In just this way, thought Emmett, does misery beget misery. For as good as Woolly’s sister was at forgiving, she would never be able to forgive herself for this. As he set the empty bottle back down, from the radio came a jazz number, swinging and discordant.
Rising from the bed, Emmett crossed to the radio and switched it off. On the bureau beside the radio was an old cigar box and a dictionary that could have come from anywhere, but leaning against the wall was a framed photograph that could only have come from the empty space in the hall.
It was a snapshot of Woolly as a boy sitting in a canoe between his mother and father. Woolly’s parents—a handsome couple in their late thirties—each had a paddle resting across the gunwale, as if they were on the verge of setting out. From Woolly’s expression, you could tell he was a little nervous, but he was laughing too, as if someone outside of the frame, someone on the dock, were making a face for his benefit.
Just a few days before—when they had been outside the orphanage waiting for Duchess—Billy had explained to Woolly about their mother and the fireworks in San Francisco, and Woolly, in turn, had explained to Billy about the Fourth of July celebrations his family would have here at the camp. It occurred to Emmett that this picture of Woolly sitting between his parents in the canoe could well have been taken on the very same day that Emmett had lain between his parents to watch the fireworks in Seward. And for perhaps the first time, Emmett had an inkling of why the journey west along the Lincoln Highway had become so important to his brother.
Gently, Emmett returned the photograph to its place on the bureau. Then after taking one more look at his friend, he went in search of a phone. But as he was heading down the hall, he heard a clanging coming from downstairs.
Duchess, he thought.
And the grief that had been welling up inside him was eclipsed by a feeling of fury.
Descending the stairs, Emmett moved quickly down the hallway in the direction of the kitchen, once again homing in on the source of a sound. Stepping through the first door on his left, he entered a room that looked like a gentleman’s office, but in disarray—with books pulled from the bookcases, drawers withdrawn from the desk, and papers scattered on the floor. To Emmett’s left, a framed painting jutted at a ninety-degree angle from the wall, while behind the painting stood Duchess, haplessly swinging an ax at the smooth gray surface of a safe.
—Come on, Duchess encouraged as he hit the safe again. Come on, baby.
—Duchess, called Emmett once.
Then again, more loudly.
Startled, Duchess checked his swing and looked back. But upon seeing Emmett, he broke into a smile.
—Emmett! Boy, am I glad to see you!
Emmett found Duchess’s smile to be as discordant as the jazz number that had come on the radio in Woolly’s room; and he felt the same urgent desire to switch it off. As Emmett moved toward Duchess, Duchess’s expression transitioned from elation to concern.
—What is it? What’s wrong?
—What’s wrong? Emmett said, stopping in amazement. Haven’t you been upstairs? Haven’t you seen Woolly?
Suddenly understanding, Duchess set the ax down on a chair, then shook his head with a solemn expression.
—I saw him, Emmett. What can I say? It’s terrible.
—But how . . . ? blurted Emmett. How could you let him?
—Let him? repeated Duchess in surprise. Do you seriously think if I had known what Woolly intended to do, I would have left him on his own? I’ve been keeping an eye on Woolly since the minute I met him. Not a week ago, I went so far as to take away the last bottle of his medicine. But he must have had another one stashed away. And don’t ask me where he got hold of those pills.
With all his feelings of impotency and rage, Emmett wanted to blame Duchess. He wanted to blame him, badly. But he also understood that it wasn’t Duchess’s fault. And rising up within him, like bile in the throat, came the memory of his own assurance to Woolly’s sister that all would be well.
—Did you call an ambulance, at least, Emmett asked after a moment, hearing his own voice falter.
Duchess shook his head with an expression of futility.
—By the time I found him, it was too late. He was already as cold as ice.
—All right, said Emmett. I’ll call the police.
—The police . . . ? Why would you do that?
—We’ve got to tell somebody.
—Of course we do. And we will. But whether we do it now or later won’t make any difference to Woolly. But it could make a big difference to us.
Ignoring Duchess, Emmett headed toward the telephone on the desk. When Duchess saw where Emmett was going, he scrambled in the same direction, but Emmett beat him to it.