Rather, it would have been a comfort to know that the city, the Mall, the buildings and streets, much like the reservation up north, have been designed to sluice not just his happiness, but everyone’s, into predictable channels. A stable home, caring parents, a good job, close friends, quiet nights. It would have been good to know that our modern existence is designed to ask only for these meager returns, when, beyond the dim dome of lights, off the trail a few yards, just around the bend, lurk much larger, much meaner alternatives. How poorly we are prepared to do well.

34

Betty is sitting at the kitchen table playing cribbage with Boo, who is trying to peg off a four-day binge, when she sees headlights sweep the room and an unfamiliar car crunch into the driveway. She knows something is wrong. She pauses and shuffles the cards, making sound around the silent agony and quiet shame Boo is trying to work through. She looks up in time to see Simon jump from the driver’s seat and run around to the car’s back door. She bangs out of the house and runs down the wobbly front steps when she sees Simon’s blood-spattered T-shirt and Lincoln’s limp body in his arms like an offering.

Her light blue robe flutters and she runs like an unfrescoed angel while a low wail, half-groan and half-scream, builds and pours from her mouth. She has eyes only for Lincoln.

“Oh my God. My baby, my baby.”

She is hovering. Her hands are cupped on his long face, searching for chill, for a sign. She has to stand on her toes and reach up to clear the platform of Simon’s arms, which do not shake or tremble. She coos over Lincoln as if he were a newborn, nervous that the roughness of her hands might hurt him.

Simon doesn’t say anything. His eyes are lowered and he looks at the open door. He moves quickly, lurching up each step.

Betty is right behind. “You okay, you okay?”

Simon moves toward the couch and Boo steps ahead and sweeps the beer cans and newspapers onto the floor. Simon sets Lincoln down and tears the blanket hanging over the back and covers him with it. Betty rushes to his side and looks in his face and feels his forehead.

“What did you do, Simon?”

Simon holds the phone receiver in one hand and looks at her. “Ma. He got shot.”

“How could you?” Her voice is vicious.

“Ma.”

“He ain’t even Lester’s age.”

“Ma.”

“How?”

Boo is listening obliquely as he fills a glass with water, drinks half of it and hands it to Betty who pushes it to Lincoln’s cracked lips.

Simon dials 911.

“Got someone here who’s shot.” Pause. “Hunting.” He gives the address and hangs up.

Betty is glaring at Simon. “I couldn’t have raised you.”

“Ma. I didn’t do it.”

“I couldn’t.”