Darkness the Color of Snow

by Thomas Cobb

  “No. Let me know when they’re here. Is he gone?”

  Pete nods. “Sorry, Gordy. And yes, he’s gone. For now.”

  “That asshole.”

  “Trouble with assholes is that even natural-­born ones figure they got to keep on practicing. Tough thing when the town council president is so pumped up on ideology, he hasn’t got a clue what’s really going on.”

  Gordy shakes his head. “It’s not ideology. The ideology just happens to coincide with what’s good for Martin Glendenning right now. If he could get rid of the police department, it would benefit his side businesses. For Martin the power of government is the power to screw up his enterprises.”

  “And throw him in jail,” Pete says.

  “One of these days, maybe, we’ll do that.”

  RONNY FORBERT IS still cleaning, trying not to think about it, not to think about anything, when his phone rings. He hopes it’s Nessa, but it’s his father again. He looks at his watch. Three o’clock. He tries to figure. His father could be drunk again, but he’s working, over in Warrentown. He figures it’s not likely, and he answers it.

  “Ronny. Are you all right? I heard there was an accident.”

  “You heard that from me. We talked this morning.”

  “No. I was working. Over in Warrentown.”

  “I called you.”

  “No. I was at work. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right.”

  “It was a bad accident. Guy got killed.”

  “I know. Matt Laferiere. I was there.”

  “But you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine. Some scratches. I was arresting him when he got hit by a car. A hit and run.”

  “Did you fuck up, Ronny?”

  “No. I was arresting him. He got hit by a car.”

  He can hear the slurring, now. “I feel real bad, Ronny. You fucked up, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s not your fault. I know that. It’s my fault. I know that. Entirely my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault. You weren’t even there.”

  “I’m a terrible father. I know that. It’s really all my fault. You wouldn’t be such a fuckup if I had done a better job of raising you. I don’t know what your mother was thinking, just running off and leaving the two of us. She was a better parent than I was. I did my best, but it wasn’t very good. I’m sorry, Ronny.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t my fault. It was an accident. Hit and run. And it has nothing to do with you.”

  “You’re my son. I should have done a lot better for you. This is my fault.” His father begins to cry. “We’re just a ­couple of losers, Ronny. And that’s all my fault.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “No. No. I mean I had a ­couple of drinks, yeah. But I’m not drunk. I’m just so sorry I got you into this mess. You should be working with me, but there aren’t any jobs. I mean, you’re a good carpenter. I could have helped you out.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “You’re going to get fired, aren’t you?”

  That stops Ronny. “No. I’m not going to get fired. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “You can come back. You can come home. I owe that much to you.”

  Ronny hangs up.

  IN THE MIDDLE of the office, a young woman, blond, in a down parka, skirt, and running shoes stands talking to Pete. Gordy recognizes her face from TV but can’t place the name.

  “Renee Lawson,” she says, sticking out her hand. “Channel Eight Newswatch. Would you mind doing the interview outside? It’s cold, but the light is great, and I love the look of this old building.”

  “It is that,” Gordy says. Then adds “old.” He pauses for a reaction, gets none. “Wherever. It’s fine, either way.” He follows her outside. The video guy, a big, heavyset guy with long graying hair tied back in a ponytail, and a graying beard, nods and continues to make adjustments to his camera.

  “This won’t take long,” Renee assures him. “We’ll get out of here and let you get back to your work. Mostly we want to just get the basic facts of what happened last night. It was a hit and run, right?”

  Gordy nods. “A hit and run. Right.”

  “Do you have the driver?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Maybe we can get you some help on that. So, I’ll ask for details on the accident and then on the car that ran. Give me all you can, and we’ll run a crawl asking for help and giving your phone number. We’ll post it to the website, too. Maybe someone will call in with info you can use.”

  “That would be great.”

  “And I’ll need info on the victim. Can you give me that?”

  “Some. Name, age, that sort of thing. He was an adult and his family has been notified, so we’re clear on that.” He gives her a sheet John North has printed out with basic media information.

  “Fantastic. And the officer involved?”

  “Yes. One of our officers was on the scene.”

  “I’ll ask about that. And the road. There have been a lot of deaths on this road, right?”

  “Four fatalities in the last seven years. Five. Five now.”

  “How do you pronounce these names?”

  Gordy goes over them with her.

  The big video guy leaves his camera, comes up to Gordy, offers his hand. “Alex. Alex Fernandes. Can I borrow his attention for a little bit, Renee?”

  Alex takes a step back and hands Gordy a sheet of white paper. “Can you hold this up for me? Just under your chin?” Gordy looks at the paper. Blank on both sides.

  “Good, man. Just a little lower. An inch, maybe. That’s it. Right there. Look to your left. Your other left. OK. Now to your right. That’s perfect. I’m just going to mike you. Mind unzipping your jacket for just a second? I know it’s cold. I’ll let you zip it right back up.” Alex attaches the little lavalier mike to Gordy’s collar then runs the wire down the front of Gordy’s shirt and hooks a transmitter on Gordy’s belt. “OK. You can zip back up. I’m ready, Renee.”

