Once the question of paying for his mother’s final rites was put to rest, Ollie dropped his head onto her desk and cried for awhile. He did it quietly, so as not to wake his father. When the tears dried up, he filled out one of the obituary forms, printing everything because his handwriting sucked. Once that chore was finished, he went out to the kitchen and surveyed the mess there: pasta on the linoleum, chicken carcass lying under the clock, all those Tupperwares and covered dishes on the counters. It reminded him of something his mom used to say after big family meals—the pigs ate here. He got a Hefty bag from under the sink and dumped everything in, starting with the chicken carcass, which looked especially gruesome. Then he washed the floor. Once everything was spick （something else his mother used to say）， he discovered he was hungry. That seemed wrong but was still a fact. People were basically animals, he realized. Even with your mother and little brother dead, you had to eat and shit out what you ate. The body demanded it. He opened the fridge and discovered it was packed top to bottom and side to side with more casseroles, more Tupperware containers, more cold cuts. He selected a shepherd’s pie, its surface a snowy plain of mashed potato, and stuck it in the oven at 350. While he was leaning against the counter and waiting for it to heat, feeling like a visitor inside his own head, his dad wandered in. Fred’s hair was a mess. You’re all sticky-uppy, Arlene Peterson would have said. He needed a shave. His eyes were puffy and dazed.
“I took one of your mother’s pills and slept too long,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it, Dad.”
“You cleaned up the kitchen. I should have helped you.”
“It’s okay.”
“Your mother . . . the funeral . . .” Fred didn’t seem to know how to go on, and Ollie noticed that his fly was unzipped. This filled him with an inchoate pity. Yet he didn’t feel like crying again, he seemed to be cried out, at least for the time being. Something else that was all right. Must count my blessings, Ollie thought.
“We’re in good shape,” he told his dad. “She had burial insurance, you both do, and she’s . . . there. At the place. You know, the parlor.” He was afraid to say funeral, because that might get his father going. Which might get him going again.
“Oh. Good.” Fred sat down and put the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I should have done that. It was my job. My responsibility. I never meant to sleep so long.”
“You can go down tomorrow. Pick out the coffin, and all.”
“Where?”
“Donelli Brothers. Same as Frank.”
“She’s dead,” Fred marveled. “I don’t even know how to think of it.”
“Yeah,” Ollie said, although he had been able to think of nothing else. How she’d kept trying to apologize, right to the end. As if it was all her fault when none of it was. “The funeral guy says there’s stuff you’ll have to decide about. Will you be able to do that?”
“Sure. I’ll be better tomorrow. Something smells good.”
“Shepherd’s pie.”
“Did your mother make it, or did someone bring it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, it smells good.”
They ate at the kitchen table. Ollie put their dishes in the sink, because the dishwasher was full. They went into the living room. Now it was baseball on ESPN, Phillies against the Mets. They watched without talking, each in his own way exploring the edges of the hole that had appeared in their lives, so as not to fall in. After awhile Ollie went out on the back steps and sat looking up at the stars. There were plenty of them. He also saw a meteor, an earth satellite, and several planes. He thought about how his mother was dead, and would see none of these things again. It was totally absurd that such a thing should be so. When he went back in, the baseball game was going into the ninth all tied up, and his father had gone to sleep in his chair. Ollie kissed him on the top of his head. Fred didn’t stir.
20
Ralph got a text on his way to the county jail. It was from Kinderman, in State Police Computer Forensics. Ralph pulled over at once and called back. Kinderman answered on the first ring.
“Don’t you guys take Sunday night off?” Ralph asked.
“What can I say, we’re geeks.” In the background, Ralph could hear the bellow of a heavy metal band. “Besides, I always think that good news can wait, but bad news should be passed on right away. We’re not done exploring Maitland’s hard drives for hidden files, and some of these kiddy-fiddlers can be pretty clever about that, but on the surface, he’s clean. No kiddie porn, no porn of any kind. Not on his desktop, not on his laptop, not on his iPad, not on his phone. He looks like Mr. White Hat.”