The Ghost of a Murdered Mother • 31
me from being an orphan. I added my perpetual concern about Mother’s age; she’d been forty when she’d had me, she wasn’t young like the other kids’ moms, and at twelve it seemed to me that fifty-two was around the time people started dropping. I stood at the sink almost instinctively waiting, trying to sort out this weirdness. Maybe it wasn’t anything worse than the residue of a bad dream. Maybe the electricity in the air meant Mom would get home early tonight. What was up with that tap box, though? Then, out of the dead of the night, sirens came screaming down Highway 89. Four Utah state patrol cars passed through our small rural town and straight to the Wards’ driveway. I figured it had to do with Donny, the one with the reputation, but it was strange that they’d need so many cops to arrest one guy. I ran and told Rod to come quick, something was happening next door. The two of us watched as the sheriff got out a megaphone and began shouting for Donny to come out of the house. It was cool, like in the movies. Then the cop called out for Donny’s dad, Mr. Ward. Then for Mrs. Ward. We waited, they waited, but nobody came out. The police moved in then, and a few minutes later the ambulances arrived. It was all over. I told Rod I bet we’d see some dead bodies coming out of Grandpa and Grandma’s old house, at least we’d have a good story to tell Mom when she got back. Then I saw a policeman crossing over into our yard and select the cement walk leading to the front door.