CHAPTER 20

We are gone from the clear fountain to the foul puddle, and drunk its filthy water …

Martin Luther

“Mama,” said Alan, holding Charley up in front of the picture of his mother on the wall. “Mama, Mama, Mama.”

Charley studied the picture with his usual gravity. The teaching session had become a ritual. Twice a week Debbie Buffington was sullenly willing to take a respite from minding somebody else’s baby. Twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, Alan took Charley for a ride in the stroller, whisking him across the Public Garden, ducking into the alley behind 115 Commonwealth and entering by the back door.

After the lesson it was lunchtime. Alan was experimenting with hard-boiled eggs and bits of apple. Charley opened his mouth willingly. His cheeks seemed pinker, his eyes brighter.

On the way back to Bowdoin Street Alan bought a bag of expensive peaches. When he gave them to Debbie, she dumped them on the table. She was excited about something else. Her eyes were alight. “Hey,” she said, “I got news for you.”

Alan plopped Charley down on the rug. “News? What kind of news?”

Debbie thrust a newspaper at him. It was the lurid front page of the Boston Herald. “Hey, did you see this? The kid’s mother, she’s burned up.”

“What?”

“Burned up in her car. It says here they found her burned to a crisp in her car.”

Alan couldn’t believe it. “Rosalind Hall? Does it say Rosalind Hall?”

“Right. Rosalind Hall, the organ player.” Debbie was taking a grisly pleasure in delivering shocking news. She read the article aloud.

Organist Rosalind Hall, missing since December 11, was found dead yesterday, a victim of the fire that destroyed her car. The ’92 Ford Escort was discovered this morning in a gully beside a sharp curve on Route 62 in the town of Hudson. The car was registered in Hall’s name, and her driver’s license was found in her handbag. Officials could give no reason for her December disappearance.

Alan’s eyes filled. He took the newspaper from Debbie and looked at the thousand gray dots of Rosie’s picture. It was the same one he was using to teach Charley his first word.

“Hey, what do you care if she’s burned up or not?” said Debbie suspiciously. “I thought you like never even saw her. That’s what you said.”

Alan couldn’t speak. He picked up Charley, held him tightly, and sobbed twice.

“Christ,” said Debbie. “You never met her? Give me a break.” Little Wanda whimpered, and clung to her mother’s leg.

Alan went back to Rosie’s apartment, telling himself wretchedly that it didn’t matter now if he trespassed on private property, because it wasn’t private property any more, it didn’t belong to anybody. He went at once to the picture of Rosie and Charley and leaned on the desk and gazed at Rosie’s face, trying to get it through his head that she had died in a blazing car. What a horrible way to die! Yesterday, while he and Oates had been experimenting with the organ, or perhaps while he was lying in bed watching some dumb thing on television, Rosie’s car had gone out of control and spun into the ditch and gone up in flames, and she had burned to death, burned to death.

Then Alan remembered Barbara Inch’s story about the two people who met only after the woman was dead, the ghost story by Henry James. He had to sit down and hold his head in his hands. Rosie Hall and Alan Starr should have met in life, everyone had said so. Now the only way they would ever meet was if she turned up as a ghost. It was a bitter joke. Pulling himself together, Alan called Homer Kelly and told him the news.

Homer’s voice on the line was sepulchral. “I’ve just been reading about it in the Globe.” There was a grieving pause. “I’m sorry.”

“So that’s it then,” said Alan, his voice flat.

“I wonder how it happened. It doesn’t say whether or not the car turned over. You don’t get a fire unless the gas tank ruptures and the fuel leaks out and meets a hot surface, like the exhaust manifold.”

“I don’t know what happened,” said Alan bleakly. “Cars burn up all the time. How did they know it was Rosalind Hall? Did somebody identify the body?”

“Credit cards, the paper said, in her pocketbook.” Homer was about to add that burned cadavers were often so unrecognizable that only a forensic pathologist could identify them, by examining the teeth, determining the age of the skull, and so on, but he thought better of it. “Well, there’ll be an autopsy. I’ll look into it.”

There was a final hollow pause, and then Alan said, “Well, thank you for all you’ve done. Don’t forget to send me a bill.”