  Renee looks up from the media sheet. “Is there anything you want to bring up, Chief?”

  Gordy thinks. There must be something. He shakes his head. “We just want to catch this guy.”

  “OK. We’ll do our best for you. If there’s anything else you want to say, just let me know. We will edit this back at the station. Likewise, if you fuck up, just start over. OK? So just relax and, whatever you do, don’t fuck up.” She smiles. “A little joke. Keeps things loose.

  “Renee Lawson, Channel Eight Newswatch. We’re here in the small town of Lydell, just off Route 417 where a horrific hit-­and-­run accident occurred last night. With me is Chief Graham Hawkins of the Lydell Police Department.”

  “Gordon.”

  “Pardon?”

  “My name is Gordon. You called me Graham. Fucked up.”

  “With me is Chief Gordon Hawkins of the Lydell Police Department. Late last night, during a traffic stop on Route 417, twenty-­one-­year-­old Matthew Laferiere was struck and killed as he was being placed under arrest by Lydell patrolman Ronald Forbert. Chief, what can you tell us about the accident last night?”

  “It was a hit-­and-­run fatality in the early morning around twelve thirty, just about a mile and a half west of the state line. The young man was struck and killed during a routine traffic stop by a white vehicle, maybe a Honda Accord or Toyota Camry that was headed west on 417.”

  “So there was an officer involved?”

  “There was an officer on the scene. I wouldn’t say that he was directly involved, but he was there. He made the stop.”

  “And what can you tell us about the victim?”

  “He was Matthew Laferiere, age twenty-­one, of Twisted Root Road in Lydell, a graduate of Warrentown Regional High School. He was t
he driver of the vehicle the officer stopped.”

  “And he died at the scene?”

  “It was instantaneous, yes.”

  “Any more information on the car that hit him?”

  “Witnesses say that it was a white sedan, probably an Accord or Camry, in the 1990-­to-­2000 range. This vehicle will have taken significant front-­end damage, probably to the right side of the vehicle—­right front fender and headlight.”

  “And you’re asking for help from the public, right?”

  “We would appreciate any help we can get. If anyone sees a vehicle that fits that description, we would appreciate a call to the Lydell Police Department.”

  “And that number is running across the bottom of the screen right now, and will be available on our website eightearlyandlate.com. What about the officer involved?”

  “The arresting officer is Patrolman Ronald Forbert of the Lydell Police Department.”

  “And he’s a rookie, right?”

  “He’s been on the force for almost a year, first as a probationary patrolman, and on active duty for six months.”

  “And I understand he’s on suspension.”

  “Yes. A preliminary investigation indicates that Patrolman Forbert performed his duties in a responsible and correct manner.”

  “Well, why a suspension if he performed correctly?”

  “A procedural matter. He did not call for backup in what we would consider a timely fashion. He didn’t get that done. He missed on just that one thing.”

  “He was also injured in the accident.”

  “He received some scrapes and scratches.”

  “Wasn’t he fighting with the victim?”

  “He was placing him under arrest. There was some resistance. That’s all I can say about that right now. There is an investigation under way.”

  “Is it likely that charges will be brought against the officer?”

  “No. He was performing his duty. There won’t be charges brought.”

  “But he struggled with the victim.”

  “The victim resisted. There was a struggle. All indications are the officer acted appropriately.”

  Renee Lawson turns away from Gordy toward the camera. “There you have it, a hit-­and-­run fatality in the small town of Lydell. If you have any information that will aid Chief Graham Hawkins and his staff on this investigation, please call the Lydell Police Department at the number on your screen. Renee Lawson, Channel Eight Newswatch.”

  “Gordon.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Gordon, not Graham.”

  “Police Chief Gordon Hawkins. We’ll get that in editing.”

  RONNY’S PHONE RINGS again. He checks it. Vanessa. “Hi,” he answers.

  “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine.” He wonders for a second if he should change his voice mail message to simply, I’m fine. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine. Busy. Finals and all. But you’re all right? You’re not hurt?”

  “No. I’m not hurt. You heard what happened last night.”

  “Some of it. Matt’s dead.”

  “Yeah. Matt’s dead.” He can’t think of anything else to say.

  “I’m glad you’re OK. I was worried.”

  “No. I’m OK.”

  “Well, what did happen last night? Are you OK to talk about it?”

  “Can you come over?”

  “I have a big lab tomorrow. It’s part of the final.”

  “I don’t really want to talk about this on the phone.”

  “If I come over, I can’t stay.”

  He pauses for a long time. “Coming over and not staying is better than not coming over, I guess. I think I need to talk, just not on the phone.”

  “All right. I’ll be there in a hour. Maybe two.”

  “Fine.”

