The Lesson of Her Death

out?” his father asked. He felt a horrid urge, a salivating urge, to step forward and bloody the boy’s nose. To scream at him. (To scream what?
“How could you do that to a poor girl? How could you, you stupid little prick?”
To scream:
“What’d I do to make you this way? I loved you! I really loved you! I’m so sorry!”)
    Creth Halpern stood completely still, the screwdriver sliding from his hand. He stood twenty feet away from his son, whose upper lip glistened with snot andwhose face was glossy with sweat, his fat three-dimensional chest heaving.
    “How did you?—”
    His wife whispered, “Oh my God.”
    Creth Halpern too saw the gun.
    “Whatcha got there, boy?” he asked.
    Philip’s head turned to his mother. The glass fell from her grip, hitting the floor and whipping a tail of liquor against the refrigerator. Her smooth hands, tipped in unchipped red nails, went to her mouth. Philip turned back to his father. The boy’s mouth moved but no words came out. It was the mouth of a fish eating water. Finally, he swallowed then said in a weak voice, “The handy man’s here.”
    “Listen up, young man. Put that gun down.”
    “The handy man.”
    His mother said, “Philip, don’t do this.” She sobbed, “Please, don’t do this.”
    “I never did anything to you,” the boy said to his father.
    “Son—”
    Philip held the gun up and said, “Handy man. Handyman, handymanhandyman—”
    “I only wanted to help you, son.”
    “I never did anything to you,” Philip whispered.
    “Son, I know you didn’t hurt those girls.”
    “You were talking to the sheriff. I saw you.”
    “I was giving him that purse you hid. The note! The note was inside. You know what I’m talking about! It shows you didn’t kill her.”
    In a voice more assured and more adult and more frightening than Halpern had ever heard, Philip said, “I’m sorry, Dad, but the handy man’s here.”
    “I wanted to help you,” his father said.
    Philip said, “Hold out your hand.”

    Bill Corde stepped silently past a drowsy old mutt, chained to the worn railing of the front porch. He slipped through the door and made his way toward the back of the house along the pink carpet runner, stained with dark patches. He smelled dog piss and old food and bleach. He could see Philip in the kitchen, holding the dark gray gun. He could see Halpern nearby. He could see a woman’s white arm ending in long polished nails. Corde stopped in the dining room outside the kitchen doorway. He left his revolver holstered then took his hat off and set it on a dusty Sanyo TV. He paused next to the dining room table, which was covered with sticky soiled dishes and scraps of food, crusts from last night’s pizza. In the center of the Formica a large paisley spill of ketchup had coagulated darkly.
    “Hi, Philip,” Corde said softly.
    Creth Halpern jumped at the sound. His wife’s shocked face appeared in the doorway. Philip looked at the detective, uninterested, then back to his father and said, “Hold out your hand.”
    Halpern said slowly to Corde, “He’s got himself a gun.”
    “Hold out your hand!”
    Halpern raised his hands above his head.
    “No, not up. Handy man is here. Hold
out
your hand! You know how to do it.”
    “Phil,” Corde said. The boy looked at him for a minute then back to his father. When Corde moved a step closer to the living room Philip raised the gun to the center of his father’s chest.
    “Philip,” Corde said, speaking casually. “Why don’t you set the gun down? Would you please?”
    His parents looked helplessly at Corde. He saw despair in their faces and he saw that the boy’s father wore it the hardest.
    “Please honey, please son,” his mother was whimpering.
    Philip looked at her. He smiled. He said, “Open the refrigerator.”
    “Please honey.…”
    “OPEN IT!”
    She screamed, and tore open the door. Philip held the gun up and fired a ringing, deafening shot into the bottom of the pitcher. The stained beige Rubbermaid exploded in a mist of gin. His mother screamed again. Neither Corde nor Halpern moved. Philip turned back to Corde.
    Corde said, “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
    Philip laughed triumphantly. “You think I don’t know about that? That’s what they tried with Dathar. They tried to fool him. They lied to him but he didn’t believe them.”
    “We want to help you, Phil.”
    “Jamie turned me in.”
    Corde said sternly, “No, he didn’t. I talked—”
    “He