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on her along the bridge of his nose.
    â€œWell, no one knew, you see. No one but me and Beth,I suppose. He never kept anything from his little sister. He told us he was going to do it. In a snit about something or other, having to put on his shirt and tie—get a haircut before Sunday. Something.” She looked out beyond the glass to the pool—kids admonishing each other, practicing adult things: taking sides, holding grudges. “Reverend—Wentworth? Was that his name?”
    The man across from her nodded. “Did you get the feeling he meant any harm by it?”
    Joyce had a vivid memory of poor Mr. Wentworth finally coming to rest in a fetal position on the floor beside the pulpit: one of his shoes had come off; she remembered noticing a hole in the heel of his sock. “It was too much of a coincidence, but I can’t believe Simon really had anything to do with it; he wasn’t a malicious kid. He’d never want to hurt anybody. ‘What are Pentecostals?’ I remember him asking me that about a week before it happened. He’d seen something on TV, he said. About speaking in tongues.”
    She shifted in her chair and leaned over to massage her Achilles tendon. “He had this knack, you see—George used to say, ‘The kid’s possessed,’ but it wasn’t like that; Simon always knew what he was doing. It was always him doing it—do you know what I mean? One time when he was about four or five he caught a chill and his temperature shot up; we had to put him in a tub of ice water, to bring his temperature down. The doctor was afraid he’d go into convulsions. We were up all night with him till the fever broke. ‘Billy’s dog Soldier’s going to bark.’ That’s what he said when he opened his eyes. ‘Billy’s dog Soldier’s going to bark.’ I’ll never forget it. A minute later a dog started barking down the street somewhere. We didn’t know who Billy was, some boy Simon knew—we’dnever met him. There was this barking, though. Right after he said that.”
    â€œWere these isolated incidents or—would you say they were typical?” Thornquist asked, straightening up and reaching into his jacket; he took out a small notebook.
    â€œThe television started acting up—that was the next thing, I guess. At first we thought it was the cable company. A program would come on, or Beth would change the channel—put on something Simon didn’t like—and the picture would go all funny. Sometimes it would go back to the show he wanted. The cable people couldn’t figure it out. It would never happen when they were around.
    â€œAnd then he got into diving, which I think made him more content with himself, less angry with the world. His father was a good swimmer and we had a pool at the house by then, and later on this one at the club. He picked it up really fast; he was fearless, he’d try anything. We got him involved in a program. His coach said he had a good ‘kinetic memory.’ He started competing, winning every now and then. When he did those somersaults it was like he made time stand still.” She paused and looked out to the pool; Thornquist took a sip of coffee and crossed his legs. “He could have gone to the Olympics if it wasn’t for the accident,” she continued. “The Junior Olympics, about twelve, thirteen years ago. The ten-meter platform: that was his thing—the tower. He hit his head coming out of a back two-and-a-half. Ended up with a horrible cut and a slight concussion. That’s all, thank God. We were scared he’d done himself some permanent damage, and I guess it did, really—after that he couldn’t dive anymore. For a while he wouldn’t even go near a pool.”
    â€œDo you know where he is now, Mrs. Hayward? Is there a number we could reach him at?”
    Eli Thornquist regretted having the piece of pie. It had