The New City

by Stephen Amidon

  “Ardelia?”

  Her eyes slowly opened. He could see now that she’d been crying. Her long face was drawn, her eyes puffy and distant. Wires of unruly hair shot out from her head. She held something in her hand. A handkerchief, it looked like.

  Somebody’s dead, Wooten thought.

  “What is it?” he asked from the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

  He could see now that it wasn’t sorrow filling her green eyes. It was anger, so deep that it nearly drove him back into the hallway. She held up the handkerchief. He stepped forward, thinking she wanted him to help her to her feet. But when he reached for her she pulled back violently and shook the handkerchief at him. Only it wasn’t a handkerchief. It was a piece of paper, moist and crumpled. She was telling him to read it. He took it from her and stretched it open. It was covered with crude and scratchy writing.

  Mrs. Earl Wooten,

  You should know that your man has been stepping out with Alice Ivy down at apartment 27 of Renessence Hights. I know this because I am her friend unlike others. If you don’t believe me then why does he drive a Ford Ranchero that he parks on the pike? I no you don’t want to no about this but gwan over there and see if she isn’t. I say this because I’m her friend and these mack daddy’s have made her life HELL. Don’t ask your lyin man just go see for yourself.

  “A concerned citisen”

  His heart was pounding. It was hard to get air into his lungs. Sweat erupted down the ridge of his spine. He continued to stare at the page. The words began to bleed into one another, as if the paper had been dipped in corrosive liquid.

  “Lie now and we will never speak again,” his wife said in a voice as hushed as death.

  Wooten looked up hopelessly.

  “I went over there,” Ardelia said. “She answered the door. We didn’t have to say a word. She recognized me. And then she said that she was sorry. That she was sorry. That … child making noise behind her.”

  She sat up so quickly that it seemed to be some sort of trick.

  “Why is that, Earl? How come she recognized me so fast? Did you describe me to her? Or maybe you pointed me out? Where was it Earl? At the A & P?”

  He’d never heard her shout before. It sounded like the words were ripping chunks out of her throat.

  “Ardelia …”

  “Get out of my house!”

  “Wait. Let me …”

  She was on her feet. She faced him, her chest heaving. A choking noise emerged from her mouth. For the first time in the twenty years they’d been together, words failed her. And then his ear was ringing and a constellation of pulsing stars filled his left eye. She’d hit him. Hard. And she looked like she was going to do it again. He fanned his hands out protectively, absorbing the twin blows she threw at his head. The suit bag swung around him like a third person in the room, banging into his wife’s side, causing her to sit back down on the bed.

  “Mom?”

  Wooten turned. Joel stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed firmly on his mother. Who had just been knocked over. By his father.

  “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

  “Joel …” Wooten’s voice sounded like a stranger’s.

  His son looked at him. For that moment, Wooten was no longer his father. He was simply the man hurting his mother.

  “What have you done?” he asked.

  Wooten stared dumbly at his son. Nobody moved for a long time. It was Ardelia who finally broke the silence.

  “Just get out,” she said quietly from the bed.

  And that’s exactly what Wooten did. Without another word or even so much as a glance at his wife, he walked out of the room and bolted down the stairs, his big body picking up momentum with every stride. It wasn’t until he was out the front door and passing the hissing gaslight that he realized his suit bag was still on his shoulder, its bottom heavy with the gifts he’d brought his family.

  23

  Swope usually waited until morning to empty the traps, harvesting the night’s slaughter by the light of a just-risen sun. There was something bracing about the routine, a sense that he had safeguarded his home before his first cup of coffee. But tonight he decided to make the collection by moonlight. There was no way he was going to be able to wait in his study—he simply had too much nervous energy. He was out of his chair every five seconds, wandering to the window, looking for Truax. Besides, if he had to watch the orbs of that Newton’s cradle swing one more time, he was sure he’d enter a deep hypnagogic trance from which he’d never recover.

