“Jesus Christ!” She nearly spit the words at him. “What were you doing out there? You completely threw me off.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you saw me.”
“How could I not see you? Christ.” Her chin shook with fury.
“I’m sorry.” Had he already said that? He thought he had, but now he wasn’t sure. “I heard you on the air and just wanted to see you in action.”
“You made me self-conscious. If I made any mistakes, it’s thanks to you.”
“Oh? I only watched you for a little while. That’s a lot of mistakes in such a short time.”
Sarah’s surprise at his words was shading into anger when she made her face go utterly neutral, probably because the door from the courtyard opened behind Denny. He turned around.
“Ah, two of my favorite people in the world.” The speaker was a bow-tied man who was vaguely familiar to Denny, both in appearance and sound, especially in his presto cadence. He pulled up close. “I’ve been thinking hard, Homer, very hard indeed. ‘Lassus’ Trombone’—bound to please. ‘The Trombone King’—can’t miss. But what better solo to welcome you back to the band than ‘The Blue Bells of Scotland’? Or, rather”—the man hesitated, threw Sarah a nervous glance before looking back to Denny, then finally released himself from all restraint—“since no self-respecting trombonist would call it that, ‘The Blue Balls of Scotland.’ How about it, Homer? ‘Blue Balls’?”
“Well,” said Denny, “considering how long I’ve been away from Sarah, it does seem apt.”
The man exploded with laughter that involved the sound of r a lot, a sort of “arahr arahr arahr arahr,” and when Sarah joined in, clearly against her will, Denny, unless he was mistaken, heard the same noise from her. He was fascinated.
“Good good good,” said the man, clapping Denny on the shoulder. He was about to move on to the station interior, but then he hesitated. “Ah, Sarah, your first day. How’d it go?”
“Second day, actually. I shared the mike last week with Gene. You weren’t listening just now?”
“Mmm. No. Had a CD on in the car, I’m afraid.” This sounded false to Denny. But then so was this:
“It went really, really well,” Sarah said. Denny noticed with interest that the station manager had emerged from his office and stood behind Sarah, a cold twinkle in his eyes. His chin, rather than being pressed against his chest, now stood up proud, and his beard pointed at the trio. Denny imagined him quickly gobbling the hidden apple after his talk with Sarah.
“I’m sure it was a great success. Ah, the good Mr. Prescott.” The bow-tied man stepped toward the station manager. “I come bearing the arts calendar, as promised. I must say, I didn’t care for the Eroica you aired last night. More like the Erotica—with Bernard Hijinks conducting.” Some snorts followed this speech.
“Down, boy,” the station manager said rather tiredly.
Over his shoulder the other said, “Rehearsals start in two weeks, Homer.”
Denny waved vaguely. How was he going to handle this gadfly?
But first and more formidably, Sarah. He looked at her. Was it time to leave the radio station? A brusque signal from her answered the question: he was nearer the door, and she waved the back of her hand at him as if shooing him out. The way he bolted in obedience surprised him. She said nothing until they were in the courtyard and the door had closed behind them. Then:
“Jesus Christ! What’s gotten into you?”
Denny stopped and turned to her. He was surprised to see her stern face suddenly transform itself into a smiling one. Had she been joking? Was she as sweet as she looked right now? He began to smile himself, but then he saw that her focus was on something behind him.
“Nancy!” she cried. “Have you sold your Subaru yet?”
A woman approaching from the flower shop carried a cellophane-wrapped bouquet in her arms, cradled like a baby. “Not yet. I’m saving it for you.”
“Such a dear friend,” Sarah said, laughing brightly. She gestured to the flowers. “A spring bouquet? They’re beautiful.”
“Welcome back, Homer,” the woman said to Denny. “How about you? Want to buy an Outback?” She raised her hand to stop his speech before he could think of any. “I know, I know. You’ve got your Rambler. I don’t see the appeal, frankly. You must enjoy sliding off the road in winter.”
