Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. Certainly, we—that is Jarvis and I— knew nothing of it until after Mary’s death. He no longer made love to her, as there was no point. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree.
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