Page 80 of The Number of Love
Dot wouldn’t mind if she dropped by. Nor would Drake, she was sure. If anything, he’d give her one of those smiles. The kind that said she’d surprised him, and he liked it.
Before she could reason herself out of it, she grabbed her coat, hat, handbag, and keys and left.
The parallel lines of the hallway led to the parallel lines of the banister, which led to the parallel lines of the doorway, and then the curbs on the street. Never intersecting—barring calamity that brought it all crashing down.
She’d thought that’s what she wanted—to track a course parallel to everyone else. Always close, but always separate. Never intersecting.
But even parallel lines intersected in infinity—that was the non-Euclidean theory that allowed for revolutionary thoughts like the ones Professor Einstein proposed. Irrelevant to everyday life here on earth. But crucial in understanding the heavens.
Did she want to be confined to the earthly, then ... or set her sights on the heavenly again?
She paused at the first corner, less to check for the traffic thatwouldn’t be there after dark than to letthatquestion whisper through her soul. It almost, nearly felt like the demand of an equation.Solve for x.Find the thing that was missing. Put it back.
A horn honked somewhere in the distance, and she hurried across the intersection. Habit had her turning into the park when she reached it. The Go board hadn’t been there since that day after Mass two Sundays ago. But she checked every day. It seemed odd that Williams hadn’t been out in so long ... odd enough that on Sunday Margot had asked Holmes to give her the direction for the building he’d trailed him to. She’d written him a note, just asking after his health and if there was anything she could do for him. Saying she missed their game.
Her feet came to a halt at the little wrought-iron table. The game board was there again, with a fluttering slip of white paper. She reached for it with relief.
More writing marched across the small page in neat, parallel lines longer than normal. Not just the words of play. An actual note, the likes of which he hadn’t left since that first one.
Thank you so much for your concern, Miss De Wilde. It means the world to me. I have been under the weather—pneumonia, I fear. But I have missed our game too. I will make more of an effort to continue it. Your prayers would be appreciated. JW
She’d been right to be concerned, then. Sitting on the cold chair, she made the move in the game that she’d already had planned and then fished about in her handbag for something to write with. Flipped the note over and used her handbag, lumpy as it was, for a table.
You have my prayers.
She paused a moment, pen still hovering over the period. Habit made her say it—never had she turned down a request for prayers. But then, no one had really made such a request since Maman died.
She wouldn’t let the note be a lie. She wouldn’t.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she gripped the icy edge of the table and drew in a long breath. It shook.Eternal Father...
Her fingers bit harder, until she felt the many layers of paint dent under her nails.
Eternal Father. Please put your hand on Mr. Williams. Clear his lungs of any pneumonia. Touch him, Lord, andmake him well. Eighteen, thirty-six, fifty-four...
She sucked in another breath. That wasn’t so bad.
Eighteen.
Her eyes flew open again. It wasn’t the Lord. She didn’t think so. It wasn’t that resonating voice deep within, just the memory of it. An echo.
An accusation.
She knew now who Eighteen was. And like a roulette wheel spinning, she watched numbers cartwheel through her mind. Only they weren’t just numbers. They were dates.
Breath catching again, she stood and darted off. Back to the street and down it, toward Dot’s building. Through the doors, up the stairs, to the door that had become nearly as familiar as her own. She knocked and forced her respiration to even out again.
After ten eternal seconds, the door opened, and Drake stood silhouetted against the lamplight. Smiling. As if she deserved his smile. “Margot. Dot and Red went out to see a moving picture—”
“Good.” She didn’t need her friend to hear this anyway. To blame her. Not yet. She pushed her way in and then spun a step from the door to face him. To face the truth. “It’s my fault you were shot.”
Drake closed the door slowly, silently, and turned to her without a twitch in his countenance to betray anything but pleasure to see her. “No, it’s not.”
“Of course it is.” Didn’t he see? She closed her eyes, and it was there, right there. Glaring at her. “The date. The date you were shot. The seventh of November, right?” Seven plus eleven. Eighteen. Always eighteen.
“Yes.” He drew the word into three syllables.Three times six. Eighteen.
Her hands shook. “The same day Maman died. When Hewasn’tasking me to pray for her. He wasn’t telling me to go home. He was telling me to pray foryou.”
