The Lesson of Her Death

dark. I don’t think he saw much.”
    “Anything you tell me is confidential. Nobody’ll know he gave us any information.”
    Hank walked to the stairs and called his son. A tall boy in jeans and a T-shirt appeared in a minute, looking assured, smiling, staring Ebbans right back in the eyes. Ebbans, who had two daughters and had never for one minute regretted that, thought he would love to have a son like Sean. “You heard about the girl was killed over by the dam.”
    “Yessir. We heard the next day.”
    “I understand you got home about ten. From the Rifle Club. What kind of gun you shoot?”
    “Winchester 75. With a target barrel.”
    “That’s a good gun. What’s your rank?”
    “Sharpshooter. All positions.”
    Ebbans jutted out his jaw, impressed, and asked, “You were outside about ten on Tuesday?”
    “After I dumped the garbage bags in the bin I saw this raccoon and I chased him off, down toward the lake. I saw two people sitting on the other side of the dam.”
    “What were they doing?”
    Lisa said, “Don’t be afraid to say you don’t know, if you don’t.”
    “Looked like they had tackle but it might just have been gym bags or something. They weren’t fishing.”
    “Can you describe them?”
    “Sorry, sir. Not too good.” He nodded vaguely toward where the dam must have been. “It’s a ways. All I could see was their, you know, outlines. Silhouettes.”
    Ebbans said, “Could you tell if they were men or women, boys? White or black?”
    “Well, I got the feeling they were guys. Kids from school, I mean.” He added formally, “I don’t believe they were African-Americans.”
    “What did you see them do?”
    “After a couple minutes they stood up and picked up whatever they were carrying and walked to the dam. There was this flash from one of their hands. I thought it was a knife. The way he held it.”
    Ebbans said, “Might it have been a bottle or a soda can?”
    “Yessir, could’ve been. They sat on the dam for a while then I saw one of them point and they ducked down and ran off into the bushes. I thought they might be hatters so—”
    “Hatters?”
    “You know, like geeks or something. So I put the bikes in the garage.”
    “And you didn’t see them again?”
    “Nosir. But I did see someone who walked by close to them. An old guy. He was fishing. He was about sixty, I’d guess. About my grandpa’s age. He was casting spoons but he had a fly fisherman’s hat on. A red one.”
    “You haven’t seen him since?”
    “Nosir. You want me to keep an eye out for him, I’ll be happy to do that.”
    “No, honey,” Lisa said. “I mean, you’ve done plenty.”
    With the authoritative voice of a middle manager, Hank said, “That’s not our job, son.”
    “You won’t use his name, will you?” Lisa asked. “You won’t talk to reporters?”
    “All names are confidential. I promise you that.” Ebbans looked at his watch and said he had to be going and thanked Lisa for the water and Hank for the time. He said to the boy, “I sure appreciate your help. It was a brave thing to do. And I’d appreciate anything else you can do for us.”
    At the door, the only hand he shook was Sean’s.
    In the dark they talked.
    Brian Okun said, “Think about what you’re saying. What you’re calling melancholia was cynicism.”
    The young woman considered this then said, “No, I don’t think so.”
    “How much of Wallace Stevens have you read?”
    They were in Okun’s apartment in downtown New Lebanon, a half mile from the quadrangle. This was the town’s sole urban tenement neighborhood, which consisted of one block of three-story walk-ups, eighty years old.
    “Enough to know that he was sad,” Dahlia answered.
    “Sad men don’t write poetry like his. Skeptics do. There’s a power about him.”
    “What about ‘Sunday Morning’?” she asked. “You call that power? The woman has no energy. She’s almost paralyzed at the thought that there’s no God.”
    “‘Sunday Morning’ is his most …” Okun found a word that conveyed contempt. “… accessible poem. It doesn’t count. But since you’ve brought it up I maintain that only a cynic would create that imagery in the first place.”
    Dahlia was from Wichita but was of Eastern Indian ancestry. She was short and voluptuous (Okun called her “plump”—another nod to Dickens). He wished she knew more about the Modern poets. He said, “You forgetStevens was a lawyer for an insurance company. A