Of course there is one page on Maddie’s bed which isn’t in David’s handwriting.  The letter from Bethany.  Not as worn and torn as the page from David’s journal fresh in fact and in the mail from the week.  It has a different style.  Something I began to realize in this narrative since the perception began to shift from David to his children and how his life has been told since then indeed in how the rest of his life will be told and I can’t say it’s my voice at least not all of it some of it channeled some of it a wrapping up of suspense that evolution already spoken about and what there’s left what these final chapters on David’s life will be about a layering of the events which transpired after 1966 and finally the small acclaim David gathered for himself the rediscovery of his songs a regular venue for himself on the streets of Gaslight Square in St. Louis in the late sixties and in other cities and yes finally money finally some compensation after years of struggling still too late to satisfy Bethany and those hard years raising his children when he couldn’t provide when his artwork wasn’t considered work when no one paid him enough to live for his music and that love that serious illness David never did get quite over the wound of his divorce when Bethany divorced him and hurt him the most hurt him in way that’s justified no guilt involved in taking his children away from him making him just a visitor in their lives the mourning and regret of the adultery that brought them (David and Bethany) together and the death of their firstborn these wounds David carried with him for the rest of his life blaming himself for Benjy’s death Maddie’s death the sadness shaded in Solomon’s birth and all that’s left to recount is more death the death of Bethany and David’s mother the year before his own end in 1988 and there weren’t many mourners at his funeral in fact his body unclaimed left in the morgue before he was cremated his ashes given to Dulcinea and scattered in a ceremony along the river banks of the Mississippi and then me the one to chronicle all this after my own meeting with David hearing his first recordings at a crossroads in the American Bottom waiting for a train how I heard him for the first time on KDHX St. Louis Community Radio some twenty years after his death in fact how I found an interview David gave to the radio station a year before his death his last words recorded the first and the last of all this a life a man and his music the range of it when the heart hears many voices when it’s broken and not all of it is my words in fact I’ll admit I’ve plagiarized I’ve stolen from other writers my research not going much further than Wikipedia articles on the internet and phrases from authors I admire my reason for this simple enough and not some lazy impulse but merely that ruthlessness David spoke about how a writer is amoral how he’ll steal from his own mother how his daughter spoke of artists being driven by demons and really I don’t see it as malicious because if the rest of the writing is good you enjoy the reference and if the writing’s bad it makes it easy to put down…  Like Bethany’s letter.  I didn’t write it.  I don’t belong in the story.  I’m not even a musician.  And Maddie isn’t either.  So now see her.  See her as she waits for her man to come.  The words of his woman the only opposing script.  The words of a mother.  See what maybe really happened at that crossroads in Mississippi and not in 1937 but in 1967 when David Threnody returned there.