where the December sunlight has been forbidden to enter. The windows have been covered with blackout curtains. There are four computers on two work desks, several gaming consoles that look state-of-the-art to Holly, a ton of audio equipment, and a gigantic flatscreen TV. Several speakers have been mounted on the walls. Two more flank the TV on either side.
“Put the tray down, Brad, before you spill everything.”
The table Dan indicates with one of his arthritic hands is covered with computing magazines (several of them copies of SoundPhile, which Holly has never heard of), flash drives, external hard drives, and cables. Holly starts trying to clear a place.
“Oh, just put all that rickrack on the floor,” Dan says.
She looks at Brad, who nods apologetically. “I’m a little messy,” he says.
When the tray is safely in place, Brad puts pastries on three plates. They look delicious, but Holly no longer knows if she’s hungry or not. She’s starting to feel like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s teaparty. Dan Bell takes a sip from his cup, smacks his lips, then grimaces and places a hand on the left side of his shirt. Brad is at his side immediately.
“Do you have your pills, Grampa?”
“Yes, yes,” Dan says, and pats the side pocket of his wheelchair. “I’m all right, you can stop hovering. It’s just the excitement of having someone in the house. Someone who knows. It’s probably good for me.”
“Not so sure about that, Grampa,” Brad says. “Maybe you better take a pill.”
“I’m fine, I said.”
“Mr. Bell—” Holly begins.
“Dan,” the old man says, once more wagging his finger, which is grotesquely bent with arthritis but still admonitory. “I’m Dan, he’s Brad, you’re Holly. We’re all friends here.” He laughs again. This time it sounds out of breath.
“You have to slow down,” Brad says. “Unless you want another trip to the hospital, that is.”
“Yes, Mother,” Dan says. He cups a hand over his beak of a nose and takes several deep breaths of oxygen. “Now give me one of those turnovers. And we need napkins.”
But there are no napkins. “I’ll get some paper towels from the bathroom,” Brad says, and off he goes.
Dan turns to Holly. “Terribly forgetful. Terribly. Where was I? Does it even matter?”
Does any of this? Holly wonders.
“I was telling you that my father and I had to work for a living. Did you see the pictures downstairs?”
“Yes,” Holly says. “Yours, I assume.”
“Yes, yes, all mine.” He holds up his twisted hands. “Before this happened to me.”
“They’re very good,” Holly says.
“Not so bad,” he says, “although the ones in the hall aren’t the best. Those were for work. Brad put them up. Insisted. I also did some paperback covers back in the fifties and sixties, for publishers like Gold Medal and Monarch. They were much better. Crime, mostly—half-dressed babes with smoking automatics. They brought in a little extra. Ironic, when you think about my full-time job. I was with the Portland PD. Retired at sixty-eight. Did my forty and four more.”
Not just an artist but another cop, Holly thinks. First Bill, then Pete, then Ralph, and now him. She once more thinks of how some force, invisible but strong, seems to be pulling her into this, quietly insisting on parallels and continuations.
“My grandfather was a mill-owning capitalist, but since then we’ve all been blue. Dad was police, and I followed in his footsteps. As my son followed in mine. Brad’s father, I’m speaking of. He died in a crash while chasing a man, probably drunk, driving a stolen car. That man lived. May be living today, for all I know.”
“I’m very sorry,” Holly says.
Dan ignores her effort at condolence. “Even Brad’s mother was in the family trade. Well, in a way. She was a court stenographer. When she died, I took the boy in. I don’t care if he’s gay or not, nor does the police department. Although he doesn’t work for them full-time. With him it’s more of a hobby. Mostly he does… this.” He waves his deformed hand at the computer equipment.
“I design audio for games,” Brad says quietly. “The music, the effects, the mix.” He has returned with a whole roll of paper towels. Holly takes two and spreads them on her lap.
Dan goes on, seemingly lost in the past. “After my radio car days were over—I never rose to detective, never wanted to—I worked mostly in dispatch. Some cops don’t like riding a desk, but I never minded, because I had another job as well, one that kept