Authors: Jane Langton

Shortest Day (2 page)

Thank God, the police cruiser was pulling up at last, followed by an ambulance with its lights flashing.

The police took the names of witnessesâonly one in this case, Mary Kelly. “And I wasn't really a witness,” said Mary. “I mean, I didn't really see it when it happened. I just heard the squeal of brakes and the noise of the impact. No”âMary corrected herselfâ“the impact and the squeal of the brakes.”

The officer did not notice the distinction. He asked a few questions of Morgan Bailey, then bundled him into the cruiser with Sarah and drove away, as the body of Henry Shady disappeared in the back of the ambulance.

The slam of the ambulance door was a note of finality. The circle of onlookers drifted away, whispering, consoling one another, crying a little.

One of them was Arlo Field. Arlo was supposed to be taking the part of Saint George in the Revels, but he didn't know if he could handle it or not. He had been thinking of backing out. He was a scientist, not one of your artsy-fartsy kinds of people.

But now he changed his mind. Sarah had enough troubles. He couldn't give her one more. Silently he turned away, and then someone touched his arm.

It was one of the Morris dancers. “Tom says, come back on Friday at the same time. Okay?”

“Okay,” murmured Arlo. “I'll be there.”

I
n the Cambridge Police Headquarters, on Western Avenue, the sergeant interviewing Morgan Bailey abandoned the severity he usually assumed in handling careless driversâthis one seemed so inconsolable, so tortured by shame and sorrow. Instead of condemning Morgan, Sergeant Hasty did his best to comfort him.

“It looks to me like an accident, pure and simple. I mean, there was no liquor involved. You've got a clean driving record. But the poor guy's family may want to press charges. I suggest you hire a lawyer.”

Sarah Bailey thanked him. Morgan tried to thank him, but he was still almost unable to speak.

Sergeant Hasty reached over to pat his arm. “Have you got a pastor? That would be the best thing. Talk to your priest, or, you know, your minister. Whatever.”

As it turned out, no action was taken against Morgan Bailey. No one pressed charges. Henry Shady's mother, down there in Filbert, West Virginia, was prostrated when the local police called her with the news that her youngest son had been killed in a traffic accident in Cambridge, Massachusetts, but it never occurred to her to sue. Mrs. Shady was a simple hill woman. She didn't have the city sophistication to think in terms of million-dollar litigation. The splendor and might of civilized law practice, the stylized grandeur of suit and countersuit among the prosperous law firms of Boston's State Street, were entirely out of her ken. Heartsore, she knew only that she would never see her son again.

CHAPTER 2

O mortal man, remember well
,

When Christ died on the rood
,

'Twas for our sins and wicked ways

Christ shed his precious blood.â¦

“Sussex Mummers' Carol”

A
fter explaining to the police what she had seen of the accident that killed Henry Shady and what she had not seen, Mary Kelly walked across the Yard to Harvard Square, took the T to the Alewife parking garage, extracted her car, and drove home to Concord to tell the news to her husband, Homer.

“Christ,” he said, “the poor kid. I remember him from last year. Big young guy, sort of graceful, with a really nice voice? Too bad.” Homer had been making himself a lonely dinner of scrambled eggs and onions. Now he took the pan off the fire and dumped in a couple more eggs.

Mary slumped into a kitchen chair and put her head in her hands. “You know, there were two or three funny things. I've been thinking about them on the way home.”

“Funny things?”

“Oh, you know, strange. Why was this guy's big Range Rover up on the sidewalk? You'd think he would have been driving straight along Kirkland Street when poor Henry suddenly appeared out of the darkness, and then, wham, he would have run into him, so the car would still be right there on the street.”

Homer swirled the eggs in the pan with a big spoon. “Did anybody ask him about that?”

“Oh, yes. He said he swerved up over the curb to try to avoid the pedestrian, but the guy dodged the wrong way, so he couldn't help running into him.”

Homer held his big spoon in the air and tried to picture the swerving car, the victim trying to jump out of the way, the fatal mistake. “Sounds plausible, I guess.”

“I know, it sounds all right, but it's hard to see it happening. Homer, the eggs!”

Smoke poured from the frying pan. Homer yanked it off the fire and tried to stir the blackened mass of eggs and onions. They reeked of burning. “Goddamnit,” he said, “it's your fault for distracting the master chef with your horrible stories.”

“Here, Homer, let me do it.” Mary took out another pan and found an onion in the basket under the counter.

“Well, go ahead, what else was there?” said Homer grumpily, backing out of the way.

“What else?”

“You said there were two or three funny things.”

“Oh, right. Another thing was the order of events. I mean, hearing the accident with my back turned, I think the thud came first and then the squeal of brakes. You'd think it would be the other way around. You know, the squeal of brakes and then the sound of the impact.” Mary turned and looked anxiously at her husband. “Wouldn't you, Homer?”

Homer laughed. “Listen, my darling, who is it around here who's always being blamed for acting like the lieutenant detective he used to be instead of a nice respectable teacher at an ancient institution of higher learning? Me, that's who. And now here you go, probing and prying and drawing crazy conclusions on no evidence at all. Forget it. It's bad enough, that poor kid coming up from the country to nasty old Massachusetts to be slaughtered on the street by some overeducated Ph.D. Let it go. After all, you're a nice respectable teacher at the same institution. It's none of your business.”

“Right,” said Mary, slamming down the frying pan. “I'll just tie on my apron and stay home and make my husband's supper.”

“Well, excuse
me
.”

“Oh, shut up, Homer, just shut up.”

In the fuming atmosphere of the smoky kitchen and the emotional backwash of the tragic scene she had witnessed, Mary forgot the third thing until early the next morning. Then, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and regretting the darkness of early December, she remembered how good it had been to wake up in the same room only two months ago. On an October dawn the bedroom would be flooded with autumn sunlight, and often a squadron of noisy migrating geese flew over the house to land on the river.

Mary sat up and poked Homer. “Listen, there was a third thing.”

“Whumph?” Homer rolled over the other way and pulled the covers over his head.

“That accident yesterday, there was another odd thing about it.” Mary lay down again and wrapped her arm around Homer. “I heard a bird go over, squawking.”

Homer burrowed deeper into his pillow and muttered sleepily, “A bird?”

“I swear it sounded like wild geese flying over the river. I mean, you wouldn't think there'd be geese in Cambridge, would you, Homer? Right now, in the darkest days of the year?”

CHAPTER 3