“Relax. I’m not through yet. I’ll let you know about the autopsy.”

But the next time Alan picked up Charley at Debbie Burlington’s apartment, she gave him another shock. “She’s cremated already,” she said. “All the kid’s got for a mother is a pile of ashes.”

“Sshh,” said Alan angrily. “He can hear you.”

“Bullshit. He’s retarded, I tell you. He doesn’t understand a thing. Look at this.” Debbie held up another copy of the Herald. She seemed to enjoy gloating over depressing news.

Alan looked at the headline, MIXUP IN MORGUE, AUTOPSY FOILED. “I don’t understand.”

She explained as if to an idiot. “They cremated her by mistake. They got the papers mixed up. So there won’t be any way of identifying it. You know, like they look at the teeth, so they can identify the corpse, even when it’s all burned up. You know.”

“Look,” said Alan, controlling himself, “it’s cold outside. Charley’s going to need more clothes.”

Debbie gave him Wanda’s woolly hat and a thick blanket. Wanda whimpered, and tried to snatch the blanket back. Her mother slapped her hand.

“Sorry, Wanda,” said Alan. He knelt in front of her. “I’ll bring back some ice cream, okay?” Wanda stopped sniffling.

Outdoors the day was bright and clear. Rays of low winter sunshine slammed down on the steep sidewalk. A chill wind whistled down the hill. Alan pulled the knitted cap low over Charley’s face, and tugged the blanket up around his ears until only his nose was visible.

In Louisburg Square the windows of the Greek Revival houses glowed with soft lamps and firelight. Alan could imagine the prosperous and comfortable scenes within, so different from the sad frowziness of Debbie’s gloomy apartment. He trundled the stroller past the little park and plunged down Mount Vernon Street to Charles. In the Public Garden the cold breeze tossed the bare branches of the trees, blowing a couple of seagulls high above the roof of the Ritz Carlton Hotel. Charley giggled with joy, unaware that his life had been half-destroyed by the death of his mother. Alan wondered if a single man could adopt a child. Probably not. They’d give Charley to some rich married couple. Well, anything would be better than the tender mercies of Debbie Buffington.

The stretch of sidewalk between Arlington Street and Clarendon was empty of pedestrians. Alan galloped faster and faster. Charley shrieked with laughter. At the corner of Clarendon, Alan paused before heading for the alley behind the church. The sidewalk was thick with little kids, round blobs in puffy winter clothes. There were babies in pushcarts, mothers organizing a winter walk. It was the student body of the daycare center, all assembled. More kids were emerging from the church and toddling down the stairs. Music streamed from the open door.

Alan turned his head and listened. Somebody was practicing on the new organ. Probably one of Castle’s pupils. Everybody wanted to try it. Could it be James Castle himself? Had he come back without warning? Who else could play like that? Bach’s Dorian Toccata was flooding out onto the street, plunging like chariots, galloping like horses, racing like bloodthirsty cheetahs.

No, of course, it wasn’t Castle. It was Harold Oates, playing without permission. Alan turned to one of the mothers. “Would you keep an eye on him for a sec? I’ll be right back.”

“Sure,” said the mother, bending down to look at Charley. “What rosy cheeks!”

Alan ran into the church to take a look.

Charley sat in the stroller patiently, muffled to the ears. Under the blanket he held the grubby stuffed animal given to him by the man called Tom. Looking down at himself he could see the furry strands of his blanket standing up in the sunlight. Looking up he saw the tall shapes of women talking. A bird flew onto a tree and peered down at him, then flew away. Loud music curled around his head, then more and more of it in a big wave.

Looking along the sidewalk in front of him, he saw a man and a woman come out of a house and hurry toward a car. The woman was wearing a white hat.

Charley was electrified. He leaned forward in the stroller and called out his first word.

“Mama!” shouted Charley. “Mama, Mama!”

Alan came running back to him down the steps of the church.

“Mama, Mama,” wept Charley.

Alan looked up and saw a woman in a white hat in the back seat of a car. “Wait,” he cried, but the driver pulled away from the curb and drove swiftly down Commonwealth toward Dartmouth Street.

“Mama,” sobbed Charley. “Mama, Mama, Mama.”