“I like it for the front seats,” Denny said. “Because they fold all the way back. So does Sarah, if you take my meaning.” He chuckled.
The woman failed to arahr arahr arahr. She failed to smile. Nor did she frown or visibly reprove him in any way. Denny knew that her absence of expression was itself an expression, and that its meaning sat solidly on a bedrock of solemn tradition. The Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock just so that this woman could show him this face on this day. She tendered Sarah the flicker of a sympathetic smile and said, “Take care.”
As soon as the woman was gone, Sarah surprised Denny with a stomp of her boot heel on his left instep, which was protected only by the canvas of his tennis shoe.
“Jesus Christ!” she said. “What are you on?”
Denny’s eyes smarted from the blow. He suddenly felt as if he were back in high school, where bullies assaulted him without warning.
“Are you on something? Some medication from this surgery?”
“Yes, I am,” Denny managed to say. “Did Nick tell you about the surgery?” He was encouraged by her interest in his condition, though she came at it sideways and sourly.
“Nick?” She was irritated anew. Denny kept a sharp eye on her boots. “Why would he tell me?”
Denny was at sea. It was time to play the Nick card. “Because you two are pretty tight, I understand. Didn’t he get into your pants?”
Sarah threw her hands up and stormed off. Denny followed, but slowly, in order to think and regroup. To his mortification, he realized he had been pure Denny in everything he had said. He might as well have whipped out his driver’s license and shown it to her. Why had he behaved like this? Because of his appetite—there it was. Simply knowing that she was his for the taking had made him ravenous. But “his” meant “Homer’s.” If he was going to feed the beast named Denny, he would have to stay in character as Homer.
And he needed to remember that his character had been away for three years, apparently without explanation. Add to that the chewing out Sarah’s boss had just given her, and it was no wonder she was grumpy. He needed to be smart, to show some “social intelligence”—that was a term Ruth and Roscoe and the rest of the staff were always throwing at him. He needed to be patient and ride out the storm. Then she’d give him a ride of a different kind!
When he reached Sarah, she was still at the corner. He joined her just as the light changed. She stepped down from the curb, seeming not at all surprised to see him, and he walked beside her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He strained for the bland, sleepy countenance he knew from the videotapes, the Homeric potato face.
She nodded once, briskly. “I have to go to the bank. And I have a lot of catching up to do.”
“Yes,” he said hopefully, though “we” would have made more sense.
“I’m wrapping up a killer grant application, and I need some numbers from the first two seasons. They’re in your computer and I can’t get at them because of your goddamn password.”
“Sorry.”
“‘Sorry’ doesn’t cut it. I need to get in there today. It’s been a complete pain in the ass.” Her face had gone dark, but as they stepped up onto the other curb and she looked down the sidewalk, the storm passed, and, to his surprise, she slipped her arm through his. Denny was beginning to feel like a prop, but he also wanted to savor the moment. He had been with women, yes. He had had sex, certainly. But he had never walked down the street with a woman on his arm. “On his arm.” It made him think of his father strolling with his mother and making her laugh with some little joke.
Sarah suddenly grew animated at his side. She raised an a
rm and waved at an approaching well-dressed couple and, as they neared, called out their names. She slowed, as did Denny, but the couple did not. They were pleasant in their greeting, and they seemed to give Denny a special look of welcome, but it was clear that there would be no stopping to chat. The clouds re-gathered over Sarah, and she yanked her arm from Denny’s.
They pulled up to an ATM machine outside a bank. Sarah rummaged through her pocketbook for her card as she waited for the man ahead of her to finish. Denny looked around and noticed with alarm that the Ethan Allen Hotel stood next to the bank. What if Betsy walked out? She would not see him, of course, but Sarah might say something and force a conversation. That thought gave rise to another: Why hadn’t Sarah commented on the strangeness of his voice? And why had she said nothing about his three-year absence? It was as if they had already had a reunion and this was a subsequent meeting. Could Homer have done that—sneaked back for a quickie, then returned to Florida?
