Part 9 (2/2)

On the page where I'd left off, Lila had written down the Continuum Hypothesis: There is no infinite set with a cardinal number between that of the small infinite set of integers and the large infinite set of real numbers.

The next couple of pages contained notes on the problem's history. I was reminded of a conversation we had late one night in her bedroom, after our parents had gone to bed. I couldn't quite place when the conversation had occurred-maybe weeks before she died, maybe months?-but I remembered the gist of it.

The Continuum Hypothesis was special in that it was the first problem on David Hilbert's famous list of twenty-three unsolved problems, which he proposed in 1900. In the early sixties, someone had proved that the Continuum Hypothesis could never be determined to be either true or false. But the famous mathematician Paul Erdos had another take on it. His thought was that, if there were such a thing as an infinite intelligence, it might have the knowledge, which is lacking in humans, to decide whether the hypothesis was true or false.

”So unless the human race somehow manages to get infinitely smarter,” Lila said, ”the planet will die out without us solving this basic problem about infinity.”

”What if your Goldbach Conjecture is the same sort of problem?” I asked. ”What if you spend the next thirty years pursuing a proof that doesn't exist?”

”Then at least I'll know I tried,” Lila said. ”At least I'll know I did everything I could, and I didn't give up.”

Every day since my meeting with McConnell, I had come up against the limits of my own knowledge, the frailty of my imagination. If the situation had been reversed-if it were my body that was found in the woods-I knew that Lila would not have taken some story in a book at face value. With determination, she would have examined the facts and methodically pieced the puzzle together. I was convinced that she wouldn't have stopped until she knew the truth. And I was certain it wouldn't have taken her twenty years to begin the search.

At eight a.m., I took the slip of paper from my wallet and dialed the phone number. A woman answered on the second ring. ”Good morning,” I said. ”Is this the number for Mr. James Wheeler?”

”This is Delia Wheeler. Are you calling about a bill?”

”No.”

A dog barked in the background. ”Are you sure? Because the only person who ever called him James was his mother, G.o.d rest her.”

”I promise I'm not a bill collector.”

”This is Jimmy's number, then. Who am I speaking to?”

”You don't know me, but our paths crossed a long time ago. Lila Enderlin was my sister.”

”Who?”

”Lila Enderlin.”

She paused. I could hear the dog, closer now, panting near the phone.

”We don't know anything about that,” Delia said.

”I'd just like to come by and talk to Mr. Wheeler for a few minutes, please.”

”The police talked to him thirty years ago,” she said. ”He told them everything.”

”Twenty,” I said.

”What?”

”It was twenty years ago that Lila died.”

Another pause. ”I could've sworn it was 1979. Lord, if my mind goes, too, we're sure up the creek.”

”Are you still living on Moultrie?” I asked.

”We are.”

”I can come by anytime.”

I fully expected her to shoot me down, at which point I'd have to start pleading, so I was surprised when she said, ”Well, I guess we'll be here all day. Jimmy can't go out anymore and I don't like to leave him alone.”

”I'll be there in an hour. Thank you so much for seeing me.”

The house on Moultrie was a brown-s.h.i.+ngled cottage with dark yellow trim, the front door situated just a few feet from the sidewalk. The street was packed with cars, so I had to drive around for a couple of minutes before finding a spot.

I was just about to ring the bell when the door opened. A tiny, pale woman, about four foot eleven and no more than ninety-five pounds, stood before me in a Google T-s.h.i.+rt and black pants. Her long brown hair was in a ponytail, and she wore pink blush and matching pink lipstick. She was even younger than I expected-probably in her early sixties.

”Ellie Enderlin,” she said, studying my face. ”My goodness.” She seemed about to say something else, but instead she just stepped aside to let me in.

”Thank you for letting me come over on such short notice.”

”Well, I doubt I can help you, but it's nice to have a visitor.”

To the right of the entryway was a blue curtain, partially opened to reveal a nook just big enough for a bed. On a narrow table at the foot of the bed was a small television, the lights of which played over a yellow quilt. No sound came from the TV. There was someone in the bed-James Wheeler, I a.s.sumed-but because of the curtain I could only see his feet, white and bony. Next to the feet, a small black dog slept. We pa.s.sed through the entryway into a small, immaculate living room. It was a shotgun house, with the kitchen in the back, and a bathroom off the kitchen. A tea kettle rattled on the stove.

”Sorry for the mess,” she said. ”I didn't have time to clean.”

”It looks perfect.” I sniffed the air-ginger and cinnamon. ”What smells so good?”

”Oh, that's just coffee cake. I'd have made you lunch if you came later.”

”You didn't have to do that.”

”I grew up in Mississippi,” she said, opening the oven to examine the cake. ”My mother would roll over in her grave if I had a guest over and didn't offer them something to eat. Just last week Matthew-that's our oldest-took me to a lady's house out in Pinole to buy a wheelchair that he found on the computer. For Jimmy, you know. The lady didn't so much as offer us a gla.s.s of water.”

Only after we were sitting at the table with the cake arranged on a pretty china platter between us did Delia Wheeler bring up the purpose of my visit.

”It's that Peter McConnell fellow that did it,” she said, looking into my eyes with conviction. ”I read that book, it's clear as day he was the one. It was a terrible thing. I feel so for your parents, hon. For you, too, but especially your parents. I can't imagine if somebody did something like that to one of my boys. It still breaks my heart to think of it.”

I nodded. ”It's been a long time, but not a day goes by that I don't think about my sister.”

”If I remember correctly, that McConnell fellow just up and disappeared. Did they ever end up arresting him?”

”No.”

”That's a shame. Nothing can bring her back, I know, but if it was my own, I'd want somebody to be held accountable.”

She sipped her tea and chewed thoughtfully. ”Honestly, hon, I'm not sure why you're here. I don't see what we can do for you.”

”I understand your husband talked to my sister the night before she died. I thought he might be able to fill in some blanks for me.”

<script>