In fact, he says he’s grateful to me, in case there’s more to the land than meets the eye. DeWitt arrives around nine o’clock and I’m glad to see him. He reminds me of Jeanne. She was a thin little whip of a woman and DeWitt has that same body type, although he’s a good deal taller. He has her same bright bird eyes that seem to dart around and see everything. And when they light on you, they’re full of mischief and warmth. “Well, you haven’t let everything go to hell too much,” he says, surveying my living room. “Jeanne trained me well.” He laughs. “Those pictures make me think of Jeanne. I never saw anybody who loved art the way she and our mamma did. Never took with me, but she and mamma wore a path to the museum.” We drink a cup of coffee. I answer a phone call from Loretta, who saw DeWitt’s Lincoln parked in front of my place and has to know who’s visiting me.
What do You think about A Killing At Cotton Hill (2013)?