  So he decided to burn some bugs. That would keep him busy. He went to tell Sally, finding her watching a sitcom in the den. He could tell by the way she looked up at him that she suspected nothing. She was very beautiful in the television light, her legs drawn up under her like a kid. The sight took him back to the first time he’d seen her back in Ann Arbor, sitting just like this on a lounge sofa in the library, where he stacked books, one of the countless jobs he’d taken to pay his way through law school. It took six months after that for him to break through the protective rings of sorority sisters and suitors and family to show her that he was the one. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the evening beside her. Watch nonsense on the television. Let her run her fingers through his hair. But it was too soon for that. Carefree nights would have to wait until he’d sorted out the mess Wooten had created.

  “Want some ice cream?” she asked. “I got mint chocolate chip.”

  “In a while. I think I’m going to do some yard stuff. Could you give me a shout if the phone rings?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you ever get hold of Gus last night?” she asked before he could turn away.

  “Yes,” he said after a moment.

  “And?”

  “You were right. I was just imagining things.”

  She turned back to the TV.

  “Of course you were.”

  He went out to the garage, loading a big flashlight, some butane and a hand-sized spade into the wheelbarrow. He bumped it through the side door into the yard. It was a nice night, cool and slightly overcast. The real heat was still a few weeks away. He lit a Tiparillo, then pushed the barrow over to the closest of the traps. There were over two dozen of the contraptions spread throughout his property. Most dangled from the lower branches of the cherry trees he’d planted, though he’d recently hung a few from the poplars and beeches bordering the yard, even draping one from the gazebo’s vine-covered trellises. Sometimes he thought they did no good—10 percent of the yard’s leaves had already been consumed. But he knew that was looking at things the wrong way. All he had to do was imagine how bad it would be if he hadn’t put them up at all.

  The first trap was nearly half full with lucent brown shells. Stray antennae poked through the cylinder’s mesh casing. For some reason the Japanese beetles avoided the bug zapper that hummed and crackled out by the gazebo, preferring the toxic entrapment of the cages. He removed the trap and shook out the dead, using the spade to scrape the most tenacious from the wire. They made a hollow sound when they struck the barrow’s aluminum bed. Some were still alive but too stuporous to move. Not that it mattered. The flames would take care of them.

  Swope moved to the second trap, finding that it too was choked with dead and dying beetles. He started to wonder if a city ordinance would be needed to deal with the problem, requiring all NHA members to maintain a certain number of traps per acre of property. Six seemed a judicious sum. Although the people of Mystic Hills were going after the pests aggressively, there had been reports of a slackening of vigilance in Fogwood and Juniper Bend. The situation was clearly worsening. The report Organic Services had issued looked ominous. The infestation was turning out to be far worse than anyone imagined. Entire trees were being denuded in a matter of days. The saplings EarthWorks planted gratis in every yard proved prime feeding ground. Maybe the company should provide traps. After all, it would be cheaper than the nursery restock bills they were incurring.
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br />   The wheelbarrow bumped benignly over the moist sod as Swope directed it toward the cherry tree just beyond the deck. Beetles not withstanding, it had been a good spring for his trees, their ringed, reddish branches growing thicker than his fingers. Some had even flowered this year, though they had yet to bear any fruit. Swope felt his annoyance give way to anger as he marked the damage on this tree’s brittle leaves, their edges serrated, as if someone had been at them with a hole punch. After emptying the trap he began to inspect the leaves more closely, finding a half dozen more bugs hidden on their moist underbellies. They barely reacted as Swope plucked them free and flicked them into the pile.

  He wondered what was going on over at the Wootens. Ardelia must have seen the letter by now—it had been over twelve hours since it was delivered. The only question was if her husband was back yet to face the music. An unexpected wave of dread suddenly washed through Swope, carrying with it fleeting images of Truax being spotted by a restless Ardelia as he planted the letter. Or maybe the Wootens had recognized its author straight away and were even now laughing at this crude, desperate attempt to forestall the inevitable. But none of that would happen. Truax would not be spotted. And the letter was too artfully done to be seen as a forgery. Once Ardelia went to unit 27—as Swope knew she would—then nobody would be putting too much thought into who’d authored what.

