Evil Breeding

Since I’d had no time to take Rowdy home, he was in his crate in the back of the Bronco instead of in his usual sneaking-into-Mount Auburn position flat on the floor, but no one stopped me to enforce the no-dogs rule. Maybe a dog crated in a car was perfectly welcome.
    Before leaving Althea’s, I’d sealed the photocopies of the mysterious mailings in a big manila envelope I’d taken with me. Now, getting out of the Bronco, I held the envelope prominently in my right hand as a reassurance, a false one, of course, to Jocelyn. I might as well not have bothered. Like the tattooed man at the Gardner kneeling before the John Singer Sargent portrait, Jocelyn was on her knees before Christina’s half of the gravestone. Her hands were tightly wrapped around a wicker basket that held an arrangement of pink tulips and white daffodils. Her eyes were closed. Her lips moved in what could only have been prayer. After a moment or two, she placed the basket on the new turf in front of the stone. Her late husband’s fresh grave was bare. Any wreaths, sprays, or bouquets left there after the funeral on Saturday must have withered and been cleared away, or had perhaps been moved to other graves by mourners doubly stricken by grief and poverty. In any case, although it was Peter Motherway’s barren, unmarked grave that seemed to call for flowers, Jocelyn paid tribute only to Christina.
    When she rose, I could see tears running down her cheeks. Without handing her the envelope, I said gently, as if speaking to an injured animal, “Jocelyn, I don’t know the details of the situation you’re in, but I know you need help. I have a good friend who will know what to do. I want you to come home with me. We’ll find a safe place for you.”
    My offer succeeded only in provoking another freakish smile. “The only safe place,” Jocelyn said bitterly, “is right here with Christina.” Like a dog snatching an unguarded steak from a kitchen counter, she grabbed the envelope from my hand, dashed to the old Ford pickup, and drove away.
    With no reason to linger, I returned to the Bronco, which started on the first try. Heading for the main gate, I reached the old part of the cemetery, where I slowed to a safe crawl to avoid endangering the birders, fitness walkers, and other visitors who were taking advantage of the early-summer evening to enjoy the garden cemetery as its founders had intended. When I neared the main gate, I could see Jocelyn’s old black truck, which had halted with its brake lights on and its left-turn signal blinking. One of the buses or trackless trolleys that run along Mount Auburn Street must have discharged a throng of passengers; pedestrians were passing along the sidewalk in front of the truck. When the sidewalk cleared, Jocelyn edged ahead, but had to wait for a break in traffic. Tonight, Mount Auburn Street was jammed with commuters heading home to Watertown, Belmont, and Newton, and after-work shoppers going to and from the big Star Market a block away from the cemetery gate, on the opposite side of the road. A group of tourists clutching maps of the cemetery crossed in front of my car.
    As I started to move forward, an ordinary-looking beige car emerged from one of the cemetery streets that join at the main gate. It pulled in back of Jocelyn’s truck. With the pavement ahead of me clear, I added my Bronco to the little two-car line. I signaled for a right turn, thus activating the windshield wipers. Now that I was directly behind the beige car, I could see that it was a Mercedes. Its left-turn signal was blinking. Its wipers were not embarrassing its driver by sweeping nonexistent rain off a dry windshield. I confess to the impulse to shove my foot on the gas and slam my dented, malfunctioning Bronco into the nearest vehicle that had cost more than my yearly income, a vehicle conveniently located about a yard ahead of my front bumper. And the rich S.O.B. had a car phone, too! He was using it right now. The Mercedes probably had a fabulous sound system instead of a tape player that ate tapes. Posh upholstery. Air conditioning that did ninety degrees to sixty-five in ten seconds. If so, the driver evidently had it turned off or was wasting gas and money by running it while a window was open. The driver had ended his call and was now stretching. His left hand and forearm appeared through the window. On the arm was a large tattoo. The driver had dark, curly hair. Easing ahead, I strained to look into the