An Occasional Hell

by Silvis, Randall;

  Damn it, he thought, I knew they heard the gunshot.

  He heard it himself then, startling, too near. And an instant later knew that it was not a remembered gunshot but a real one. Simultaneous with this realization, the sound of Draper’s .38 blossomed and exploded again, an explosion to dwarf the gun’s bark, a sonic boom that blew out the front wall of Draper’s bedroom and seemed to lift the entire house off its foundation.

  DeWalt found himself sitting on his ass on the bare floor. He could hear windowglass raining over the porch roof, wood creaking and snapping, a crackling of fire. A china plate rolled out of the armoire, rolled almost delicately, fell lethargically, and burst at his feet. His eyes seemed to want to peer in different directions, he could hold nothing steady in his gaze.

  His head was still ringing when, ten seconds later, he smelled the smoke and understood it, understood the plaster cracking above him, popping off in small chunks. He turned onto his hands and knees, steadied himself, pushed himself up. He wobbled closer to the armoire. Lying on its side in the corner of the armoire, unbroken, was the souvenir juice glass. Using the antimacassar—he was surprised to find it still clutched in his hand—he picked the glass up. He stumbled to the front door and, moving dreamily, smiling at the small glass, turned the lock. Feeling simultaneously floating and submerged, weak but desperate, a water-filled balloon pushing through dirty sunshafted water, he ran awkwardly away from the house, far out into the shaded yard before he stopped, nearly falling, and looked back.

  The top portion of the house was a solid box of flame. Even the oak tree that had pressed against Draper’s window was burning, the tip of a limb slowly taking fire. There was very little smoke just yet but that would come too. DeWalt could feel the heat on his face, tightening his skin, pulling his mouth into a hard frown. Even the glass in his hand felt warm. He looked at it, his evidence. Illegally obtained. What good would it do him now? He slipped the souvenir into his pocket and waited for the authorities to arrive.

  In Abbott’s car, parked along the edge of the Jewett’s driveway, fifty yards back of the fire company’s trucks, the two men sat, car windows sealed to keep out the smoke that still billowed from the shell of the house. Both men’s faces were shiny with perspiration, hands damp, shirts sticking to their backs. Even with the windows closed DeWalt could hear the old boards crackling, furniture sizzling and spitting beneath the continuing arc of water. The ambulance crew, with nothing to do now, stood by their vehicle, as curious as any of the machinations of death; maybe a bit more curious.

  On the middle of the dashboard, midway between the two men who did not look at each other now, who had looked at each other maybe twice, uneasily, since Abbott’s arrival thirty minutes earlier, was the souvenir drinking glass. Occasionally Abbott’s gaze was drawn from the fire to the glass, from the liguid orange to the frozen rainbow of blue and red. Reflected on the side of the glass were the flames and the running shadows of smoke and steam; they made the glass come alive, made the static blue waterfall flow. Abbott had not yet touched the glass. The antimacassar lay just above DeWalt’s left knee, an old lady’s doily flattened beneath his hand, a spinster’s diversion. His finger picked absently at the cobweb design.

  “So he either shot himself,” said Abbott, still working it out, not yet satisfied with the logistics, the turn of cause and effect, “and that’s what touched off the explosion. Or else he fired into the space heater … could that do it, though? Ignite the gas?”

  “Either way, it was suicide.”

  “If the room was full of gas, though, I guess the spark would do it. No matter which direction he shot.”

  “He told me once, more or less, that he was going to do this. Said he’d rather shoot himself than go on dialysis.”

  Abbott shook his head. “Goofy bastard. Probably didn’t have any idea what could be done for him these days.”

  DeWalt said nothing.

  “I have a cousin on dialysis. He’s run a greenhouse now for almost twenty years. Kidneys failed, they figure, because of all the chemicals he’s used on the plants over the years. So now he takes dialysis a couple times a week. But hell. It’s hardly changed his life at all.”

  Again, DeWalt kept quiet.

  “Damn lucky for Clifford and Aleta that they weren’t home today.”

