The Lesson of Her Death

killed.”
    “The students?”
    “That’s right. The Sheriff’s Department sometimes has a deputy keeping an eye out on the houses of the investigators.”
    Sarah bounded down the stairs and halted in the arched doorway to the living room, clutching her pink backpack and gazing at Breck. Diane noted that she had changed clothes and was now wearing her favorite T-shirt, bright blue and emblazoned with a seahorse. The girl brushed a long tail of hair from her face and said nothing.
    “Sarah, this is Dr. Breck.”
    “You’re my tutor.”
    “That’s right. I’m pleased to meet you, Sarah,” Breck said.
    To Diane’s surprise, the girl shook his hand.
    Jamie walked quickly through the living room, wearing his biking shorts and a sweatshirt.
    “Oh, Jamie …”
    He glanced at the three people in the room and didn’t say a word. He left by the front door. She saw him leap on his bike and pedal quickly out of the driveway.
    “Wrestling practice,” she explained to Breck.
    “Ah.” Breck turned to Sarah. “What’ve you got there?”
    “My backpack.”
    “What’s in it?”
    “Barbie. And Redford T. Redford—”
    “That’s one of her stuffed bears.” Diane felt a need to translate.
    “That’s a clever name.”
    Sarah announced, “He’s the world’s smartest bear. And I have my tape recorder.”
    “Tape recorder? Oh-oh, are you recording what I’m saying? Like a spy?”
    “No!” Sarah smiled. “I’m writing stories.”
    “Stories?” Breck’s eyes went wide. “I’ve never known anybody who writes stories.”
    “Dr. Parker is having me write a book.”
    Breck said, “I write books. But mine are very boring. Students use them in class. I’ll bet yours are more interesting than mine. Sarah, why don’t you sit over here next to me.”
    Diane asked, “Can I get you anything?”
    “A salt shaker,” Breck said.
    “Pardon?”
    “Actually, the whole carton would be better.”
    “Salt.”
    Breck said, “Please.”
    Diane walked into the kitchen and Breck turned to Sarah. “How do you spell ‘chair’?”
    “C-H-A-I-R.”
    “Very good.”
    Sarah beamed.
    “How about ‘table’?”
    She closed her eyes and thought for a minute. She shook her head. Then she said, “T-A-B-E-L. No, L-E.”
    “That’s right. How ’bout ‘tablecloth’?”
    The girl went quiet, her mood changed fast as a balloon popping. “I don’t know.” Her face became sullen.
    “Tablecloth,” Breck said.
    Diane, returning with the blue carton, felt an electric rush across her face—sympathetic fear.
She’s getting upset
,
she’s going to be blocked and you’re bucking for a tantrum, boy
.…
    Breck opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheet of black paper. Diane handed him the salt. Breck took it and poured a large pile onto the paper then spread it out smoothly. Mother and daughter watched—one with fascination, one with caution. Breck said to Sarah, “Let’s spell it together.”
    “I don’t know how.” She stared at the salt. Diane stood in the doorway until she saw what she believed was a glance from Breck, requesting privacy. She retreated to the kitchen.
    “Give me your hand,” Breck said to the girl.
    Reluctantly Sarah did. He took her index finger and drew a T in the salt with it. “You feel it?” He asked. “You feel what a T is like?”
    Sarah nodded. Breck smoothed the salt. “Do it again.”
    She hesitated, then started the letter. It was a clumsy attempt, looking more like a plus sign.
    “Let’s try an A.”
    “I can do that one,” she said and smoothed the salt herself.
    For a half hour they made salt letters. A hundred “table”s. A hundred “cloth”s. A hundred of those words put together, making a third word. Even though Sarah struggled fiercely to spell it correctly—and did so the majority of times—Breck did not seem interested in her results. Less a tutor than a sculpting instructor, Breck urged her to feel the shape of the letters. Diane, crouched like a peeping Tom, peered through a crack in the kitchen door and watched.
    At the end of the session he gave Sarah a tracing notebook, which contained a story Breck read to her. Sarah declared it was “a pretty darn good story,” even though she guessed the ending halfway through. Breck gave her instructions on tracing the paragraphs. He stood up and left Sarah to her book and tape recorder and mangy stuffed bear.
    “Hello?” Breck called. “Mrs. Corde?”
    “In here.”
    He walked into the kitchen, where