A Hole in the Universe by Mary Mcgarry Morris Page A

to his mother was the epitome of privileged indolence. In the front hall there had been an enormous mahogany hat tree, in its center an etched mirror surrounded by brass coat hooks, ivory hat holders, and a purple velvet bench flanked by two ornately carved receptacles, one for umbrellas and the other for walking sticks.
    When he was curled up on his bunk with his back to the cell door, such recall of detail had been a vital nightly ritual. Under the constant glare, sleepless with the stink and groans and snoring around him, he would try to visualize each room he had ever been in, the furniture, where doors and windows had been, the color of walls and carpets. The one room he could never recall had been that room that night. It had been too dark, a hellish cave of lumpy shapes and shadows in the glowing red numbers on a clock radio by the bed: 9:16, that’s what he remembered, that and her damp hair. The hiss of a startled cat. The rug sliding under his braced feet. The pillow feathers flattening until through them he could feel her jaw struggling against his palm. Her fingernails had been painted a bright red, but this he knew from the blown-up photos on the courtroom easel, showing two nails torn to the quick. The heartbreaking proof of a young woman’s desperate fight to live, this delivered with the snap, snap, snap of the prosecutor’s pointer on the glossy paper accentuating each word.
    Gordon turned the corner and then stopped, toes curling in his shoes. The spinning blue light lit up the peaks and angles of the crowded rooftops. A cruiser was parked in front of Mrs. Jukas’s house. The old woman’s shrill voice cut through the night. “They were selling drugs. Right down there on the sidewalk. Right in front of my house. People kept pulling up and the girl, she’d go over to the cars and give them the drugs right there, bold as brass, then she’d come back and give the money to the one I told you about.”
    “Which one?” asked the bony-faced, older cop, his flat tone only fueling the old woman’s agitation.
    “I already told you! The one they call Feaster!”
    Gordon had made it halfway up his walk when the cop called out, asking his name. Gordon, he answered. The cop asked if he knew Feaster.
    “No, sir. Not—”
    “Yes, you do! I saw you talking to him!” Mrs. Jukas shouted with an angry gesture over the railing. “Just last week! I saw you! With my own eyes I saw you!”
    He wiped the sweat from his cheeks and explained that Feaster had spoken to him, that was all. He didn’t know him.
    “You new here?” the cop asked.
    “I grew up here,” Gordon said, eyes wide, waiting.
    “You grew up here and you don’t know Feaster?” the cop said.
    “I just moved back. A couple weeks ago.”
    “Right when Feaster started coming around again!” Mrs. Jukas called out angrily. “The same time he came back.” She pointed at Gordon.
    Light flared behind her house. A second cop emerged from her backyard, crisscrossing his flashlight’s grainy beacon from the foundation up to the roof. “There’s no fire,” he told the old woman. “Believe me, I checked everywhere.”
    “They were just trying to scare you, that’s all,” the older cop said. “That’s what they do.”
    “Just trying to scare me!” Mrs. Jukas hit her breast. “He threatened me, that’s what he did! And I want him arrested! You can arrest him for that! I know you can! Threatening a senior citizen’s against the law, and I know that for a fact!” Chest heaving, she eased into her bent aluminum porch chair.
    Both officers leaned close. Was she all right? Could she hear them? Was she having the chest pains again?
    Gordon slipped onto his own narrow, little porch, his grip tight on the doorknob.
    “Mr. Gordon!” the older cop called. “No need to call anyone! She says she’s fine.”
    “Oh,” Gordon said, turning.
    “Can you come here a minute?” the older cop asked, gesturing.
    “Yes, sir.” Gordon hurried over. He