Sarah touched Denny’s arm and said, “We have so much catching up to do.”
Ah. Finally. “We sure do,” Denny said.
“Tom!” Sarah said, making a passer-by slow down. “Looks like spring is here. Hope to see you at the first concert. June sixteenth.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Hey, Homer.”
“Hey, Tom.”
Sarah abandoned Denny and stepped up to the machine, which was now free. He looked to where she had touched him, where her fingers had rested on his forearm. He felt dizzy with longing. It was a force pushing him forward, and he eased his body against hers. He began to wrap his limbs around her, and she leaned forward slightly in response. Was she bending over for him—to receive him, so to speak? There was another movement and a loud crack. He staggered backward, and it took him a long moment to understand that the noise had come from the collision of Sarah’s skull with his face. She had thrown her head back violently against his mouth and nose. As he touched his lips, probing the damage, he felt an ache of sympathy for himself. It was as if someone else, with their fingers gently exploring his face, were expressing long-overdue tenderness for him.
He heard Sarah now. She was talking fast, saying that she didn’t mean to do that, she was always nervous at an ATM, she had forgotten he was there, and she had felt a body suddenly pressing against her, and it had startled her. But even as she said all this, he could tell she was looking down the sidewalk, playing to the crowd again, which this time consisted of detectives Nick and Lance, walking toward them.
TWELVE
WHAT WITH ALL THE HOVERING, IT WAS LIKE HIS HIGHWAY accident scene all over again. While Sarah demonstratively wrung her hands, Nick came in close to check on the damage. Even Lance showed a response that went beyond repulsion, though his primary focus was on reconstruction of the incident. Sarah helped him there. “We bumped heads,” she said.
Nick examined Denny’s mouth. “Your teeth seem okay, Homer, but you better get some ice on that lip.” As Denny wondered where he might find some, he watched Nick brush the top layer of snow off a low wall in front of the bank and scoop up a clean handful. He packed it lightly with his bare hands, then pulled a glove from his coat pocket and handed it to Denny, giving Lance the occasion to wonder out loud if Denny would be able to get his hand in it.
Denny chose to use the glove as a pad to hold the snowball as he applied it to his injury. He turned to see what Sarah might have to say, but she had stepped to the ATM machine to conclude her business. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He listened to the local noises—Nick and Lance conferring, the ATM machine chugging, the cars splashing by in the melting snow. He sent his thoughts back to the impact, then to the moment just before it. He had reached his arms out, leaned in . . .
“I’m Sarah.” These cheery words made him open his eyes. He heard “Lance”—terse and manly in delivery—and watched the detective take Sarah’s out-thrust hand. He was wearing a turtleneck again, only this one was lime green. Over it he wore a dark sport coat.
Nick still had his eye on Denny. He asked him if he wanted to sit down, and Denny shook his head. “This helps, Nick. Thanks. I’m all right.”
Nick turned to Sarah. “So, it looks like you two are catching up.”
“That we are,” Sarah said with a big smile.
“Must be nice after all this time,” Nick said.
“That it is,” said Sarah. She looked at Lance. “You’re Nick’s new partner?”
“That I am,” said Lance. His gaze was a silver band of steel running from his eyes to Sarah and wrapping around her head. “And you’re Homer’s old partner.”
Behind his freezing snow pack, Denny thought, Good one, Lance.
With a sharp laugh, Sarah threw her head back—Denny stood safely off to one side—and she said, “Not that old, I hope.”
“No, no,” said Lance. “Not at all.” Denny noticed that Lance and Sarah were similarly chiseled. If they tried to kiss each other with their heads aligned on the same plane, their protruding chins would prevent their lips from coming together. He imagined them poised in this frustration for eternity, like doomed lovers in a Greek myth.
