She is seven now. She is all right, which is a word doing a lot of work, and she has somebody she sees on Thursdays and she is completely open about going, because I made an absolute rule with myself that nothing about this would ever be a secret in this house again.
There is a criminal matter and I am not going to write about it while it is running.
Cora has not been in this house since that Tuesday. Emory Tice has not practised since the April.
Rosalind Ferrier moved into the annexe in the summer. She is seventy and she did not offer and I did not ask; she rang me in the March and said, “I’m coming Friday,” and put the phone down, and she has been here since.
She said one thing to me in the May that I want to put down.
She said, “I knew at the anniversary. I looked at you down that table and you didn’t look at me back.”
She had. I remember it. She looked straight at me and I looked at a sideboard.
Daddy’s tired, aren’t you, Dash.
She said that in front of twenty-five people at a gathering for my wife, with my daughter’s drawing face down under her hand, and a woman near me said bless her and meant my wife.
