Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [101]
Evangeline, if she’d seen the file on my desk, had obviously not discussed it with her father yet. I knew D-Daddy would not be that friendly if he thought I was in any way threatening his daughter. I couldn’t imagine Evangeline having anything to do with Nora’s murder, but there was something in her background she was trying to hide, something I was sure had to do with an abusive husband or boyfriend. I couldn’t imagine the Nora I’d known publicly revealing something so cruel and possibly life threatening. But then, the Nora I thought I’d known would never have written the Tattler column. It all came back to that old question—can we ever really know another person?
Back in my office, I scanned my speech once more, checked the clock, and noting I still had an hour before I went on, told myself I needed to quit worrying and turn my mind to something else. I dug through my purse, searching for the paperback I usually carried, and came across the homeless man’s diary. It was the only thing I had to read and I really needed something to take my mind off my pretalk jitters, so I settled back in my chair and read through the almost yearlong record of his life. It ended on the day before he was found dead. His routine was the same as the first four months I’d read the other day—Blind Harry’s, the Mission Food Bank, the YMCA, various other businesses in San Celina, the library, and the stone bear fountain outside St. Celine’s Catholic Church, where many homeless sat and warmed themselves in the sun on the concrete benches.
On September 1 he wrote with a precise dignity that brought a lump to my throat, “Happy Birthday to me.” I set the book down on my desk and stared at the Noah’s Ark picture hanging on my plain white wall. It was a Grandma Moses primitive-style painting by one of our artists in the co-op. The animals all had hopeful smiles on their faces as they marched up the long ramp. I had fallen in love with the whimsical picture as I watched the artist create it, and somehow, though I never mentioned it to Gabe, he’d found out and bought it for me for my birthday.
“I want to keep the concept of pairs firmly affixed in your mind,” he’d said, his eyes sparkling with humor.
I looked back down at the datebook and wondered if the homeless man had ever been a part of a pair. Was there someone, somewhere, who still missed him every day, would always wonder where he’d gone? I thought about the compulsiveness of his routine and how even the homeless, people we think of living as footloose and free a life as we can imagine, develop routines to bring order in their life. Again I wondered what he’d thought of all of us, what he saw as he went about his rounds.
What he saw. I flipped through the book to the days before and after Nora’s murder. Nothing. He’d made his circuit, which seemed to have a three-day pattern, and recorded nothing that would give any hint that he’d seen anything to do with Nora’s murder. But, if what Gabe estimated was right, she’d been killed at a time when the Datebook Bum most likely hadn’t been around. On the other hand, I had no idea where he’d slept. I couldn’t help but wonder if his death was truly an accident. I stuck the business diary back in my purse and made a note to ask Gabe what the John Doe’s autopsy had finally shown as the cause of death.
At ten minutes to six I went out to the field, where a large green-braceleted crowd had already gathered around the main stage. All of the hay-bale seats were occupied, and D-Daddy and one of his young helpers were fooling with a portable microphone. I felt a small flutter in the pit of my stomach. Though I’d grown more accustomed to speaking in public since I’d become museum curator, it was not my favorite part of the job. As D-Daddy fiddled with the sound equipment, I laughed along with the rest of the audience at the antics of a mime who stood at the side and mimicked D-Daddy’s irritable expression. The scent of roasting beef, chicken, and sausage from the steel barbecues set up hours earlier gave the evening air a pungent,