Preston Falls : a novel

by Gates, David, 1947-

  "What?" she calls. He doesn't answer.

  She goes in and finds the dining room crammed with furniture from the living room and the living room completely bare. There's plastic over one of the living room windows and a ragged hole in one part of the ugly old ceiling. He's taking out the windows? To paint them? The door to the front hall is leaning against the wall, the sofa's wedged in there diagonally and books are piled everywhere. "I guess your father started work," she says.

  "Can you break handcuffs if you're strong enough?" says Roger.

  "You'd have to be pretty strong. If you were Superman, I guess."

  "I mean real."

  "No," she says. "Somebody has to unlock them."

  "Do they hurt?"

  "I wouldn't know. I don't imagine they're too comfortable. Did it bother you, seeing that happen to Daddy?"

  "No," he says.

  "Well, it bothered me. And it made me angry"

  Roger says nothing.

  "I was angry at the poUceman for not Ustening to Daddy," she says. ''And I was angry at Daddy, for not staying out of trouble."

  No go. Nothing.

  "What are you thinking?" she says.

  "About a frog."

  "What? ^te about a frog?"

  "They make you mad when you can't catch them," he says.

  Jean tries to think how this connects up. The idea of getting mad, maybe. ''God you're impervious," she says. Should she be saying that? Well, most likely he doesn't know what it means. "But sometimes, when something upsetting happens, it's best to let yourself get upset, you know? "

  "Can I turn on Daddy's computer?" he says.

  "To do what?"

  "Play Mortal Kombat," he says.

  Well, maybe he'll process what she said on his own. "Sure, go ahead," she says. "We'll be eating in about ten minutes."

  Jean goes back into the kitchen and looks out the window: the first stars have appeared. She finds herself saying Star light, star bright (she must be desperate) but can't honestly decide which one is the actual first star she sees tonight. Mel's still sitting out there on the Cherokee. Must be getting chilly. But maybe the engine's warm under her. Mel's already talked about what she's feeling: she's feeling that the cop was a pig. And she's furious at Jean for suggesting that Willis might also have been at fault. Jean gets out two skillets—one for the hot dogs, one for Mel's vegetables—and the double boiler for the leftover chicken and stuff. Mel will ask why she has to eat couscous that was in with chicken. Easy one: she doesn't have to.

  The phone rings just as the hot dogs' skins are starting to split; Jean rolls them over with the fork, turns off the burner and gets the phone in the middle of the third ring, before the machine can pick up. It's the lawyer, Philip Reed, who actually sounds civilized. He's calling from California and will be flying in to Burlington late tomorrow night. He'll be glad to help out—based on what she's telling him, it's completely outrageous—and he'll see Willis first thing Tuesday morning. No, unfortunately, because of the holiday, that's the soonest anything could be done anyway. But what he will do, as soon as he gets off the phone, is send Willis a fax introducing himself and letting him know help is on the way. Sure, they've got a fax in the hoosegow—all the modern conveniences. Would she like the fax number? Got a pen handy? And how is she bearing up? Not to worry, this is all going to work out.

  And again the kids surprise her. Roger comes downstairs the first time she calls him; Mel says the sauteed vegetables are yummy—they're not, so she must be trying to make up for sulking—and eats the couscous without remark. And thanks Jean for making dinner. Roger says, "Yeah, thanks. Mom," and pretends to vomit. These are good kids. You just have to know how to read Roger.

  She feels like leaving the dishes for Willis—he'll get back here sooner or later—but she doesn't want to see herself as being that small a person. Though she does decide to let them dry by themselves in the dish drainer, just so he'll see them and know she washed up. She takes Philip Reed's card, on which she's jotted the fax number, and goes up to

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  Willis's study, which used to be the walk-in hall closet. She sits at his computer (Roger neglected to turn it off), clicks out of Mortal Kombat and into Word:

  WilUs,

  Your friend's lawyer says he will be there on Tuesday morning to handle things. (He says he's faxing you, so maybe you've already heard from him. Anyway his name is Philip Reed.) Apparently nothing can be done until Tuesday (bail, etc.) because of the holiday. The children and I, and the dog, are driving back to Chesterton tonight (Sunday). I really don't know what to say, except that I would have never imagined you allowing a thing like this to happen. Whenever this is over, I would appreciate you not suddenly showing up in Chesterton, if that was your plan. As of now I really don't want any communication with you, though we will have to talk.