  He’d written it late Thursday, after his visit to Renaissance Heights, where it had taken all of two minutes to get the woman to admit what was up. His initial thought had been simply to offer Wooten a straight-up deal—silence in exchange for dropping his candidacy for the job. But he’d quickly abandoned the idea. It was too crude and obvious. Wooten could call his bluff in any number of ways, the most catastrophic of which would be to run to Savage. Swope knew that blackmailers often became even more compromised by a crime than its victims. Worst of all, it would mean he would have to look Wooten in the eye and admit the job was rightfully his. And that was wrong. It was Swope’s.

  That’s when the idea of the letter came to him. Although Swope knew it was a merciless move to make, he realized that he had no choice. Wooten was in Chicago. The deal was about to be done. The woman was the only tool he had to slow this thing down. And the letter was bound to be a hundred times more effective than anything else he could dream up. Ardelia was a proud woman who would not suffer humiliation lightly. Word was certain to get out. Savage would be less than pleased to hear that his proposed manager had some ex-junkie lover down at the HUD projects. Those trial balloons they’d been floating in the press would come crashing to earth faster than the Hindenburg.

  Composing the letter wasn’t hard. He simply used his left hand, the natural hand that his parents had forced him to abandon as a child, their superstitious minds believing that southpaws were inferior creatures. As he worked Swope tried to keep at bay those unhappy memories of long Saturday mornings spent on a hard kitchen chair in the wet pajamas his mother refused to let him change, forming vowels and consonants with his clumsy right hand as his left gripped the table’s cold iron leg. If he pulled it free she’d smack his palm with the spatula she was using for her weekly baking, leaving red welts that were dusted with bright white powder. It had taken him nearly a year to learn. Though he hadn’t tried to write lefty since, the letters came with surprising ease, forming a plausible benefit-check scrawl. He had several dry runs before coming up with a paragraph that would include enough detail to force Ardelia to pay that apartment a visit. After that things would start to happen fast and furious. He’d known the couple for five years now. Though Wooten might be able to deceive Swope, he’d never get away with lying to his wife. Not to her face.

  But even as he consigned the block letters to the page, Swope began to worry that this might not be enough. Word might not get back to Savage quickly enough. As disagreeable as the thought might be, he would probably have to follow the letter up with some supplementary action, a series of small stunts that would make Wooten unacceptable as city manager. At least with Truax he’d have just the man to carry out such a campaign. Animated by hatred for Joel and possessing skills taught him at the taxpayers’ expense, he would willingly go along. There was no shortage of things that could be done. Bills run up on company accounts. Meetings postponed. Graffiti daubed on walls smearing his name. A letter written to the Baltimore Sun signed by Wooten criticizing the Cannon County police for their heavy-handed actions at the teen center. All of it designed to create an ever-thickening cloud over the man. Casting doubts, raising suspicions. Nothing terminal. Just enough to finish him as a potential city manager.

  And if this didn’t work, Swope knew he would have to open up a second, more radical front. There was only one thing that was sure to be effective—the creation of a body of evidence suggesting that Earl Wooten had been secretly enriching himself by the systematic theft of EarthWorks property. It would be tricky. None of the accusations could be seen to come from Swope himself. In fact, he would have to maintain his position as confidant to the beleaguered builder right up to the end. Meanwhile, he could slowly leak the information to Chones and the county attorney’s office, who would commence their own inquiry. A conviction wasn’t necessary. Not even an indictment. After all, Swope didn’t want to harm the man. Just stop him. Given Savage’s hysterical fear of bad press, mere news that Wooten was under official investigation would be enough. The pall of suspicion would scotch his ascension.

  As he worked Swope refused to indulge the occasional mutinous feelings of regret that drifted into his mind. There was no reason to feel guilty about any of this. It was Wooten who had betrayed their partnership. Sure, Swope’s actions would cause him a few bad months. But Wooten could always go back to being a builder once the storm cleared. In fact, Swope would make sure that potential employers knew he’d been fully absolved. As for Ardelia, well, he’d seen marriages weather far worse. Swope would have actually done them a favor, nipping this insane adultery business in the bud before it grew into something unstoppable. The plain fact was that he was still willing to call this whole thing off at a moment’s notice. All Wooten had to do was explain that he’d made a mistake. Understandable pride had gripped him. Swope was not vindictive. Even now, it wasn’t too late. All Wooten had to do was make it right. A simple call. An apology. It could be over in five minutes.

