SOMEHOW SHE COULDN’T REMEMBER the two detectives’ names. The patrolman’s name was Henderson. His name, she could remember. Henderson had been the first to knock on her door. He’d been surprised to learn that he was the first one—surprised and distressed, that no one had told her Nick had been killed last night. “Are you Mrs. Ames?” he’d asked, holding his uniform cap awkwardly in his big-knuckled hands. “Mrs. Nicholas Ames?” When she’d said she wasn’t Mrs. Ames, he’d been plainly relieved. A wife’s grief would have pained him, added to his policeman’s problems. But a girlfriend—possibly a pickup for the night, shacked up in a motel room—this was something Henderson could handle.
“Here we are—” One of the detectives, the Chicano one with the soft brown eyes, was gesturing to a door marked “Viewing.” Politely, he pushed open the door for her, waited for her to enter first. It was a very small room, dimly lit, with two chairs and a wall phone. The chairs were canary yellow, the wall phone was institutional white. The room was lit by a single panel of fluorescent lights. From waist height to the ceiling, a brown curtain was drawn entirely across one wall. She knew why she was there, knew what waited on the other side of that curtain. Yet, incredibly, she didn’t believe it would really happen, didn’t believe he was dead, his body pale and cold, laid out in the next room.
All her life, she’d been able to keep some part of herself separate from shock, protected. She could still vividly remember the night her stepfather left, could still remember the sounds of their voices: her mother, screaming, her stepfather shouting. But she’d heard other sounds, too: a cacophony of white sound, a stifled, secret lament: her soul, protesting, protecting her. This barrier of sound was her only defense.
It was the same sound she heard now, her only hope.
And, indistinctly, the other sound: the detective’s voice, saying something indistinguishable on the telephone. Now, with the phone still held to his ear, he was nodding, signifying anonymous agreement. He replaced the phone in its white plastic bracket and turned to face her. His expression was both regretful and compassionate. He was a kind man, a conscientious man, probably. A caring man.
“—you’re ready?” he was asking, stepping to the curtain. His nut-brown hand was reaching behind the draperies, searching for the cord that would draw the drapery back. He’d done this before, then.
A dirty job, he was probably thinking. But someone had to do it.
She was aware that she was nodding, was moving a half step forward, closer to the curtain.
Why was she nodding? Of what was she approving—or disapproving? Could she comprehend it, what had happened? Could anyone comprehend it? God, perhaps?
Slowly, inexorably, the drapes were moving, revealing a large plate-glass window. Behind the window was a tiny rectangular room, brightly lit, painted a blinding white. A stainless steel gurney had been wheeled into the center of the tiny room. Covered by a green sheet, a body lay on the gurney. Only the face was exposed: Not the hair, not even the ears, only the face. Nick’s face, as pale as white marble, a perfect profile of death.
The pale face was changing its relationship to the sill of the plate-glass window, which meant that she was nodding. The detective was speaking, asking his detective’s question as the drapes slid back. She could read the question in his soft brown eyes, even though his voice was indistinct, obscured by the secret white sound within, still silently raging. But, small miracle, she could clearly hear her own voice: “Yes, that’s him. That’s Nick Ames.”
Immediately, the drapes moved, returning their viewing room to its previous dimness. The detective was opening the door for her—one door, followed by a hallway, followed by a second door. Now they were outside, in the sunshine. From the position of the sun, she knew it was not yet noon. The policemen had come a little after eight, to tell her what she’d already known, that something had happened to Nick. All night, lying awake in the queen-size bed, she’d realized that there were only three possibilities: either he was dead, or he’d been arrested, or he’d decided to—
“—take you home,” the detective was saying, unlocking the door of his car. “Back to the motel, I mean.” He waited for her to settle herself, closed her door, got in behind the wheel, started the engine, pulled away from the curb.
“We’ll want you to stay in town for a couple of days, at least for the inquest,” he said. “Will that be all right?”
“I—I guesso. Yes.” She nodded. It would be stupid, she realized, to say anything else. Then, because it was suddenly very important, she turned in the seat to face him. “Excuse me,” she said. “But I—I’m afraid that I’ve forgotten your name. I’m sorry.”
“It’s Ochoa,” he said, adding with a touch of modest pride, “Sergeant Ochoa.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Ochoa. Thank you for being so kind to me.”