Marion carried the corrected scrap to Ruth and Daniel’s house inside an envelope, though she had not sealed it. The envelope was chiefly protection against her own hands. By the time Daniel opened the door, she had folded and unfolded its flap until the edge had softened. Ruth was still out with Nora. Marion had known she might be, and now that small convenience troubled her. Daniel stepped aside and asked her in. From the kitchen came the smell of toast. There was nothing official about the room in which she would ask him to contact a federal agency.
She declined coffee because accepting it seemed likely to lengthen her approach. “I have a favor to ask,” she said. Daniel pulled out a chair but remained standing until she sat. She told him about the resemblance, first in the printed image and then in the television bust. He knew something of her concern already; she did not ask what Ruth had told him. She gave him the familiar name and said she had an address in Midlothian. Then she made the request plainly: would he call the FBI and pass along that address with what she remembered?
Daniel sat opposite her. “Are you asking me to say I recognize him?” “No.” The answer came quickly enough to steady her. “You didn’t know him as I did.” “Then I’d be telling them what you told me.” “Yes.” He drew the envelope closer without taking the paper out. “And if they ask something I don’t know, I don’t fill it in.” Marion looked at the toast crumbs beside his plate. She had imagined needing to convince him of the resemblance. Instead he was asking whether she would permit him to leave its limits visible. “You don’t fill anything in,” she said.
She told him he could decline. He looked at her for a moment, perhaps judging whether the offer was genuine; she could not know. She kept her hands in her lap. There were persuasive things she could have said about the five people killed in Westfield, but their deaths were not hers to bring into this kitchen as leverage. She had information that might matter. Daniel could decide whether to carry it. “I can make the call,” he said at last. Relief rose so abruptly that she nearly began explaining everything again. Instead she thanked him and let the answer stand.
The front door opened before he had unfolded the note. Nora came through carrying a paper bag against her coat, with Ruth behind her. Marion rose to help, but Ruth said they had it. Nora took the bag down the hall, intent on showing Frank something later, and Marion was grateful that the child had not asked why she was there. Daniel told Ruth that Marion had asked him to telephone. Ruth placed her keys on the counter. “Already?” she said. The word was quiet, directed at Marion. “You said you intended to ask. You didn’t say you were coming over today.”
“I should have told you,” Marion said. Ruth folded her arms, then unfolded them to move the bread away from the edge. “I’m not asking to approve every conversation you have with my husband.” “I know.” “I don’t think you do. You tell me enough to say I knew, but not enough to know what’s happening.” Marion felt an urge to point out that nothing had happened yet. The call had not been made. The defense was technically available and useless. She had chosen the easier doorway into the house and hoped the choice would escape notice. “I did it again,” she said.
Daniel started to speak, but Marion shook her head once. She did not want him to turn her request into a defense of her conduct. “I wanted to get through asking before I had to explain the asking,” she told Ruth. “That doesn’t make it fair.” Ruth looked toward the hallway where Nora had disappeared. “I can’t keep finding out where you are in something after you’ve moved on.” Marion could offer no assurance that would repair that at the kitchen table. She said she would tell Ruth when Daniel had made the call, if he still chose to make it.
They stood without moving toward the door. Marion felt the old pressure to keep speaking until somebody softened, to leave the kitchen with an expression she could carry home as forgiveness. She resisted it. Daniel’s agreement was not Ruth’s agreement, and neither could settle what the address meant. She took the folded scrap from the envelope and laid it beside his plate, keeping her fingers clear of the words. There was no need to tell the story a third time. Daniel looked down at the paper. “Let me have the address,” he said.