The Violet Hour: A Novel by Katherine Hill Page A

indeed made it to his roof, though it was redder now and more elongated than it had been. The sound of pianos and strings filled his head, swelling like a wave about to break upon the rocks. The bird’s head swiveled, seemed to explode, and Howard closed his eyes again. Damn bird he shouted over the music. Goddamn, good-for-nothing bird.
    W HEN E UNICE SAW her husband stretched like a vine on the ground, she did not immediately think he was dead. His head was tilted back, as though he were watching the clouds roll by, and his legs and arms lay comfortably enough that she thought he may have fallen asleep mid-gaze. Howard had always been industrious, but Eunice liked to entertain the fantasy of a lazy husband. It seemed to justify her own vigorous work ethic, and it gave her a natural object of blame whenevents didn’t turn out the way she expected. She took a mischievous pleasure in catching him asleep, and Howard, for his part, obliged her fun. “Damn it, woman!” he’d say, sitting up in his recliner. “Can’t a man get any rest in his old age?”
    She’d heard a commotion in the yard a few moments before, while she was rummaging in the pantry for her cake stand. These days, in their neighborhood, there was rarely any cause for alarm. But Eunice still liked to double-check.
    “Wake up,” she shouted as she approached his motionless body. “Wake up, you lazy old man. We’ve got company, remember?”
    A pigeon flew down from behind her, coming to rest by her husband’s leg.
    “Shoo!” she cried, flapping her hands. “Damn bird!” The pigeon cocked its head, ruffled its wing, then took off as ordered for the trees.
    It was only at this moment that she realized something was wrong. She took a few additional steps, more tentatively now, until her toes nearly brushed his head. Peering down, she saw that his eyes were closed, but that his neck was somewhat oddly bent, and a trickle of red was forming at the corner of his mouth.
    “Howard?” she asked, more softly than she usually spoke, nudging his shoulder with her toe. “Howard, you’re all right. Get up.” She looked at the sauna frame and saw his hammer hooked on a beam, a box of nails nearby.
    “Mom?” Cassandra’s voice came from somewhere above. Eunice looked up to see her daughter’s concerned face in a second-floor window. Her bedroom—no, no, the bathroom—three windows over from the left.
    “Everything all right?”
    “Well,” Eunice replied, reaching her verdict. “Dad’s dead.” Her voice came out curt on the first word, but was audibly shaking by the last.
    “I’ll be right down.” Cassandra took a towel from the rack as she left, thinking it might somehow help.
    At the bottom of the stairs, she met Mary, Howie, Estella, and Max, each carrying a plastic shopping bag full of food. Estella was wearing a childish candy necklace, and was in the process of biting off a bright pink piece. They had, by chance, just walked in the door.
    “It’s Grandpa,” Cassandra shouted, relieved to have people to tell.
    They spilled into the yard en masse. Eunice was sitting on the ground by Howard’s head, her hands gripping each other in her lap. Her shoulders shook like leaves on a branch. She was laughing.
    Elizabeth appeared at the back door, her hair matted, nearly breathless. “What’s going on?” she asked before running out to join her mother. “What happened?” But then she saw her grandfather lying on the ground, his skin unmarked, and understood. Had she been smarter, had she foreseen, she might have been there when he fell. She took another step forward and crouched down by his body. She touched his sleeve. All around him, like a soft crust, the grass was green.
    Tears streamed down Eunice’s face and she continued to laugh in vindication and disbelief. “I told him he was going to fall and break his neck!” she managed, nearly choking on the words. “I told him. And look what happened. He did .”

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    H oward was dead; people