  Jean

  She prints the thing and feeds the printout into his fax machine. It's already creeping through when she realizes this last part is a fairly personal thing to be sending for everybody at the jail to read. But guess what: too bad. Now he can be humiliated, though it's not her actual intention.

  At least when Carol gets here Jean won't have to try to hold all this together by herself. Not that she couldn't. Not that she doesn't. Let's see: it's Sunday. Carol was planning to arrive Tuesday, so she must be somewhere in the Midwest. Iowa, maybe. Nebraska. Jean pictures her coming to the rescue in her sporty little red truck, shooting along down a two-lane blacktop alley between green rows of tall corn. Though around Preston Falls the corn's already being harvested. And put away in silos. With tractors. Jean is so sick of country this and country that.

  When she comes downstairs, Rathbone's lying on the couch in the hall. Mel's sitting, full lotus, in the middle of the empty living room. Roger's at the kitchen table, looking at the old Weekly World News Willis thought was so hilarious, with this badly faked picture of Hitler with lots of wrinkles; at age one hundred and something, he'd come out

  of hiding in Argentina to help Saddam Hussein. Willis's riff about this is that it's great because the story's written absolutely straightforwardly, like a piece in the Times. God, a respite from Willis's riffs about things: there's that to be thankful for. Up and at 'em, she tells the kids, then whistles for Rathbone and puts his leash on him. She turns off the lights, clicks the lock on the kitchen door and closes it behind them.

  As they go jouncing down Ragged Hill Road, she thinks, What if this is the last time? Which it could very possibly be, considering. Okay, well, what if. Before she even gets to the stop sign, she's gone through the whole thing: the divorce; the settlement leaving her the kids and the house in Chesterton and him the place in Preston Falls; Willis quitting work and moving up here and falling apart like his father and not being able to make his support payments; her and the kids ending up in an apartment, though maybe still in Chesterton so at least they won't have to change schools. Above one of the vacant stores on Main Street, maybe. Would that be depressing enough?

  TWO

  In his dream, they've widened the Tappan Zee—a dozen westbound lanes—but Willis still can't move for all the traffic. Then he finds a special exit ramp no one else seems to know about, and he's suddenly on a dirt road, passing weathered gray farmhouses with dingy white chickens pecking in the dooryards. This place, he understands, is Rockland. But now he's clipping by so fast he doesn't dare look away from the road, which begins climbing steeply uphill; off in the distance he sees higher hills and a gaudy blue-gold-orangey Maxfield Parrish sky As the truck melts away beneath him he shouts, "Oh yes, God!" and tries to soar, but it must be too soon and he wakes up.

  He's in jail. Lying on a bench welded together out of steel laths, bolted to a cinderblock wall. His feet are cold because he's taken off his boots to use as a pillow. At the rear of the cell, a seatless toilet bowl and a sink, with a piece of polished metal screwed into the wall for a mirror; the front of the cell is bars. He looks up at the caged lightbulb they never
turn off; it could be any time, any day. He closes his eyes and regards a throbbing black spot burned into the general redness. But let's not go back to sleep again. He's been here overnight and then all of Monday He knows this because he's had three meals: an Egg McMuffin and coffee (breakfast), a McDonald's hamburger, small fries and coffee (lunch), and a drumstick, mashed potatoes and coffee from Kentucky Fried (dinner). So it must be either Monday night or early Tuesday morning. He's been handed two faxes: one from a lawyer, saying he'd be here Tuesday morning, the other from Jean, telling him the lawyer would be in touch. And not to come to Chesterton. Weird that a prisoner could receive a fax. And a cop came in with the news that a gun had been found in his truck and a weapons charge would be filed. Is it actually against the law to have a gun in your truck? Shit, you always see these people with gun

  PRESTON FALLS

  racks. Maybe it's against the law only if you're not really that kind of person.