  “And Tippy the dog,” said DeWalt. “Lucky, yeah. Lucky and convenient.”

  “Second Monday of the month,” Abbott said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “If you ever went shopping for groceries on the second Monday on the month, you’d know. It’s the day the welfare checks come out.”

  “That’s where you think they are now, at the supermarket?”

  “Aleta, anyway. Clifford’s probably not far away. Just across the street at Scipio’s Bar and Grill. Anyway, don’t worry, they’re in town somewhere. I’ll find them.”

  He drew a hand across his forehead then, looked at the sheen of dirty perspiration on his fingers. “I can’t stand this heat,” he said. He started the engine and turned on the air conditioner. A few minutes later, DeWalt was shivering. His own perspiration, the dampness beneath his arms, on his chest and down his spine, had turned to ice water.

  They sat in silence then, watching the fire and the heavily-jacketed men superimposed upon it. Then a gunshot sounded from inside the house. Quickly the firemen backed away, crouching, dragging the hose, moving toward their trucks.

  Then came a second shot, a flat toneless bark, but unmistakable. “Jesus fuck,” said Abbott as he and DeWalt ducked forward, putting their heads below the level of the dashboard. More reports followed, in quick series of two or three, until what had probably been several boxes of shotgun, pistol and deer rifle shells were exploded—several minutes of DeWalt breathing the air between his knees, the catheter tube pinching his skin.

  Finally there was nothing but the sound of flames. Then firemen shouting at one another, going back to work. DeWalt and Abbott sat erect at nearly the same time.

  DeWalt, sitting up, glanced briefly at the trooper. Abbott’s face looked strained, mouth rigid. DeWalt knew it would start now, the questioning, the getting down to brass tacks. The sound of gunshots can do that to a man, the posssiblity of being shot—time is short, they seem to remind us. Quit pussyfooting around.

  Abbott put both hands on the steering wheel. “All right,” he said, watching the fire. “How about telling me just what you think you were doing in there.”

  “There have been thirteen brushfires in this general area in the past two years,” DeWalt said. “Several of them of a suspicious nature. There was also evidence, although it’s gone now, that somebody had once set fire to the house itself. There was evidence of another fire not far from the house. All in all, it seemed to add up to the presence of a firebug. Somebody, it seemed to me, who might know something about a firebombing apparently aimed at the husband of the lover of the man who was killed not a half mile from here.”

  “Use names,” Abbott said. He sounded tired; a man who wants to sleep but is not allowed to close his eyes.

  “Draper, in my opinion, fits the psychological profile. Which isn’t to suggest, however, that Clifford wasn’t involved in the firebombing. You can’t honestly tell me, Larry, that you’ve never once wondered how realistic it is that the Jewetts could be totally ignorant, as they claim, of a man who parked on their private property for several hours every Saturday.”

  “That doesn’t prove they had a deal going.”

  “It doesn’t prove it, no.”

  “It doesn’t prove much of anything, does it?”

  “All I have is theory, okay. Theory and no proof. Do you want to hear my theory or not?”

  “What good is theory without something to back it up?”

  “It’s a starting point, Larry. That’s all I’m suggesting.”

  Abbott watched the juice glass vibrating slightly, the thrum of the engine blurring the rainbow lines, shaking the waterfall. Half a minute later he
said, “I’m listening.”

  “Okay, let’s suppose this. Suppose that maybe the first or second time Alex takes Jeri to the inlet, one of the Jewetts shows up and tries to chase them off. But Alex says Hey, listen, you know how it is, a man’s got needs, right? So he offers Jewett, what—ten, twenty bucks? It’s cheaper and safer than a motel, am I right? And everybody comes away happy.”

  “Tell me when you get to something significant.”

  “You’ll know,” DeWalt said. Then, “So okay, this goes on for a while. In the meantime Alex is trying to get Jeri off cocaine. Being one of those over-educated naive types, he imagines he can accomplish this by convincing her husband to quit supplying her with it. But how does he go about such nasty business? He can’t soil his own hands, of course; he doesn’t have the temperament for it. So, whose help can he enlist? Certainly none of his colleagues or friends; he can’t afford to expose his affair. So who? For a while he toys with the idea of hiring me—”

  “You? He contacted you about his?”

