The Reckoning

Tyrrell, Patricia

ISBN 10: 0676976603 / ISBN 13: 9780676976601

Edité par Vintage Canada, 2005

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Used book in very good condition. May have some minor wear. May NOT include discs, or access code or other supplemental material. Ships directly from Amazon and is eligible for Prime or super saver FREE shipping. We ship Monday-Saturday and respond to inquiries within 24 hours.

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Détails bibliographiques

• Titre: The Reckoning
• Éditeur: Vintage Canada
• Date de parution: 2005
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN à 10 chiffres: 0676976603
• ISBN à 13 chiffres: 9780676976601
• Reliure: Couverture souple
• État de l'article: very_good

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Les called my mother that time from the only public telephone of a one-horse New Mexico township; I stuck my elbow in his ribs and told him he was acting damn stupid — what’d he do if somebody else showed up and wanted to use the phone, started pacing and overheard him? But Les snapped, ‘Shut up, Cate,’ and he dialled. The booth stood between an adobe post office and the highway; I squashed next to him so I’d hear her replies, because this call was more important than any of the previous ones. ‘You don’t need to listen,’ he told me as usual, and scowled. ‘Not trusting me, huh?’ When I was little he’d lock me into the truck while he called, and anyway I’d no notion what the calls meant, but when I reached my teens he couldn’t do that.

The phone rang her end, a mangy palm tree outside our booth rattled and a truck zoomed by. The hot air sat around us and I said, ‘She’s not home.’ (With a wide grin to mean I didn’t care.) I pictured her like in a movie, watching the phone ring and not answering it; that’d be much worse. But after four and a half rings the ringing stopped; I pressed close and imagined I could hear her breathing.

Les said what he always says, in one form of words or another. ‘I got your kid here with me, you know. She truly is alive.’ He took a moment to glance past me, making sure we weren’t overheard, then he told her in that soft voice like he’s pleading, ‘Ma’am, I wouldn’t lie to you.'

I hate when he uses that soft greasy tone; every time after, I say to him, ‘Just talk ordinary with her, whyn’t you?’ And he frowns, says, ‘But I was.’ Never has realized he’s begging her — begging for what? For her to believe something that’s the God’s-truth, is all. But I pressed close past the grey desert dust and Les’s sweat and the roar of another truck, and heard her say (as she most often does), ‘Insane. Inhuman.’ Her voice not interested, not a bit caring. Which has always hurt me, though Les tried to say there was part reason. Reason, the hell. She sounded like a robot voice, ready to switch off. And the next thing she said, in her bitty accent which Les claims is British, was, ‘I’m hanging up now.’ Click, the buzz of the empty line.

Les cussed but he’d already stacked the coins for his next try; was less than half a minute before her phone rang again, and this time she picked it up at once. Les said, ‘You can’t put me off that way.’ Hoarse; he smokes too damn much. And breathless because he’d gotten jittery; after twelve years with him I can read his moods like my own. (Easier than mine, most often.) He said, ‘This here’s no nuisance call, ma’am.’ A car on the highway slowed, saw the booth was occupied, speeded up. ‘All these years,’ said Les, ‘I kept you informed, right, ma’am? Faithful I have.’ No sound from her; he must have wondered if he’d dialed wrong, for he said, ‘Hi there? This is Miz Janice I’m speaking with? Miz Janice Wingford that the daughter of got–’

Then she did answer, like talking from a clenched jaw, ‘Say ‘‘murdered’’, why don’t you? Might as well be honest.’

No matter how often Les has told her the truth, she’s never believed him. He chuckled, but I couldn’t view her as comic any more. Sick-minded or thick-brained or both, that’s how she sounded to me. Les changed hands on the phone, wiped his sweaty palm on his jeans and said cosy to her, ‘Thought I’d gotten the wrong number there for a second.’ A pickup truck pulled in near us and the guy went into the post office. Not highway patrol or sheriff, but Les got nervouser and said fast, ‘Ma’am, are you still there?’ She grunted and he got to the meat of his call. ‘Truth is, ma’am — and I do wish you’d quit fussing about a murder. They never found a body, right? Nor could they, seeing as she wasn’t killed. But the truth is, ma’am, I need your help.’

He held his breath and I did too. If she hung up again, refused to talk this over, we could drive east and find her address and just arrive — but she might act furious disbelieving and call the cops at once. Which both Les and I had our reasons for not wanting to chance; we needed her co-operation. So it was a relief when she spoke again. ‘You’ve a shitting nerve,’ she said, ‘my God, have you ever! You abduct my three-year-old daughter and do away with her, you spend the next twelve years tormenting me and then ask for my help? When the police catch you — and they will, I don’t doubt they’re much nearer now than you suppose–’

She paused for breath and I took a quick look from the booth in case she knew something we didn’t, but the dusty surrounds and highway were clear. Then I thought, This is my mother? Her that’s ranting on and not giving Les a hearing to put his side? So, I’m not saying him taking me away from that campsite was right, only — from what he’s indicated since — he was lonely and unhappy at the time and seemed to him there was reason for what he did.

My mother went on, ‘When the police take you in, I’ll give my evidence with pleasure and try to make sure you never kill anyone else’s child.’

I made a face at Les to mean, Same old stuff, and he nodded; he’s closer to me than I can imagine any dad ever being. He keeps on telling me I’ll for sure love my mother when I meet her, but I don’t know how to go about loving anyone except Les. Especially this woman I can’t even remember.

She said, ‘A death sentence on you–’ as if she could hardly wait — ‘will mean full death.
From the Hardcover edition.