  So far he's done a good job of keeping himself together. He's tried remembering famous poems: "Stopping by Woods" was too easy and "Prufrock" too hard; he couldn't get past the patient etherized upon the table. The half-something retreats of oyster shells. He's figured out the changes to "Gee, Baby, Ain't I Good to You" if you're in G, though he can't be dead certain until he gets an actual guitar in his hands. He's named all forty-eight real states, picturing a map in his head and counting on his fingers. He got down and did push-ups. Three, actually, which left him sweating and gasping, his chest pounding. Still, this could be a beginning.

  Movies have turned out to be the best thing. Better than books, he's ashamed to say; Dombey, at least, should be fresh, but he can't remember the sequence after the mother dies and they get the wet nurse—^which is what, the first chapter? He's able to keep The Godfather going for a good long time. First the guy saying "I believe in America" and you find out he wants these guys murdered that raped his daughter and Brando does that thing where he brushes up at his jawline with the backs of his fingers and says, "That I cannot do." He's also holding a cat. Then something like "But let's be frank. You never wanted my friendship. And you were afraid to be in my debt."

  He tries The Wizard ofOz, but it gets vague in the middle. The Man Who Came to Dinner, same problem. Ten minutes, Mr. Whiteside!

  But good old North by Northwest: he can keep that one together, sort of. Someplace around where Gary Grant rear-ends the car and the cop car rear-ends Gary Grant's car or however it goes and the black Gadillac with the bad guys makes a U-turn and vanishes, he falls asleep again.

  Somebody says "Hey" and he wakes up. Another of these cops or guards or sheriffs. "Your lawyer's here."

  Willis gets his feet onto the floor and sits up, his forearms on his thighs. His head hurts and wants to loll.

  Somebody else says, "Doug Willis? Philip Reed," and sticks a hand through the bars. Willis should get up and shake his hand, but first he's got to close his eyes again. "Benny?" says the lawyer. "I need some privacy to confer with my client. You want to check up my ass for contraband?"

  "You want to bite this?" Willis hears footsteps going away.

  "So what happened to you, man? Let me guess—you fell down."

  Willis opens his eyes. Philip Reed has this long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. Corduroy jacket, blue oxford shirt bulging out above his belt, top button undone, yellow striped tie loosened. Sharp nose coming at you out of a puffy red face with bushy white sideburns. Foxy, the whole effect of him.

  "What time is it?" says WiUis.

  "Eight o'clock. Five of, I thought we better schmooze a little before they want you upstairs. Here." He opens a Dunkin' Donuts bag Willis hadn't noticed and hands a coffee cup through the bars. "Cream and

  sugar

  y,

  "Just cream." Willis gets up and takes the cup, still hot, and two little cream things. "Thank you. This is very civilized."

  "Don't worry, you'll get the bill. I also brought you a razor, which you have to promise not to cut your throat with." He opens his briefcase and hands Willis a blue plastic razor, a can of Colgate regular and two paper towels patterned with geese.

  "You came prepared," says Willis. "He said inanely."

  "This actually is more for you than for the judge," says Reed. "He's got to cut you loose no matter what the fuck you look like. This totally bullshit gun charge, which he'll throw out immediately, and all he's got left is just some little Mickey Mouse situation where you had words with somebody. The reason I want you shaved, you're going to walk in there feeling like you're a little more glued together, which in turn is going to give a boost to your demeanor, which in turn could save you a couple of bucks on your fine."

  "Right," says Willis.

  "Okay, now the other thing—and you're going to think this is weird, but trust me. After you get shaved we're going to fix your face a little. Anytime there's a question of resisting arrest, I bring along a thing of Cover Girl. The lip I don't know, but the chin definitely."

  "What are you talking about?" says Willis.

  "You look at yourself?" Willis brings the razor and stuff over to the sink and looks in the metal mirror: a strawberry on his chin and jaw, scabby scrapes on his swollen lower lip and at the corner of his mouth. "Now, the reason we're doing this—okay?—is we don't want you looking like some hardened criminal who had to be clubbed into submission.

