this is how they take care of people, we should sue them instead of paying them,” Charlotte says.
“Sue who?” Uncle Henry says. Then, with a laugh: “Horton Hears a Who! The kids loved that one!”
Charlotte stands. “I’m going to get a coffee. Maybe one of those little tart things, as well. Holly?”
Holly shakes her head.
“You’re not eating again,” Charlotte says, and leaves before Holly can reply.
Henry watches her go. “She never lets up, does she?”
This time it’s Holly who laughs. She can’t help it. “No. She doesn’t.”
“No, never does. You’re not Janey.”
“No.” And waits.
“You’re . . .” She can almost hear rusty gears turning. “Holly.”
“That’s right.” She pats his hand.
“I’d like to go back to my room, but I don’t remember where it is.”
“I know the way,” Holly says. “I’ll take you.”
They walk slowly down the hall together.
“Who was Julia?” Holly asks.
“Pretty as the dawn,” Uncle Henry says. Holly decides that’s answer enough. Certainly a better line of poetry than she ever wrote.
In his room, she tries to guide him to the chair by the window, but he disengages his hand from hers and goes to the bed, where he sits with his hands clasped between his thighs. He looks like an elderly child. “I think I’ll lie down, sweetie. I’m tired. Charlotte makes me tired.”
“Sometimes she makes me tired, too,” Holly says. In the old days she never would have admitted this to Uncle Henry, who was all too often her mother’s co-conspirator, but this is a different man. In some ways a much gentler man. Besides, in five minutes he’ll forget she said it. In ten, he’ll forget she was here.
She bends to kiss his cheek, then stops with her lips just above his skin when he says, “What’s wrong? Why are you afraid?”
“I’m not—”
“Oh, you are. You are.”
“All right,” she says. “I am. I’m afraid.” Such a relief to admit it. To say it out loud.
“Your mother . . . my sister . . . it’s on the tip of my tongue . . .”
“Charlotte.”
“Yes. Charlie’s a coward. Always was, even when we were children. Wouldn’t go in the water at . . . the place . . . I can’t remember. You were a coward, but you grew out of it.”
She looks at him, amazed. Speechless.
“Grew out of it,” he repeats, then pushes off his slippers and swings his feet onto the bed. “I’m going to have a nap, Janey. This isn’t such a bad place, but I wish I had that thing . . . that thing you twist . . .” He closes his eyes.
Holly goes to the door with her head down. There are tears on her face. She takes a tissue from her pocket and wipes them away. She doesn’t want Charlotte to see them. “I wish you could remember saving that woman from falling down,” she says. “The nurses’ aide said you moved like lightning.”
But Uncle Henry doesn’t hear. Uncle Henry has gone to sleep.
2
From Holly Gibney’s report to Detective Ralph Anderson:
I expected to finish this last night in a Pennsylvania motel, but a family matter came up and I drove to my mother’s house instead. Being here is difficult. There are memories, many of them not so good. I will stay tonight, though. It’s better that I do. Mom is out now, buying things for an early Christmas dinner that will probably not be tasty. Cooking has never been one of her talents.
I hope to finish my business with Chet Ondowsky—the thing that calls itself that, anyway—tomorrow evening. I’m scared, no sense lying about that. He promised to never do anything again like the Macready School, promised it right away, without even thinking it over, and I don’t believe it. Bill wouldn’t, and I am sure you wouldn’t, either. He has a taste for it now. He may also have a taste for being the heroic rescuer, although he must know that calling attention to himself is a bad idea.
I phoned Dan Bell and told him I intended to put an end to Ondowsky. I felt that as ex-police himself he would understand and approve. He did, but told me to be careful. I will try to do that, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I have a very bad feeling about this. I also called my friend Barbara Robinson and told her I will be staying over at my mother’s on Saturday night. I need to make sure that she and her brother Jerome think I