  Otherwise, he was going to have to be stopped.

  Swope finished unloading the last beetle trap. As he pushed the wheelbarrow toward the back of the yard a light came on in the house, sending an amber wedge across the smooth sod. Teddy, arriving in his room. There weren’t so many late nights for the kid now that the teen center was closed. And there seemed to be some sort of cooling of his friendship with Joel. That was good—the less time Teddy spent around the Wooten house the better. There would be fewer opportunities for breaches of security. Swope wondered if he’d visited Susan Truax tonight. According to Sally, he’d been spending every possible moment with her. It was good to see his hormones finally kicking in. And Swope had to hand it to the kid for his choice. The girl was gorgeous. A little raw, though he could make refinements in his taste up at Harvard. For now, she’d do. Though a late starter, he’d proven himself to be a Swope by jumping in right at the top.

  He arrived at the rusty old bubble-top barbecue he used to immolate the bugs. Using the spade, he scooped them into the mound of charred husk and gray ash already filling the bottom of the hollow bowl, then soaked the beetles with lighter fluid. Those still alive writhed with renewed vigor. Swope took one last drag on his dwindling Tiparillo and tossed it into the pyre. There was a woosh and then the bugs were fully aflame. They crackled like kindling. After just a few seconds it was impossible to tell the living from the dead. Stray smoldering bits of them—legs and antennae—were vented upward by the gathering heat.

  There was some movement in the corner of his eye. He turned to see John Truax standing a few feet away. He’d appeared so soundlessly that Swope didn’t even have time to be startled. H
is square glasses reflected the flames. His bandaged hand glowed.

  “He left home alone about an hour ago and checked into a motel down in Cannon City.”

  “Hold on—she threw him out?”

  “I saw them shouting. Then she hit him.”

  “Hit him? My God.”

  “He fled after Joel showed up in the room. He’s checked into the Motel 6 in Cannon City. Room 112.”

  “Do you need money for a room?”

  “No. I’ll use my car.”

  “Good work, John.”

  It was impossible to see Truax’s eyes, hidden by the reflected flame.

  Swope turned back to the fire. The bugs were all dead now. The fire was beginning to settle.

  “Call me here tomorrow evening,” he said. “I should have the next step ready for you by then.”

  Swope waited for an answer. When none came he looked up from the fire. Truax was gone.

  24

  He picked Susan up at exactly eight. Which meant they had ninety long minutes to kill before meeting Joel. A lot of time, but Teddy figured they might need it, just in case Irma started running her mouth. He didn’t want to seem to be in too much of a hurry. Not tonight, when all his work was finally coming to fruition. For the past week he’d played the woman like a grand piano. There was no reason to spoil the crescendo by being needlessly hasty. Besides, the idea of making Susan sweat a bit was definitely appealing. She’d been a real little bitch over the weekend, criticizing and sulking, forgetting just who was running things. Last night she’d said a few things that almost made Teddy call the whole thing off. The usual crap. Teasing him about his chest. Remarks about him not having a girl of his own. Snide offers to fix him up with one of her airhead friends. Teddy smiled along at first—he wasn’t above a little teasing—but eventually told her to can it. Dumb as she was, Susan understood that she was pushing the envelope. She became all apologetic and submissive in that phony, slightly mocking way she had. Teddy decided to let it ride. Because that’s the kind of guy he was. He just wished that she’d make an effort to appreciate the situation, to understand that the idea of Teddy running around with some cheerleader just so he could get his rocks off was too absurd even to contemplate. Joel might want that. It was cool. He could see the attraction. Just don’t ask him to be the same way. He’d find his Yoko some day and when he did, it would be like nothing Susan or any of them could imagine.