miniature pond. But the man chose only to stand behind it, his hands gripping the curve of its back.
“I work,” he explained. “I’m a chef at the Italian restaurant on Sturgis Street. And I volunteer. Actually, that’s why I’m here.”
“I hope you aren’t here about me.” The old woman laughed. “I am quite fine. I have no need for meals, on wheels or otherwise.”
He smiled with an effort that told me it was an expression he seldom wore. “No, not that.” His fingers twitched as mine used to when I needed a cigarette. “I keep watch, you see, in the park. I watch over the children.”
The lady waited, her face betraying nothing.
“I’m part of an organization,” he added quickly, as if her silence meant she thought him peculiar or, worse, suspected him of being the evil he purported to prevent. “It’s not a big deal. I just keep tabs on the people who come and go. Jot down license plate numbers sometimes. Keep an eye on the children. I mostly work nights, preparing food for the next day, so I like to walk in the mornings when they play.”
“I see,” the old lady said. “You are Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye.”
A spark lit inside him. This time, the smile came easily. “That’s my favorite book,” he admitted. “How did you know?”
“Many years of teaching school, my young friend.”
He nodded and wiped his hands across the tops of his pants, leaving streaks of flour on the denim. “I have a favor to ask. But you’ll think it’s strange.”
“I’m too old to think anything’s strange,” she assured him.
“There’s a man in the park. Sitting on a bench.”
“Perhaps he is enjoying the weather?” She lifted her face to the sun. “It is the finest of spring days. I have been sitting here for an hour myself.”
“I don’t think so,” the man said reluctantly, as if hating to spoil her pleasure. “I’ve seen him now for several days in a row, sitting on the same bench for hours, watching the children play. Sometimes he sleeps or pretends to read the newspaper, but he is secretly watching the children. I’m sure of it. Once you suspect, it’s easy to tell.”
A cloud of sadness passed over the old lady’s face. She knew too much about the world to question the possibilities of what he implied.
“I wonder if you might go with me?” the man asked. “To the park? To take a look at him to see.”
“To see what?” she asked.
“To see if you think he is a danger or if, maybe, well . . .” His voice trailed off.
She looked at him and waited, unhurried, willing to let him take his time.
He glanced about him as he searched for the right words. “I need you to tell me if you think he is a danger to the children or if he’s just someone like me who lives alone and likes the company of the park. His life could be ruined if I made an accusation. But a child’s life might be ruined if I don’t.”
“Well, then,” the old lady said, rising to her feet as she made up her mind to trust him. “Let’s just have a look, shall we?”
Chapter 2
I was a surly bastard when I was alive, rejecting small talk and daring others to encroach on my silence at their peril. I would park myself at a bar, ignoring everyone and everything around me. I feared the kindness of others, knowing that glimpsing anything less than abject misery would remind me of how I had given up on life and other people had not.
But in the months I’ve spent wandering my town since my death, I have come to understand that people need meaningless chatter. They use small talk to fill the spaces between themselves and others, as the old lady’s neighbor was doing now. He prattled on in a nervous monologue about his job; his mother; his desire to do the right thing; and, most of all, his fear that he might accuse an innocent man, thus triggering an avalanche of injustice.
My god, but he never stopped talking. It was as annoying as a thousand sand flies buzzing inside my head. The chattering of monkeys would have been more soothing.
I do not trust people who talk too much.
As a detective, I pegged suspects as guilty the instant they offered unasked-for information. And I had been right, most of the time, at least before I descended into ineptitude. Guilt made people