  “He never contacted me, no. But I think he intended to. My phone number appears several times on his desk calendar. The last time, less than a month before the firebombing.”

  “Why wasn’t this made known to us?”

  “It’s just my phone number, and he never did call. It’s all theory and no proof.”

  DeWalt was looking at the antimacassar on his leg but he could feel Abbott’s eyes on him. DeWalt looked up and smiled. Abbott was chewing on the inside of his cheek.

  “I wouldn’t keep anything important from you, Larry. Have I yet? Haven’t I, in fact, been trying all along to give you information?”

  “Not information,” Abbott said. “Guesswork, maybe.”

  “And a little information here and there.”

  Abbott nodded slightly and looked away. A concession.

  “Okay, so where was I? Alex toys with the idea of hiring me to do his dirty work, because after all, I obviously know all the tricks, they’re in my book. But he doesn’t call me. It’s too risky. What if I say no? I’m establishment now, I’m a perfessor, for christ’s sake. So. He remembers how easy it was to rent his parking space at the inlet. How quick the Jewetts were to take his money. Maybe he asks around, inquires of their history, criminally speaking. Which is what, by the way?”

  Abbott thought about it. “Bar fights, drunk and disorderly, the usual kind of things when they were younger. Draper was arrested once, I don’t know, maybe ten years ago, for pissing on main street. And a long time ago, Clifford couldn’t have been more than … he had just turned twenty-one, as I recall. He did a year or so on a vehicular manslaughter charge.”

  “In other words, they’ve got a history.”

  “Not an uncommon history, but a history. Just off the top of my head, though, I could name a dozen upright citizens who’ve each done more jail time than Draper and Clifford Jewett put together.”

  “Sure, but Alex doesn’t know them, he doesn’t rent a parking space from them. The Jewetts he knows.”

  “Granted.”

  “So he goes to them and he says, Fellas, I’ve got a problem. Are you interested in a little work? The hours are short and the pay is high. Here’s what I want done, he says. How you do it is up to you. And, since at least one of the Jewett boys has a fondness for incendiaries, voila, it’s Molotov cocktail time.”

  Abbott laughed softly and shook his head.

  DeWalt continued. “That deal works out fairly well. After all, Jeri swears she’s off the stuff, and that’s exactly what Alex had hoped for. Some time passes, everything’s going along just swell. And then Alex reads about the archeological discovery at Fort Erie. Then about the display of 1812 relics. He checks it out, takes his family along as a cover. And what does he see on display? An authentic Pennsylvania long rifle valued at upwards of $35,000. It’s setting there in a glass case, practically his for the taking. And he deserves it, right? He’s worked so fucking hard his entire life, a man of his intelligence, his potential, he deserves that rifle, right? So then, back to the Jewetts. How would you boys like a vacation to Niagara Falls? he asks. You can take Tippy and Aleta along too. My treat. There’s a little something I’d like you to pick up for me while you’re there, but hey, it will only take you a couple of minutes.”

  He tapped his fingers to the dashboard. “And one of them, Aleta probably, brings herself home a little souvenir.”

  “A souvenir which does us not one damn bit of good.”

  “Not in court, no. But look at it, Larry; you can’t deny its presence. You can’t deny what it suggests.”

  “That’s right, I can’t deny that I’ve seen it. So are you telling me that Draper came downstairs and invited you in and then gave you that glass as a present?”

  DeWalt smiled, looking at his hands.

  “Because unless you’re willing to swear that that’s what happened—which would then give rise to some other questions—Clifford and Aleta could have you arrested for burglary, you know that?”

  “I know that.”

  “Did you know it when you took the glass?”

  “I had to show you the connection, Larry. It won’t be admissable evidence, I understand that. But I had to show it to you. Now all you have to do is to place the Jewetts in the Falls or Fort Erie area on the date of the robbery.”

