Mrs. Westington told me to go into the dining room, where she put the tea and the sandwiches, cut into small squares, on the long, dark cherry-wood dining table. I thanked her again and sipped the tea and nibbled on the sandwiches. She watched me eat for a few moments, and then she rose and said. "They're here."
I had heard nothing. It was as if she had radar that told her when anyone had stepped onto her property. I rose and followed her out.
The sight of the police and the ambulance put a new wave of chills and then numbness into my body, which had somehow taken an intermission from the sad and terrible events that had just occurred. The police went into the motor home, followed by the two paramedics. I watched from the portico. The rain had begun. as Mrs. Westington had predicted, and fell in a steady, dull drizzle.
One of the highway patrolmen, a stout, tall man with light brown hair, sauntered over to us as though the rain wouldn't dare make him wet. He stepped up and reached into his back pocket to pull out a notepad. He flipped it open, tipped his hat at Mrs. Westinaton, and directed his attention to me.
"What's your full name, miss?"
"I'm April Taylor."
"That man in there was your uncle?"
"Yes, sir. Palaver."
"Palaver?"
"He's a magician. hypnotist. I was helping him with his show. We travel to different theaters."'
"How old are you?"
I glanced at Mrs. Westington.
"She's eighteen," she replied for me. "The poor girl's been through hell and back. Get to the point."
"I'm just trying to do my job. Mrs. Westington, There's a man dead in there. This is an unattended death. There's procedure."
"Well, no one's telling you not to follow your procedures. officer. Just get along with it. I just gave the poor girl something to eat when you arrived. Tears getting cold."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, and turned back to me. "What happened to your uncle?"
"He died." Mrs. Westington said as if the policeman were a total idiot. I nearly laughed. I was feeling so confused. I was drunk on the insanity of what was occurring.
The patrolman grimaced and looked at me.
"My uncle was drinking heavily for a long time. I think he finally got very sick from it," I said.
"That big doll in the bed was part of his act?"
"Oh. Lord have mercy," Mrs. Westington muttered. "What's that got to do with anything now?"
"Where is the rest of your family. April?" he asked, trying to turn away from Mrs. Westington.
"Back in Memphis. My sister is a professional basketball player."
"And your parents?"
"Both dead," I said.
"I knew it," Mrs. Westington told him.
The paramedics carried Uncle Palaver out of the motor home on a stretcher, his whole body covered, and put him into the ambulance. I started to cry again.
"Oh, dear. dear," Mrs. Westington said. She put her arm around my shoulders. "I'm taking her inside. You can come in and finish procedures or stop by afterward," she said firmly, and turned me.
"Someone will be by. Is she staying with you?"
Of course, she's staying with me. What do you expect she'll do, get into that contraption and drive off?" she asked, nodding at the motor home with my car attached.