CHAPTER 21

A man’s word is a little sound, that flies into the air, and soon vanishes; but the Word of God is greater than heaven and earth.

Martin Luther

Homer and Mary Kelly responded to Alan’s plea at once. They drove into Boston and parked in the alley behind Number 115. Homer shouted for Alan, who came out and unlocked the gate.

“What a nice place,” said Mary, admiring the harpsichord and the view of the garden.

Homer peeled off his coat. “It’s beginning to feel like home.”

Mary pulled off her gloves and ran her hand along the railing of the playpen. “Poor little kid, he’s an orphan now.”

“But maybe he isn’t an orphan,” said Alan eagerly. “I told you on the phone, he saw his mother.”

“Now calm down,” said Homer. He lowered himself into a chair. “Start from the beginning.”

Alan repeated it all patiently, his lessons with Charley in front of the picture of Rosie, the baby’s obvious understanding that the word Mama meant his mother. He went on to describe the episode on the street, the woman getting into the car, her white hat, Charley’s insistence that this was indeed his mother.

“But why did she drive away from him?” said Mary softly. “And if she was really his mother, how could she have left her baby in the first place?”

“She didn’t leave of her own free will. There was blood on the floor, remember?”

“But what about this time?” said Homer. “Why did she drive away this time?”

“I don’t think she even saw him. He was sixty feet away at the corner, all muffled up in a blanket, just one of a crowd of little kids. And she couldn’t hear him because there was music pouring out of the church and the bells were ringing, that amplified carillon from the Lutheran church—and the traffic! You know what the traffic sounds like.”

Homer stared at the floor, Mary gazed at the ceiling. The dusk of early winter twilight filled the room. Alan couldn’t bear it. Impulsively he jumped up and went to the bookshelf and fiddled with one of Rosie’s tape recorders. “Listen,” he said. “Here she is.”

The cheerful counterpoint of Bach’s chorale prelude streamed over them, the jolly reed stops predominating, the ponderous pedal notes resounding underneath. Rosie’s presence came warmly into the room. They could all imagine her fingers frisking over the keys, her feet dancing on the pedals. Burned fingers turned to charcoal, blackened feet charred like logs.

“Suppose Charley was right,” said Alan loudly, waving his arms. “Just suppose he was right. Look at it his way. What if he really saw his mother? What if somebody else was burned up in that car? What would it mean?”

Homer and Mary stared at him. Then Homer looked solemnly out the window at the little yard, where a rag flapped in a tree. “If that’s true, if Charley really saw his mother, then she isn’t dead. And that would mean another person was burned in the fire, with Rosie’s credit cards in Rosie’s pocketbook on the seat of Rosie’s car. It would mean somebody’s trying very hard to make us believe Rosalind Hall is dead. Is that what you’re saying? That’s what you really think?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying. But I think Charley saw her. I mean, I think he thought he saw her. I know he’s only a baby, but I believe him.”

There was a knock at the door. They all jumped. Reluctantly Alan went to the door. “Oh, Mrs. Garboyle, hello. Come in.”

“Why, of course, it’s you, Mr. Starr.” Mrs. Garboyle’s old face wreathed itself in a wide smile. “You’re here with little Charley.”

“Well, no, not today, as a matter of fact.” Alan led Mrs. Garboyle into the presence of his two towering guests. “I hope you won’t mind our being here, Mrs. Garboyle. We’re”—hastily Alan decided to tell the truth—”we’re looking into the death of Charley’s mother. Mrs. Garboyle, Mr. and Mrs. Kelly.” Mary and Homer stood up courteously, and loomed over Mrs. Garboyle. “Mr. Kelly is sort of a—” Alan looked at Homer for help, and Homer obliged.

“Lieutenant detective,” he lied promptly, resurrecting his ancient connection with the district attorney of Middlesex County. Then he beamed and grasped Mrs. Garboyle’s hand. “Oh, Mrs. Garboyle, we’ve met before. Do you remember me?”

Mrs. Garboyle looked up at him with dawning recognition. “Why, of course I do. You were a boy in that house on the Fenway, where I was the super, right? You wanted to see your boyhood home.”

Mary Kelly gave a polite snort, and Homer hastened to explain. “I must apologize, Mrs. Garboyle. It wasn’t my boyhood home. I was investigating a crime. I just used that as an excuse.”

Mrs. Garboyle forgave him at once, effacing his crimes from memory, acquitting him of all wrongdoing. Hers was a sturdy soul, softened rather than hardened by a life that had been no picnic. “Oh, Mr. Kelly, that’s all right. I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.” Then she turned to Alan, her expressive face drooping, her eyes filling with tears. “Oh, that poor baby! Poor darling Rosie! What a dreadful way to die! What will happen to little Charley now?”

“Don’t worry about Charley,” said Alan grimly. “I’ll see that he’s all right.”

Mrs. Garboyle blew her nose and turned to go. “Thank you, dear. Forgive me for knocking on the door. I just wondered who was here, for dear Rosie’s sake.”

“Of course.” Alan accompanied her out into the hall, patted her arm awkwardly, then returned to Homer and Mary, who were gloomily putting on their coats.

“What a nice woman,” said Mary solemnly, pulling her car keys out of her pocket.

Homer said nothing. He made no suggestions, no promises. Once again, as the sky turned dark outside, Alan went back to Rosie’s picture. But this time he found himself looking instead at a blank space beside it on the wall. Hadn’t there been another one there? Yes, it had been a snapshot of Charley, a small fat object sitting on a blanket against a background of green bushes. Alan remembered it perfectly. It was gone. The thumbtacks that had held it in place on the bulletin board were still there, neatly replaced.

Alan pulled the desk away from the wall and looked behind it. He found nothing. Someone had removed the little snapshot. Who would want a picture of Charley but his own mother? Grinning to himself, Alan shoved the desk back against the wall.

Rosie had come back to the apartment. She had taken down the picture of Charley and gone away, but not before Charley had seen her and cried out his first word.

It was a small thing, a very small thing, but Alan was convinced. Rosalind Hall was still alive.

On the way home Mary Kelly said nothing until the car was safely heading west on Storrow Drive. Then she glanced at Homer. “Do you believe the baby?”

“Do I believe the baby?” Homer grinned. “I don’t believe or disbelieve the baby. Let’s just take it as a temporary hypothesis that he said Mama because he really saw his mother. The chances are a thousand percent against it, but I like the idea of one little kid against the world.”

Mary smiled, and steered smoothly in the wake of the long line of red taillights. “I liked the music she was playing. It’s a hymn, we use it in church.” The car skimmed along Storrow Drive, and Mary began to sing:

Wake, awake, for night is flying,

The watchmen on the heights are crying,

Awake, awake, Jerusalem!