December 14, 2009

Oddly bright at 4 AM, with the city lights diffused by thick mist. Every detail of my yard is visible and obscure at once.

So, Mr Treadway is indeed a scam artist. He was the one who robbed all of us at church, and kept my wallet to see how far he could take the grift. The answer is, considerably far. Nor is that his name. When he called to say his daughter had died this morning, I commiserated, but when he began whining that he would never be able to pay for the funeral, I finally smelled the rat. No one named Scott Treadway is registered at the Howard Johnson’s. No one named Treadway died at the hospital, adoring indigent rednecks gathered round. There were several tells which I ignored, in the name of human trust. One was that when I offered to drive him to the hospital to see his daughter, he didn’t seem interested. I knew. I just wanted the world to be superior to my suspicions. It isn’t.

Brilliant afternoon, spent at Warren Wilson revising the FOL by-laws. Sweet children in the sweet brief sun.

Cecilia Bartoli on the CD.