Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [43]
She poured a glass of orange juice in the kitchen, whose walls and counter were covered with vividly colored tiles purchased in Mexico, then went to the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She opened the door to the room’s only closet, got down on her hands and knees, rummaged beneath hanging clothing, and pulled out a shoe box and a manila envelope, which she placed on the bed. A rubber band secured the shoe box. She removed it, took off the top of the box, and peered at its contents. It was filled with small envelopes and a few photographs. She began removing the items one by one, slowly, deliberately, examining each picture, carefully slipping letters and notes from their envelopes and reading them.
After fifteen minutes, she looked at her watch, hastily replaced everything in the box, put on the rubber band, and returned to the living room, where she stood in the middle of the room as though deciding where to put what she carried. If only I had a fireplace, she thought, dropping the box and envelope on a chair, retrieving the glass of juice from the bedroom and pouring its contents down the kitchen sink. She scooped up the box and envelope, locked the door behind her, and went down the stairs, relieved that Mrs. Simone had left.
She walked down G Street, crossed Seventh, and continued in the direction of the Capitol Children’s Museum and Union Station carrying the shoe box and envelope as though they were valuable, holding them close to her chest. She fought against a confusion that gripped her, an inability to step aside and rationally view what she was doing. The confusion was unnecessary, she knew, but she was unable to dismiss it, emotions overriding cognition, running out of time but with all the time in the world at her disposal. Her mother had suffered what she called panic attacks: “Just stop it, Mom. What are you panicked about? It’s just a mall, nobody here to hurt you.” Stop it, Dolores. It’s just a city street. Nobody here to hurt you, nobody who even cares who you are or what you’re carrying. Her thoughts failed to soothe; the panic prevailed.
She reached the splendidly renovated Union Station. Construction was still in progress on Second Street. She paused at the site, next to a large Dumpster. There were no workers, no one watching. She quickly pulled the rubber band from the shoe box, stood on tiptoe, pulled a few envelopes and a photo from the box, dropped these into the Dumpster. Two men in suits approached, talking to each other. Dolores cradled the box in her arms and turned her face from them as they passed, breathing hard, certain they’d noticed her and wondered why she was there, what she was doing standing next to a Dumpster. Had they seen her drop the items into the Dumpster? They might come back, retrieve them, read them.
She got up on her toes again and peered down into the Dumpster. It was almost empty; the envelopes were at the bottom along with scraps of wood and cracked floor tile. The photo had landed on its back; the face in it stared up at her. She looked toward the station’s main entrance. People were gathered there waiting for cabs to pull up. Were they all looking at her, asking one another what that woman was doing?
She walked away, back up Second Street, toward the Library of Congress, where tourists congregated on the sidewalk outside the Jefferson Building. She retraced her steps down Second Street until coming to three trash cans with lids in front of a row house. Curtains were drawn over the windows. No one looking out at her. A mother and child passed, laughing as they sang a children’s song. Dolores pretended to examine something on the manila envelope until they’d passed, then removed the lid from one of the cans and emptied the contents of the box into it, replaced the lid, realized she still held the empty shoe box, took off the lid again, placed the empty box in with the envelopes and photos and unknown person