Chapter 12

           Aroundquarterpasttwointheafternoon,myfriendElaineConnellycametomewhereIsatinthesunroom,withthelastpagesofmystorysquaredupneatlyinfrontofme.Herfacewasverypale,andtherewereshinyplacesunderhereyes.Ithinkshehadbeencrying.

           Me,I’dbeenlooking.Justthat.Lookingoutthewindowandoverthehillstotheeast,myrighthandthrobbingattheendofitswrist.Butitwasapeacefulthrob,somehow.Ifeltempty,huskedout.Afeelingthatwasterribleandwonderfulatthesametime.

           ItwashardtomeetElaine’seyes—IwasafraidofthehateandcontemptImightseethere—buttheywereallright.Sadandwondering,butallright.Nohate,nocontempt,andnodisbelief.

           "Doyouwanttherestofthestory?"Iasked.Itappedthelittlepileofscriptwithmyachinghand.

           "It’shere,butI’llunderstandifyou’djustassoonnot—"

           "Itisn’taquestionofwhatIwant,"shesaid."Ihavetoknowhowitcameout,althoughIguessthereisnodoubtthatyouexecutedhim.TheinterventionofProvidence-with-a-capital-Pisgreatlyoverratedinthelivesofordinaryhumans,Ithink.ButbeforeItakethosepages...Paul..."

           Shestopped,asifunsurehowtogoon.Iwaited.Sometimesyoucan’thelppeople.Sometimesit’sbetternoteventotry.

           "Paul,youspeakinhereasthoughyouhadtwogrownchildrenin1932—notjustone,buttwo.