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  Your goal is to get out of here with like a fifty-dollar fine for disturbing the peace or some bullshit and just put the whole episode behind you, am I right? Sad to say, but the attitude upstairs is going to be that if the boys beat the shit out of you, you probably—"

  "No no no, this happened before."

  "Before what?"

  "Before I even went down there. I was, you know, up on a step-ladder, working around the house, and I just sort of lost my balance." Willis turns on the faucet; there's only cold.

  "You fell off a stepladder and landed on your face," says Reed. "Yeah, okay. Hey, anything's possible."

  "What can I tell you?" Willis lathers his face. What can he tell him? He makes the first swath, a boulevard down the right cheek.

  ''Ho boy. Well, whatever, we still cover up the damage as best we can. Otherwise it just becomes confusing. I am correct in assuming that you want to do this the easy way and get on with your life?"

  "What are my options?" He's working on the patch between the sideburn and the corner of the jaw.

  "What are your options," says Reed. "Okay. Option one: total war. You did nothing wrong, you're a family man on your little family outing, solid citizen, no criminal record —right? Any record at all?"

  "Nope."

  "No criminal record, you're harassed for no reason, first by an asshole park ranger and then by an asshole sheriff's deputy, who refused to listen to your side of the story —and so forth and so on."

  "Which is what happened," says Willis. He's on the tricky shit now, throat and under the chin.

  "Okay, whatever. Anyhow. You know that saying Pay the two dollars} Now, if you strongly feel you want to pursue this, we'll go upstairs, enter a plea of not guilty, we'll get a date, and we'll make the best case we can. With the stipulation that I don't think it's probably the wisest use of your time and money."

  Willis goes lightly around the chin, trying not to slice scabs. "No, fuck it. Forget it. I just want it over."

  "Good man," says Reed. "We'll make a lawyer out of you yet. Okay, dry off and come over here."

  Willis goes over to him and stands at the bars, gripping them the way they do in old movies, or old editorial cartoons about Nixon and

  shit. He's wanted to do this the whole time he's been here, but didn't want to be seen doing it: it's such 2ijail thing, like putting X's on the calendar. Sure enough, the sons of bitches are cold. Philip Reed takes a compact out of his briefcase, flips up the lid, and tells Willis to turn his head. Willis closes his eyes and feels a finger smoothing creamy stuff on his chin, around his lips. First time his face has been
touched in however long.

  The courtroom upstairs has rows of slatted wood folding chairs facing a gray metal desk on a plywood podium. A limp, gold-fringed American flag on a pole at one side and what must be the state flag at the other. Behind the desk, a portly old character actor in a black robe: white hair, bald dome, and those black-rimmed glasses that made people look intelligent back about the time Willis's mother used to get the Saturday Review. He could be the park ranger's brother who went to college. Willis follows Philip Reed to the front row of chairs. Over to their left sit the deputy who arrested him and a pudgy young guy in a too-tight suit who turns out to be some assistant under-assistant prosecutor.

  The judge looks at Reed, then at Willis, then turns to the state man. "Okay, so what have we got here?"

  The prosecutor stands up. "This is Douglas Willis, Your Honor. His driver's license says Preston Falls, but his vehicle has a commuter parking sticker from the Town of Chesterton, New York, and on his own information he works in New York City. He's charged with disorderly conduct, resisting arrest and criminal possession of a firearm."

  The judge is looking at a sheet of paper. "Douglas Willis," he says, then looks up. "That's you?"

  Willis nods.

  "How do you plead?" So this is officially going on? Like, court is in session?

  Philip Reed says, "If I may?"

  "Yeah, go ahead," says the judge.

  "Mr. Willis is willing to save the court time by pleading guilty to the charge of disorderly conduct."

  "Isn't that nice of him," says the judge.

  "Mr. Willis lost his temper—^with some provocation, I have to say—

  PRESTON FALLS

  while he was camping at Lake Edwards with his family. As I understand it, a park ranger refused to allow Mr. Willis to leave his dog in his vehicle very briefly while he went to inform his family he had arrived. They ended up having words, and the ranger took it upon himself to call the sheriff's office. At no time whatsoever did Mr. Willis resist arrest. He was simply trying to explain—"