hospital parking lot and the redbrick tower where Chick was presumably now settling in for a day of tending to his birds. Clarice watched clusters of students walk up the hill toward the main part of the campus, the vapor of their breath rising around them in the cold December air. In the distance, she could see the crosses atop the steeples of First Baptist and Plainview Lutheran. She saw the preening copper rooster on the weather vane that capped the turret at the northeast corner of Barbara Jean’s house rising over the tops of trees that had lost all but the most tenacious of their leaves. Further off, she could see the remains of Ballard’s Wall and the tidy roofs of the new houses of Leaning Tree.
Plainview was lovely. A sprinkling of snow had fallen and turned the town into a postcard-perfect scene, ready to be photographed for the university’s catalog or committed to needlepoint. She was about to say as much to Barbara Jean when something new came into view that caused them both to stiffen.
A white Chrysler, its sunroof open in spite of the chill, pulled into the parking lot and stopped at the doors just below where they stood. A man got out of the car and greeted the young woman who ran out of the building to meet him. He walked around to the passenger side of the Chrysler and opened the door for the woman. She lost her hat—a replica of the wide-brimmed, floppy style popular in the 1970s—to a gust of wind as she bent to climb into the car. The man caught the hat for her, gracefully snatching it from midair. He glanced left and right, like a criminal checking for witnesses. Then he playfully swatted the woman on her behind with the hat. She took her hat from him and, with a toss of her long black hair, hopped into the Chrysler.
The man was Clarice’s husband.
Barbara Jean kept her face pointed forward and said nothing. But she watched Clarice out of the corner of her eye.
Clarice stared at the car as it left the parking lot. She felt more embarrassed for Richmond than for herself as she watched him roar out of the lot and onto the road that led downhill to the highway, peeling rubber like a rowdy high school boy. The sound of his screeching tires was so loud that they heard it through the thick plate-glass window.
After the car had disappeared from sight, Clarice said, “He claimed he was going to be in Atlanta to scout recruits with Ramsey Abrams for the next two days.”
Barbara Jean, still not looking directly at her, said, “The girl works in the hospital gift shop. The flowers I take to patients on my volunteer days get delivered to the gift shop first. I see her at least two times a week when I go there to sort the flowers. Her name is Cherokee.”
“Cherokee? Like the Indian tribe?”
“No, Cherokee like the Jeep. Her father owns a car repair shop and he takes his work home, apparently. She has brothers named Tercel and Seville.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. Cherokee, Tercel, and Seville Robinson.”
Clarice said, “You see? This is why I can’t hate Richmond, no matter what he does. Just when I want to break his neck, the man always finds a way to make me laugh.”
Barbara Jean reached out and grabbed hold of Clarice’s hand, saying, “Let’s go back and see if Odette’s finished.” They left the window and walked back down the hallway toward the infusion room swinging their clutched hands like a pair of five-year-olds.
Just before they got to the door, Clarice said, “Chick Carlson and this Cherokee woman both in one day. I swear, Barbara Jean, sometimes this town is just too damn small.”
“Clarice, honey,” she responded, “you have just said a mouthful.”
Chapter 18
On the evening of December twenty-first, Clarice answered the ringing telephone in her living room and heard a familiar voice. It was a sweet, tenor sound with a subtle lisp, like a choirboy who had been born with the tongue of a snake. It was the voice of Mr. Forrest Payne.
Instead of hello, he said, “She’s here.”
Clarice didn’t need to ask what or whom he was talking about. She answered, “I’m sorry. I’ll be right over.”
From the other end of the line, she heard the snick-snick of a cigarette lighter being struck. Then Mr. Payne, the vile whoremonger with the lovely speaking voice, said, “Merry Christmas, Clarice. God bless you