuisine could be weaponized by the Department of Defense.
“What are you here for?” Nell asked, as if she didn’t know.
“The toast,” I replied.
“Do you think you’re exploiting Felicity and taking advantage of your friendship?”
“Hey, Nell Diablo, what do you really think? Don’t hold back!”
“Anything for a juicy story.”
“I wish there was no story to tell. Some things are important because they’re interesting, not interesting because they’re important. They make us think about our own character. Ask Mom.”
“You can’t compare what you do with what Mom did.”
“I’m not.”
“So it’s not because it’s sensational, writing about a killer whore who used to be your...”
My mom said, “You might want to confront the apparent contradictions as part of what you write. You don’t want to be accused of sensationalism. Nell has a point.”
“What is her point? She’s being a... a goody-goody, and since when? Just because she can read enough Latin to read an old gravestone? To prove that your law-school dollars are being spent?” My parents were paying for law school; I’d refused to let them pay for my grad school. They further assumed that I earned a couple of g’s a year, when what I really made atFuchsiawould have been a respectable salary in West Shreveport, Louisiana, but kept me awake nights in Chicago.
Nell said softly, “Reenie, I know you care.”
“Of course I care. I care about Felicity. I care about the people who died. Not as much, but I care. Plus, who are you going to be when you grow up, Atticus Finch? Really? After a couple of years, you’ll be defending corporations for dumping stuff into rivers that causes fish to have three heads and glow in the dark!”
Nell said, “And make in an hour what you make in a week!”
“It’s true, it’s true. Virtue is so underpaid.” I made a prayerful gesture with a strip of bacon still in one hand.
“I’m all about quid pro quo,” Nell said. “That’s Latin, Reenie. Mom and Dad, ad hoc ergo propter hoc, huh? I learned a little Latin so I’m very, very smart.”
“A scholar right here at your kitchen table. A future chief justice.” I pointed at her with the bacon strip.
“She speaks nothing but the veritas,” said my sister. “About my virtus.” We both started to laugh. Then Nell added, “It just sounds so awful and hard. What you have to do for this.”
My mom said, “Don’t you think some of these people might be not just shady but really dangerous?”
Nell said, “It’s not as if she’s going to do what you did at the nursing home, Miranda. She won’t have to fake being a hooker.”
“I might,” I added, just to see my mother recoil.