  “Don’t tell me what I have to do.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Abbott stared straight ahead, his mouth a thin unsmiling line. He was motionless for half a minute. He put his hand to the gearshift then and yanked it into DRIVE. The juice glass fell off the dashboard and onto the seat as the car bucked forward, turning across the driveway. DeWalt looked at the glass but did not touch it.

  “I better go find the Jewetts,” Abbott said. He drove the hundred yards to the mouth of the driveway, where DeWalt’s car had been reparked. Stopping alongside DeWalt’s car, staring into the windshield’s glare of sunlight, he held his foot on the brake, he waited.

  DeWalt sat for a moment with his hand on the door release. Then he said, “You’ll probably want me to come in and make a statement for the records.”

  “I know where to find you,” Abbott said.

  DeWalt climbed out then, closed the door and started toward his own car. He had his hand on the door latch when he heard Abbott’s door open. Abbott walked to the passenger side, DeWalt’s car between them, and stood there for a moment, looking past DeWalt at the trees behind him, the silent apse of trees.

  DeWalt watched him for a few seconds. Then he said, softly, “You’re holding the wrong guys, Larry.”

  Only after a half minute of silence did Abbott respond. He drew back his right hand, cocked it, and hurled something high over the deep stand of trees. DeWalt watched the juice glass go sailing from Abbott’s hand and into the sunlight, glinting as it turned over and over, moving in a rainbow arc only to drop unnoticed but for the delicate splash of leaves.

  “There’s no evidence of that,” Abbott said. He returned to his car then, climbed in and drove away. DeWalt stood there a while longer, looking to the ground at the intricate white design half-flattened by a treadmark, the antimacassar that had slipped off his knee when he got out of Abbott’s car, a muddied cobweb, a lonely granny’s distraction.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  DeWalt sat alone in his small backyard in a collapsible chaise lounge of aluminum and plastic. He sat in the pre-midnight darkness without comfort of drink or companion, legs crossed at the ankle, fingers laced atop his chest, head only slightly more elevated than his feet as he considered the cool pastille of moon.

  All day long he had been thinking too many things, none clearly enough, and the thoughts had made him slow-moving and indecisive. He thought of Elizabeth Catanzaro and how he wished he had had a chance to meet her children. Children are important, he thought. Everybody should have some children in his life. He felt a terrible void in his existence because of the absence of children, his own or nephews or nieces or eve
n neighborhood children who knew and liked him well enough to stop by unannounced for a glass of lemonade, a game of catch. The teenagers at the college did not fill this need, in fact they exacerbated it. All but rarely their innocence was already and ineluctably gone.

  He was getting old too soon, he knew that. There was nothing to slow the years for him, to help pull back the reins. There was no joy, all melancholy and regret. All was hope betrayed.

  I’m too easily worn down these days, he thought. No reserves of strength or faith. Every small effort defeats me. But doing nothing defeats me sooner.

  As a boy you were strong as a bear, DeWalt. Remember? You could work, roughhouse, play, make love, drink and carouse for a full day at a time. Then you would rest for an hour and start it all again. But now the time ratios have been reversed. And now all but one of your favorite activities has been struck from the list.

  Yes, but a new activity has been added. It seems to be your favorite now. You have gotten very adept at wallowing, haven’t you, DeWalt? You’ve become a virtuoso in the music of self-pity.

  He turned his attention to the moon again, the most convenient thing to look at so that he would not have to look at himself, not have to acknowledge the faint taste of metal in his mouth. It was a full moon but thin, as pale white as a Japanese lantern. The moon’s face had been worn so thin in that smalltown sky that the black tunnels of space could be seen behind it. The moon was as thin as rice paper, paper naturally thin worn thinner with age, neglect, indifference. In the cities the moon could no longer be seen at all. In the cities no one ever looked up at the sky unless he was lying in the streets dying, and by then it was too late for either him or the moon.

  Maybe it is too late here too, thought DeWalt. The moon is so thin that I could put my hand right through it. Put my hand through and grab … what?