Lance was reaching into a manila envelope, searching for something with his fingers, but he continued to look at Sarah. Was he going to pluck out a chocolate for her? The thought reminded Denny of his own gift. He looked for the bag and saw that Nick was holding it for him.
“We were just at Betsy’s,” Nick said. “She’s anxious to see you, Homer.”
Denny nodded, hoping it was understood that the snow pack against his lips prohibited a full response. Lance pulled a glossy photo from the envelope and wordlessly handed it to him. It was a picture of Dennis Braintree, person of interest in the disappearance and now death of Marge Plongeur. Roscoe must have provided the photo. It was the original for the small image that ran with Denny’s features in The Fearless Modeler. Fortunately, it bore little resemblance to him. Like his driver’s license photo, it had been taken during Denny’s experimental light period three years earlier. It was a poor likeness for another reason as well. The photographer, being “creative,” had positioned Denny unnaturally, angling his head downward forty-five degrees and directing him to look up with an impish smirk.
“Who’s this?” Denny said.
“The guy who was with the victim,” said Lance. He punched a finger at the Ethan Allen Hotel. “Right up there.”
“We were showing it to the staff,” Nick said. He looked at Sarah. “Did you see the paper this morning—the story about Marge Plongeur?”
“No. What happened?”
“She disappeared the night before last, and today she turned up dead.”
“Dead?” said Sarah.
“Actually, Sparky’s involved.”
“Sparky?” She said the name with more horror than she had said “dead.”
“She fell from the top floor and landed in Sparky’s truck. It was parked under the balcony.” Nick could have added that Homer had been the driver. Instead, he threw Denny a wink.
“Oh, God,” Sarah said.
Nick turned to Lance. “Sparky’s Sarah’s cousin.”
Lance looked hard at Sarah. “I don’t see the resemblance.”
“I hope not,” Sarah said with a laugh—which, out of respect for Marge, she cut short. She turned to Nick. “How did it happen?”
“We’re sorting it out. Did you know her?”
Denny awaited her answer with interest. Another dear friend, perhaps? “Not really,” she said with a little frown. “Where is she now? I mean where’s her body?”
“With the Medical Examiner,” Nick said.
“She just . . . fell into his truck?”
“That’s right.”
Sarah shook her head. “That’s so Sparky.”
Nick turned to Lance. “You know how you sometimes see geese flying the wrong way, like going north in the fall? Sarah’s side of the family calls them ‘Sparkies.’”
“Actually, they’re not going the wrong way,” said
Lance. “They’re regrouping.” He turned to Sarah. “But I like that. I like it a lot.”
Nick shrugged off his defeat in the arena of goose ethology and looked at the photo still in Denny’s hands. “Anyway, Marge’s last moments were probably with this guy.”
Sarah stepped over to Denny and pulled the photo toward her. He held on to one edge of it as she studied it. “What a doofus,” she said.
Denny jerked it away and extended it to Lance, who was watching him closely. “I hope you find him and clear this up,” Denny said.
“Look at it again,” Lance said.
Denny did. “Am I supposed to see something?”
“Does he look familiar?”
Denny braced himself. “Not really.”
“He should. You know him. You talked with him.”
“Oh?” This made no sense, but it was good news. At least Lance was not pursuing any perceived resemblance between the photo and Denny.
“Betsy said you talked with him at the airport.”
Denny nodded, buying time. “You” in this context was Homer; “him” was Denny. Ah: Denny, when he had phoned Betsy (as Denny), had told her he had chatted with her nephew at the airport; if Denny talked with Homer, it followed that Homer talked with Denny. How strange that this fabrication was circling back from this unexpected source. It was like seeing a looping train that you had forgotten about re-appear from behind a foam-board mountain.
“We did talk,” Denny said slowly. He realized that the coincidence should have a staggering effect on him, so he staggered backward a step. “I can’t believe that I talked to the very same guy you’re looking for.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Lance had taken out his notebook. This was now police business.
“No.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I was keyed up about being back in Vermont. We talked about that.”
From Away Page 12