Dreaming of the Bones

today, about Lydia and Nathan, and Darcy, and even Daphne Morris. Morgan Ashby told us—”
    ”It’s quite true,” Adam interrupted flatly.
    Kincaid stared at him. ”But I thought you and Lydia —”
    ”Oh, I had that honor, all right, although if I’d known what would come after, I’d never have done it. Youth is no excuse for irresponsible behavior, and ours caused Lydia no end of grief.”
    Gemma saw the weariness in his eyes. ”Adam, you loved Lydia , didn’t you? How could you let her—”
    ”How could I stop her?” he said with a quick, impatient gesture of his hands. ”What you don’t understand is that Lydia always got her way, no matter the consequences to her or to anyone else.”

16

    ...I stand here for sense,
    Invincible, inviolable, eternal,
    For safety, regulations, paving-stones,
    Street lamps, police, and bijou residences
    Semi-detached. I stand for Sanity,
    Comfort, Content, Prosperity, top-hats,
    Alcohol, collars, meat...

    RUPERT BROOKE,
    from the satire ”John Rump”

    Kit trudged into the wind, his hands in his pockets, his head tucked, turtlelike, into the collar of his jacket. The air smelled sharply of rain, and although it was only a few minutes past four o’clock, the lowering clouds had caused the streetlamps to flicker on.
    But Kit didn’t mind the damp cold or the early dusk. He’d been glad of any excuse to get out of the house—had offered, in fact, to fetch his grandmother’s favorite biscuits from the supermarket at the edge of the housing estate.
    Eugenia had frowned at him from her bed, and in desperation he’d resorted to guile. Smiling falsely, he said, ”Please, Grandmama, it will only take me a few minutes, and then you can have Orange Cremes with your tea. I’m sure it would make you feel ever so much better.”
    He waited, holding his breath, smile pasted in place, until thecrease between her brows relaxed and she pulled the mauve bed jacket closer to her throat with a little sigh.
    ”Mind you don’t tarry, Christopher. You can make your grandfather’s tea when he comes in. I’m sure I can’t be expected to look after everyone,” she added, and Kit almost snorted in disgust. His grandfather had been waiting on her hand and foot since Kit had been there, even though nothing seemed to please her, or to distract her for long from the box she kept close to her side. It held things from his mother’s childhood: school reports and photos, crayon drawings, medals from spelling competitions, a bit of lace from a party dress.
    ”Of course not, Grandmama,” he said, as convincingly as he could manage. ”I’ll take care of everything.”
    ”Fetch my bag from the sitting room, then, and I’ll give you a pound. You’ll not need more than that, and I’ll expect to see the change.”
    Leaning back against the cushions, Eugenia closed her eyes, as if her little speech had exhausted her, and Kit did as she asked before she could change her mind. She wasn’t ill enough to loosen control of her purse strings. Did she think he couldn’t be trusted to take a pound without pilfering?
    She’d confined herself to bed after the funeral yesterday, much to Kit’s relief, and he suspected to his grandfather’s as well. He and Granddad had played endless games of cards in the kitchen, and for a time his grandfather’s quiet, undemanding company had eased the weight in his chest. But today an urgent phone call had sent Granddad to his insurance office after lunch, and in her husband’s absence Eugenia had become more and more fretful, fussing at Kit over trivial things until he felt he’d scream.
    Now his steps slowed as the rows of brown-brick semidetached houses came to an end. He knew if he looked up he’d see the Tesco at the end of the road, but he stared determinedly at the toes of his trainers, shuffling them against the pavement. His right shoelace had come undone, and as he squatted to tie it he thought of his mum’s nagging about his laces.
    Suddenly he saw her vividly before him, pushing her hair from her face with an exasperated smile. He froze, one knee up, hands stilled on his wayward laces, afraid the tiniest movement might dissolve the vision.
    ”You’ll break your neck one of these days, Kit, mark my words,” she said, laughing. It had been a joke with them, a symbol of all the unreasonable things mothers say to their children. As she reached out to ruffle his hair, her image faded, and he felt nothing but the wind.
    Pain stabbed