There’s a way young skin looks that no amount of plastic surgery can recapture. It has an unmarred translucence, as though the flesh were stretched under a fluorescent street-lamp. But I think it was the little red baseball cap he wore backward, like a catcher, that sent me off my feet. His name was Chris. He mowed our lawn.
Archive for October, 2011
“He had heart trouble,” the woman was telling Carella.
Which perhaps accounted for the tiny pinpricks of blood on the dead man’s eyeballs. In cases of acute right-heart failure, you often found such hemorrhaging. The grayish-blue feet sticking out from under the edge of the blanket were another matter.