Boys Life

the pencil down in disgust. “Well, that’s all there’s gonna be.”
    “That’s it?” Dad sucked at his wounded finger. “You’re sure you did this right?”
    Words cannot describe the look she gave him. “Two threes,” she said. “That’s the answer. Three three. Maybe thirty-three. If we can figure out what that means, we’ll have the killer’s name.”
    “I can’t think of anybody who has three letters in their first and last name. Or maybe it’s an address?”
    “I don’t know. All I know is what I’m lookin’ at: three three.” She slid the paper toward him; it was his to keep for his pain and trouble. “That’s all I can do for you. Sorry there’s nothin’ more.”
    “I am, too,” Dad said, and he took the paper and stood up.
    Then the Lady removed her professional face and became sociable. She said she smelled the fresh coffee, and that there was chocolate roulage made by Mrs. Pearl from the Bake Shoppe. Dad, who had been eating like a bird before we came to the Lady’s, ate two whopping pieces of roulage and washed them down with two cups of hot black chicory coffee. He and the Moon Man talked about that day the Blaylocks had been routed at the Trailways bus stop, and Dad laughed at the memory of Biggun running from a bag full of garden snakes.
    My father was well and truly returned. Maybe even better than he was before.
    “Thank you,” Dad said to the Lady as we stood at the door ready to leave. Mom took her hand and kissed her ebony cheek. The Lady regarded me with her shining emerald eyes. “You still gone be a writer?” she asked me.
    “I don’t know,” I said.
    “Seems to me a writer gets to hold a lot of keys,” she said. “Gets to visit a lot of worlds and live in a lot of skins. Seems to me a writer has a chance to live forever, if he’s good and if he’s lucky. Would you like that, Cory? Would you like to live forever?”
    I thought about it. Forever, like heaven, was an awfully long time. “No ma’am,” I decided. “I think I might get tired.”
    “Well,” she said, and she placed a hand on my shoulder, “it seems to me a writer’s voice is a forever thing. Even if a boy and a man are not.” She leaned her face closer to mine. I could feel the heat of her life, like the sun glowing from her bones. “You’re gonna be kissed by a lot of girls,” she said. “Gonna kiss a lot of girls, too. But remember this.” She kissed me, very lightly, on the forehead. “Remember when you do all that kissin’ of girls and women in all the summers left ahead of you that you were first kissed”-her ancient, beautiful face smiled-“by a lady.”
    When we got home, Dad sat down with the telephone book and scanned the names, looking for the address “thirty-three.” There were two residents and a business: Phillip Caldwell at 33 Ridgeton Street, J. E. Grayson at 33 Deerman Street, and the Crafts Barn at 33 Merchants Street. Dad said Mr. Grayson went to our church, and that he was nearing ninety. He believed Phillip Caldwell was a salesman at the Western Auto in Union Town. The Crafts Barn, Mom knew, was run by a blue-haired woman named Edna Hathaway. She seriously doubted if Mrs. Hathaway, who went around supported by a walker, had had anything to do with the incident at Saxon’s Lake. Dad decided Mr. Caldwell’s house was worth a visit, and he planned to go early in the morning before Mr. Caldwell left for work.
    A mystery could always get me out of bed. I was up bright-eyed by the time the clock showed seven, and Dad said I could go with him but I wasn’t to say a word while he was talking to Mr. Caldwell.
    On the drive over, Dad said he hoped I understood he might have to tell Mr. Caldwell a white lie. I feigned shock and dismay at this, but my own count of white lies had been on the heavy side lately so I couldn’t really be disappointed in him. Anyway, it was for the right cause.
    Mr. Caldwell’s red brick house, four blocks past the gas station, was small and unremarkable. We left the pickup truck at the curb and I followed Dad to the front door. He pressed the buzzer and we waited. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman with jowly cheeks and sleepy eyes. She was still wearing her quilted pink robe. “Is Mr. Caldwell at home, please?” Dad asked.
    “Phillip!” she called into the house. “Philllleeeeup!” She had a voice like a buzz saw at high pitch.
    In another moment a gray-haired man wearing a bow tie, brown slacks, and a rust-colored