I punched in Elaine’s number, and got her answering machine. At five o’clock Pacific Standard Time, I pictured her in a traffic jam on Interstate 580—crowded but ice free, I thought.
Finding myself out of ideas for indoor amusement, my only recourse was to leave my apartment. I was sure that whoever left the note in front of my door was long gone, probably thinking I was frightened out of an inclination for further investigation. Nearly correct, I thought, but not quite.
The temperature had risen during the day to the high forties, and it was still above freezing at eight in the evening, so I decided to take a walk. I bundled myself into my new wool jacket, navy blue, hip length, with a serious fleece lining. My winter wardrobe had been enough of a financial commitment to ensure that I’d stay in Revere for at least a few seasons of cold weather. I added boots, scarf, gloves, and a hat, feeling ready to climb an icy peak, and ventured out of the building.
I walked around the bend in Revere Street, past St. Anthony’s. I didn’t have to enter the church to picture the beautiful Venetian mosaic at the Altar of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, where I’d prayed as a child. I remembered an observation by Niels Bohr, when someone questioned the presence of a horseshoe on a wall in his country cottage. “Can it be that such an eminent physicist believes a horseshoe brings luck?” the guest had asked. “Of course not,” Bohr is said to have replied, “but I understand it brings you luck whether you believe or not.” Maybe the same is true of prayer, I thought.
I headed for the beach, experimenting on the way. Each time a car passed with its headlights facing me, I looked at the license plate to test my hypothesis about Margaret Hurley’s mole. I knew that no streetlights were working on Oxford Park on the night of the murder, so I chose the darkest places I could find on Revere Street for test sites. I also took data both with and without the flashlight I’d brought.
I managed to convince myself that I could read a plate, green letters and numbers on a white background, at a distance of between ten and fifteen feet. Of course, I was looking at an angle, and wondered how different it would be if the car were approaching me head-on. Would my brain just click off and not register any information? More important, what did Hurley’s brain do?
Distracted by my measurement task, I made it all the way to Revere Beach Boulevard, which runs along the ocean for more than three miles, and is never without traffic. Even in the dead of winter, the ocean’s roar competes with the noise from cars and motorcycles, and its salty smell mingles with that of roast beef and fried clams from Kelly’s takeout counter.
For a few minutes, I watched a man comb the frosty sand with a metal detector, and a young couple run along the water’s edge. I wondered if anyone could stand at that spot and not think about life and death.
I hadn’t counted on the return trip when I’d mentally calculated how far I could walk in forty-degree weather. I picked up my pace to keep warm, and had a hard time resisting the more than half a dozen neon invitations from pizza parlors. I was colder than I’d been in many years, and the walk back to my apartment seemed interminable.
When I finally entered my building, my eyes watery and my face and fingers numb, I walked up the main stairs and into my apartment quickly, checking for more unsolicited mail.
I kept on most of my outer clothing while I prepared fresh coffee and toast from a loaf of Italian bread that I had in the freezer. The smells and the steam from the kettle worked their magic and after a few minutes I had the confidence to remove my jacket.
I was also cheered by a blinking red “2” on my answering machine, and pushed PLAY while I made what could be called my dinner if you didn’t count the ice cream I’d had earlier.
I heard Elaine’s voice first.
“I missed you today,” she said. “We went to Bobby’s for the department party this afternoon. At least it’s December.”
Elaine and I joked about how the Christmas parties at our lab started earlier and earlier every year, sometimes barely clearing Thanksgiving.
“I’ll be home all evening, so call me.”
“I’ll be happy to,” I told her machine voice, and waited for the second message, which turned out to be not so welcome.
Peter, from my own time zone, had also called while I was out. Since it was nearly ten o’clock it would have made more sense to call him first, but I needed warmth and friendliness more than bickering, so I punched in Elaine’s number.
“I think I have a breakthrough,” I told her, walking her through my Avogadro’s number theory.
“Wow,” she said, “you’re good, Gloria,” and I knew why I’d called Elaine first. I told her my dilemma about the Massachusetts system of three digits, three letters.