Free Crying Child by Barbara Michaels

with a dead, muffled sound. “Come on,” he said, standing up. “We are going to be late now, good and late.”
    We made our way along the fence to the place where the path continued, on the opposite side of the clearing from where we had entered the cemetery. Brambles and underbrush pushing right up against the iron posts made progress difficult. It was only that one spot that was so peculiarly clear of weeds.
    As we trudged along the path, I said,
    “What does it mean, Will? A grave outside the fence?”
    “Could mean a lot of things. Oh, I get it—you are a morbid little thing, aren’t you? Sure, suicides were buried outside consecrated ground. So were other doubtful cases. Heathens and unbelievers—and in puritan New England that included practically anybody who wasn’t a Presbyterian. Youdon’t even know that there is a grave there, Jo, it could be a discarded stone. Or if there is—good God, the possibilities are endless and they don’t have to be dramatic. It could be somebody’s favorite dog.”
    “Why, yes. I suppose it could. You could call a dog Miss Smith. Or a cat.”
    “Sure.”
    And with that, for Will, the subject seemed to be settled. He began to whistle as he preceded me along the path; though it was more often used than the first section, it was too narrow to allow us to walk side by side. I didn’t mind his silence; I had plenty to think about.
    One thing about the graveyard had struck me, but it was not a subject I wanted to mention to Will—the predominance of a certain name among those on the stones. Perhaps predominance was not the right word; there had been roughly half a dozen occurrences. Yet that was a significant number considering the unusualness of the name. William or James or Robert would have been normal; and also the jaw-breaking names of Old Testament prophets, which seemed to have been popular in this part of the country a century ago. But…Kevin?
    As the sunlit lawn and white walls of the house appeared through the trees, I found my thoughts reverting to the enigmatic gravestone, and to thetransitory and elusive glimpse that had preceded its discovery. The shape I fancied I saw had not resembled those optical illusions which sometimes flicker on the very edge of vision. It had possessed dimension and form. And the form had been human. Somehow I felt sure that it had been a woman’s figure.

Chapter
    4
    I DIDN’T GET A CHANCE THAT DAY TO TALK TO MARYalone. Ran was with us all the time, being the perfect brother-in-law and host. He dug up a couple of tennis rackets and challenged me to a game—which I lost. There was a court behind the house; it needed resurfacing, and Ran said he planned to have that done. He was full of plans; he even talked about a swimming pool, since the ocean was too cold for swimming most of the year.
    Mary trailed along wherever we went, smiling. That smile got on my nerves after a while. Her feverish activity of the first day was gone, and her behavior was as Ran had described it—aloof, withdrawn. Yet I had the impression that her listlessness was a facade, behind which somethingalert and cunning watched. Actually I wasn’t anxious for another confidential talk. The first one had shaken me more than I was willing to admit. I told myself to take it easy; we had all summer, there was no need to push.
    Famous last words…
    After dinner Mary declared her intention of going to bed, and Mrs. Willard went up with her as usual. I wondered whether she would lock Mary’s door when she left her.
    Ran and I took our coffee into the parlor. We hadn’t been there long before Will came in. He greeted me pleasantly, but the casual charm of the morning had evaporated. This was a professional visit.
    It was a warm evening. With his shirt sleeves rolled up and his tie discarded and his sandy hair rumpled, Will could have auditioned for one of those TV medical shows—the young doctor, exhausted by his selfless services to mankind.
    By that type of stereotype