On Thursday morning, Briley slides into her car and drives to an interview she’s been dreading. She’s not certain if she’ll learn anything useful from Erin’s brother, but at some point, every desperate lawyer trolls for information.
In a northern section of Austin, Roger Wilson’s group home lies on a street that has managed to retain a hint of its stately dignity. Briley parks on a pitted section of asphalt and studies the sprawling two-story Victorian as she locks her car. She crosses the sidewalk and opens a peeling iron gate, careful to latch it behind her. A gently curving sidewalk leads her through a sea of winter-dead grass to the front door, where a hand-painted sign presents a smiley face and a command: ring the bell. She does.
She stands on the front porch, shivering in the frigid wind, until a white-haired man in a cardigan opens the door and welcomes her to the house.
“I called earlier,” Briley explains, stepping into the foyer. “I’m here to see Roger Wilson.”
“You must be the attorney. I’m Floyd McKee.” The man smiles, reminding her of the genial Grandpa on The Munsters. “Roger is in the dayroom. If you’ll come with me…”
Briley follows her host to a large room with wide windows overlooking the bare side lawn. Three adult residents sit in the room, two of them engaged in watching an I Love Lucy rerun. Another resident sits alone, working a jigsaw puzzle on a TV tray. He is dressed like Floyd: dark slacks, cardigan sweater, and white shirt, though his face is unlined. If fashion sense is inheritable, these two could be father and son.
“Please excuse the holiday decorations,” Floyd says, gesturing to the Christmas tree in the corner of the room. “I know the season has passed, but my young friends like the lights.”
Briley pauses before the tree, which has been adorned with plastic bulbs, Popsicle-stick ornaments, and paper cutouts.
“Roger?” Floyd walks over and rests his hand on the puzzle-worker’s shoulder. “You have a visitor. This young woman is a friend of your sister’s.”
Roger looks up, his wide forehead crinkling. “Is Erin coming to see me?”
“She can’t come today.” Briley steps forward and gives him a smile. “I’m Briley. May I sit and talk with you a few minutes?”
Roger looks to the older man, who reaches for a folding chair. “Make yourself comfortable,” he tells Briley, setting the chair on the other side of the TV table. “You can help Roger with his puzzle. And may I take your coat?”
Briley shrugs out of her coat and hands it to Floyd, then sits. Roger gives her an absent frown and returns his attention to the puzzle pieces scattered over the tray.
This interview isn’t going to be as straightforward as she had hoped.
“This is a pretty puzzle,” she says, tilting her head to see it better. “What will it be, a seascape?”
Roger’s brows knit in puzzlement. “It’s the beach.”
“Of course. The beach.” She picks up a straight-edged piece and looks for a match. “I’m sorry Erin couldn’t come with me today. Do you remember living with her when you were younger?”
Still intent on his puzzle, he shakes his head.
“That’s too bad. Does she visit you here?”
Roger holds a puzzle piece before his eye, as if he could see through it. “She comes to see me. Sometimes.”
Floyd, who has been standing behind the other two residents, steps toward them. “We haven’t seen Erin in a couple of years,” he explains, his smile apologetic. “Last time she stopped by, she said it was hard for her to get away. With a husband in politics, I suppose I can understand.”
“Her husband was…quite demanding.” Briley gives Floyd a pointed look. “I don’t suppose Roger reads the newspapers?”
“We don’t even take a paper.” Floyd’s expression remains neutral, though he has to be curious about Erin’s case. “He has no idea about—the matter that brings you to see us. I don’t let my young friends watch the evening news, either.”
“A good idea.” Briley smiles at Roger. What did she hope to find here? “Erin asked me to come see you,” she says, trying to catch his gaze. “She misses you.”
Roger sets another puzzle piece into the center of the tray, then looks at Floyd, his eyes glowing. “My sister misses me.”
“I’m sure she does,” Floyd answers, pulling over another folding chair.
Briley’s heart sinks when the older man sits down. This is not going well; Roger is less communicative than she’d hoped. She ought to tell him goodbye and be on her way, but now that Floyd has taken a seat, she’ll need to talk for at least a few minutes or he’ll think her rude.
The older man laces his fingers. “Such simple souls.” He crosses his leg at the ankle, doubtless settling in for a nice long conversation. “You might not think they are deeply devoted, but Roger adores his sister. He keeps several pictures of her up in his room.”
Briley glances at her watch. “Does his mother ever come to visit him?”
The older man’s face shifts back into a neutral expression. “Why don’t you ask Roger?”
Briley turns, about to repeat the question, but Roger has his answer ready. “Christmas,” he says, poring over the puzzle with a new piece in his hand. “Mama visits at Christmas.”
For a moment Briley sits in awkward silence, not knowing what else to say. On the other side of the room, Ricky explodes into Spanish as he scolds Lucy for overspending. The two men watching television laugh.
“Plato,” Floyd says, resting his folded hands on the cushion of his belly, “held that we are born perfect and then split in half by Zeus. So we spend the rest of our lives searching for our missing half, our soul mate.”
Briley’s thoughts immediately dart to Timothy. She swallows the lump that rises in her throat and picks up another puzzle piece, a bit of green ocean.
“I don’t buy into Plato’s theory,” Floyd continues, shifting his focus to the men in front of the television, “but often I look at my friends and wonder if some genetic accident robbed them of the selfish streak most people exhibit from infancy. They’re not perfect, but they’re generally much sweeter than ordinary people.” One corner of his mouth turns up, and his blue eyes gleam as he grins at Briley. “Maybe they’ve had most of the selfishness yanked out of them.”
Briley snaps her puzzle piece into place and watches as Roger’s mouth curves into an approving smile. “I wouldn’t know,” she says. “I don’t have much time for mysticism. Or religion, for that matter.”
“You’re a skeptic, then.”
She shrugs. “A realist. But I can appreciate people who have the time and willingness to consider things like souls…and sweetness.”
She snaps a blue piece of sky into place, and smiles when Roger gives her another grateful grin.