  GORDY WALKS INTO a cold house. He thought he had stocked and banked the woodstove to keep it going all day. But the cold was not as bad as the emptiness of the house. He goes out the back door and walks into his woodshop. There, inside a toolbox, he fishes out the bag of M&M’s he had hidden out here so that he wouldn’t have to eat them in front of Bonita, whose diabetes left such treats forbidden. He opens the bag and pours out a handful. They’re frozen, of course, but he’s become fond of frozen M&M’s. He’s not sure why he still keeps them hidden in the toolbox. He wishes he had Bonita to talk to. Without her, he feels untethered. He had always brought his problems to her.

  They had been together for forty years, since they had met in Texas when he was an MP stationed at Fort Bliss. She was a student at UTEP, and he was taking two classes, using the army’s long way toward a college degree. They met in English class. The United States was conducting small operations in Vietnam, sending advisers from the army to train South Vietnamese soldiers in what was looking more and more like the beginnings of a civil war. Arguments about the U.S. role in Southeast Asia were just beginning, and he had impressed her with a quiet, reasoned defense of the U.S. presence there, and, even more, an ability to listen to the arguments of the other side with a calm, steady respect.

  She caught him one day after class. “I like the way you make your point in class. It makes you seem smart.” He was taken aback. He had noticed her, thought her pretty, smart, and quiet. He was surprised that she would approach him, the army guy, who wasn’t quiet, and who was in a constant battle to show these kids that he was as smart as they were.

  He smiled. “Maybe I am smart.”

  Yes. She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, you could be. But I kind of doubt it, and you’re certainly wrong.”

  “About what?”

  She smiled. “Most things.”

  “I guess that’s better than everything.”

  “You could probably work your way to that.”

  “How can I convince you that I’m not stupid? Wrong, maybe, but not stupid.”

  She shook her head and tsked. “I doubt you could prove it. But you can try if you want.”

  “How about dinner and a movie?”

  “What movie?”

  “That new one with Peter Sellers. Dr. Strangelove.”

  “Good choice. Probably just dumb luck, though.”

  “You can explain it to me afterward.”

  She smiled more broadly, then. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Me, too.”

  That began an interrupted arc of their lives together that included two tours in Vietnam for him, a twenty-­four-­year career as a teacher for her, and after the army, a career in police work that took them to the Northeast and finally settled them in Lydell, seventeen years ago.

  Bonita had retired, in part due to a general decline in her health as her diabetes became less and less manageable. Gordy kept looking for police work that was less dangerous and less stressful, going from Boston, to Providence, to Salem, New Hampshire, and finally to Lydell where he spent ten years moving from patrolman to sergeant and finally chief of police.

  He had given up on showing her that he was as smart as she was. He wasn’t. He’d figured that out early on. Teaching elementary school was a necessary and important job, but he had always thought that her intelligence was being wasted there, though he couldn’t think what she might do that would be more important. Living with her raised his appreciation of teachers, though. They didn’t get credit for being as smart and hardworking as they were.

  In school he had pretty much thought that teachers were fakes, reading a ­couple of chapters ahead in the textbooks, spending their summers hanging out and taking long vacation trips. He guessed a lot of ­people felt that way, and a lot of them never quite outgrew it. He had always been proud of Bonita, even though he knew she could have done better. In a lot of ways.

  He had watched her fight against the diabetes, struggling to control her weight, finding odd t
imes in the morning and afternoon to exercise, watching her diet, trying to avoid taking the insulin injections. She fought hard, and the disease made its gains slowly, but it gained on her. Daily insulin injections started when she was in her fifties. Then came the fatigue, as if all of her fighting had finally sapped her strength so that she wouldn’t recover it. Then the neuropathy, slowly, steadily crippling her until it eventually took her legs at the knees.

  And what legs they had been. When he first noticed her in English class, he noticed how demure she was, but it was impossible to ignore the legs, long and coltish. Even under a full skirt they couldn’t be ignored. Early on it took him a while to say anything because he didn’t want to appear overly lecherous and scare her off, but in the springtime, when she showed up for an evening date in Bermuda shorts, he told her she had beautiful legs.

  “I do, don’t I?” she said.

  “I thought it would embarrass you if I said that.”

  “You didn’t think I knew? They got your attention, didn’t they?”

  “I didn’t think you knew.”

  “You’re sweet,” she said. “Dumb. But sweet.”

  THE KNOCKING ON the door wakes him up. Ronny looks at the TV where Monday Night Football is in progress. He has fallen asleep, waiting for this. He gets up quickly and goes to the door. Vanessa.

  “Sorry I’m so late,” she says. “There was an optional question on the final. I thought I better do it.”

  “You think you needed an extra question?” he asks, momentarily relieved to be on this sidetrack of the conversation.

  “No. I did well. I know that. But what if he decides that he’s only giving A’s to the ­people who choose to do the optional question as well. See what I mean? You could get screwed for doing too well. I mean, if you figure you did well and skipped the extra question. I had to do it.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Sounds pretty bizarre, though. A little paranoid?”

  “Who isn’t? I mean, you’ve got to be. At least sometimes. How are you?”

  “Fine. I’m good.”

  “But you got hurt.”

  He pulls up his sleeve and shows her the bandage. “Road rash. A week or two and it will be gone. Some on my leg, too.”