Page 100 of Meet Me in the Garden

“Must’ve had some guys come do it for them.” He locks the coop. We go look at the mess again, closer. A flattened head, bigger than a pigeon’s, topped with a dash of red. A lifeless eye gazing out. “Poor little chicken,” Lionel says. His face crumples, he squeezes his eyes shut. “They didn’t need to do all this.”

“Let’s leave it for a minute,” I say. I get the bird from the back seat of the car, aware as I do of every window on the street, every parked car. There’s a slam from behind me and I startle, but it’s an elderly colored man, emptying his garbage into the silver pail.

“Come on,” I tell Lionel. “Let’s go through the back.” I take his hand and he follows me like a little boy, head hanging, tears on his cheeks. Inside, his apartment is as it always is, undisturbed. All I can think to do is call Al at the office. “Avoid the front door,” I warn. “It’s gruesome.” He comes straight over, dressed in his suit, an expression I remember from the blue house as though it were yesterday.

“How is it that we’re here again?” he asks after Lionel’s told him the story. “And how is it you thoughtOdettewas the person to call?”

“I managed just fine,” I say.

“They’re just sending me a message is all,” Lionel says.

“And a damn clear one,” Al says. “The question now is where you’re gonna go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Al shakes his head, opens his mouth to disagree, but the phone rings and Lionel leaves him to answer it. “Hey Ginny,” Lionel says. “I’ve been better, yeah. Okay. Use the back door. You’ll see why.”

Ginny’s here in minutes. She looks like she’s been crying. Maybe I made things difficult by showing up there this morning. Maybe it has nothing to do with me at all. Maybe she’s been worrying about Lionelall day. The truth is it could be anything. I know so little about her life.

“I’m going to clean up the murder scene out there,” Al says.

“I’ll help,” I say.

“Absolutely not,” he says. Lionel rises. “You stay put, too, little brother.”

“Have you all eaten?” Ginny asks. We shake our heads. “I’ll throw something together, and then we’ll figure out what Lionel needs to do.” I watch her opening cabinets, pulling out jars and boxes. Lionel lies down on the sofa and closes his eyes.

Later, we sit around his table, an awkward foursome, each of us jumpy at the cars passing outside. Al’s showered, dressed in Lionel’s clothes. I twirl spaghetti around my fork. Red pepper flakes and olives and capers, briny and bright. “I didn’t know you could cook this way,” I say.

“Was it formal training or osmosis?” Al asks.

“A little of each,” Ginny says.

“Child labor?”

“Pretty sure the rules are laxer when it comes to a family business.”

I don’t know what they’re talking about.

“She grew up in her family’s restaurant,” Lionel tells me. “You didn’t know that?”

“Even I knew that,” Al says, unaware of how it stings.

“Remember when I ordered the whole menu for your thirtieth birthday?” Lionel asks.

“How could I forget? And you told my brother when you went to pay.”

“I swear he started to cry. Slipped that bottle of red wine in, on the house.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t feeltoosoft about him. He’s welcome to call me anytime.”

“Family,” Lionel says, winking at me. “Right, Odette?”

“Don’t start, you two,” Al says. “Adele and I have been holding everyone together for years. It’s someone else’s turn now.”

We finish eating. We clear the table and wash the dishes. We sit around,waiting for something to happen. It’s late now. “You two go on home,” Al finally says to Ginny and me. “I’ll stay back with Lionel and we’ll figure out a plan.”

We walk outside, stand together at my car. I’d offer her a ride but she lives two blocks away. “I wish I knew everything about you,” I say.