Piper
Page 16
I played along. “What if you were different nationalities or something?”
“That’s what they told me about Carol, you know.” He reached over and petted Billy. “Her parents said I was the wrong kind. Shoot, even a dog knows the difference between being kicked and being stumbled over. It just made me more determined to prove ’em wrong.”
With the towel, I dabbed the suds off Willard’s face, wishing I really were a crazy Cooper like he was. I wanted his ability to shut out the rest of the world, to listen to the aberrant beat of my own heart.
Working at his desk, Dad had gotten into the habit of playing with his hair, twirling it around his finger until he had a wrap and then pulling on it until he had a thatch that stuck out of his noggin like a hair tit. It put him in a kind of reverie I hated to interrupt. On the other hand, I knew the best time to ask him anything important was the moment after I’d set a freshly edited page of the paper on his desk, so that’s what I did.
“How’s your investigation of the Carlisle charges going?” I thought this would be a way to segue into what I’d learned from Dirk.
The skin was dark around his eyes like he hadn’t been sleeping. Not bothering to look up, he said, “Working on it.” It was a fence without a gate.
The way he was spending so much time away from the paper during the day, I’d figured he was working on the investigation. I’d seen his car in front of stores and homes that had no connection with the stories I was editing for the paper. I saw him sitting on the porch with Mrs. Norman, the nosy lady who lived across the street from us. I saw him walking with Carmela Castillo carrying her grocery bags. I even saw him go into the Comet with Seth Armstrong, the prosecuting attorney. The employees in the doghouse had noticed it too.
“My sister-in-law saw him eating alone at the Hush of the Lark the other day,” Louise Mead said. The Hush of the Lark was an upscale bed and breakfast place out on Skylar Road on the way to Machias that included a restaurant dripping with ferns and planter baskets like Hammurabi’s garden. People from Seattle went there to celebrate anniversaries or job promotions. Single mothers from Stampede without high school diplomas and women like Rozene’s mom changed the sheets and swished out the toilet bowls with bristle brushes and Dutch cleanser. It wasn’t Dad’s kind of place, not when you could get a rib steak, fries, and a green salad at Marge’s for five-ninety-five plus a tip.
He made up for time lost during the day by working later at night. I’d clocked him in at twelve-forty-five, twelve-thirty, and one a.m. the last three nights. Dad had the nasty habit of letting the storm door on the side of the house clatter shut—the pressure had gone out of the door closer—but I didn’t bother to mention it because it was such an easy way to keep track of him. Maybe; he wasn’t investigating at all. Maybe he’d taken up with the whale woman, Nadine.
On Wednesday, I heard him tell Pamela Palmer he was going to a dinner meeting in Seattle and to lock the door when she left.
Around quarter to five, when people were starting to put their coats on and switch off the lights in their cubicles, I moseyed down the hallway to the print room, closed the door behind me, and slid under the behemoth printing press. There was no one else in the room. George Pester, the printer, always took the day off after a new issue and, unless someone went in there to cop a plug of chewing tobacco from the can he kept next to the shutoff switch, I figured I was safe. There was a patch of dust where the broom didn’t reach that was a shadow as wide as the undergirding. The steel plate six inches above my nose could have been the pan of an automobile engine except the smell was electrical, ozone rather than petroleum. I listened to people wish each other good night, their voices fading like bird chatter down the hallway. On the first day after a print, nobody worked overtime other than Dad, and even he slacked off, as he did tonight in taking a meeting in Seattle.
I ran my fingers along the bottom of the printer, which was ice cold and slightly abrasive like the metal on the strongbox Willard kept under his bed for stocks and bonds. That’s also where he kept his and Grandma Carol’s birth certificates—he was born in Yakima seven years before her—and when I asked him why he’d bothered to keep them he said, “To prove my eligibility.” That was all he said, his eligibility, and I thought at his age for what else would he need to prove his eligibility.
I kept count of the voices outside, which were now down to Pamela, the receptionist, and Gerry Alexander, the photographer. The print room was growing dark. I put both hands on the underside of the printer and, for the heck of it, pushed up to see if I could make it budge. Nothing. It was like my dad, I thought, immovable, but when it spoke, accurate. Finally, there were no more voices and the elongated field of artificial light that had been projected onto the cement floor next to me disappeared. I waited a few minutes to make sure Pamela hadn’t forgotten something and come back for it. Hearing nothing, I grabbed the edge of the printer pan and scooted myself out. There was dust all over the back of my pants and shirt and I did my best to spank it clean. The only way to really get it would have been to take off my clothes and shake them, which I wasn’t about to do.
I tiptoed up the hallway and as soon as I entered Dad’s office my heart started beating like a Geiger counter. I snapped on the desk lamp, one of those halogens on an extension arm, and pushed it down closer to the desk so that it didn’t illuminate the whole room. Even though his office couldn’t be seen from the street, I didn’t want to take any chances. I gripped the desk, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath to settle myself. What I was doing had to be some kind of sin, but for the life of me I was unable to name it. Hadn’t Dad told me you didn’t have to tell a good reporter to swipe the victim’s picture off the mantel? Of course, he’d also told me you had to return it when you were done.
I was still trembling as I pulled the handle on the top drawer of the file cabinet, the one that was usually open when he was working at his desk. Each file tab was labeled in typed script—Kiwanis, Sports Schedules, City Council, Bond Issues—mostly dross, except for a handwritten one that said “Project Carlisle.” This must be the one for the sale of the paper, I thought. Why not find out exactly how much this little sweat shop was worth? Instead of financial statements though, I found photographs, receipts, and xerox copies of Dad’s weekly calendars. The first photo triggered a gag reflex: it was Mom in a cocktail dress dancing cheek to cheek with John Carlisle. His fingers were spread across the bare skin in the saddle of her back where the dress plunged, touching as much of her as possible,. There were other people, unrecognizable, dancing in the background. On the back it was dated with an inscription that read “Party.” It must have been taken at one of the staff parties at the Eagles Lodge. There were more pictures of the party, people sitting at tables with their wine glasses raised in self-conscious recognition of the camera, more shots with Mom and John Carlisle, and then a blurred one of them coming out of Marge’s Cafe that had a note on the back in a hand I didn’t recognize, “Tom, here’s the picture I mentioned.” The invoices were mostly MasterCard slips for the account of “Kathryn C. Scanlon.” She’d purchased jeans and shirts at the Gap in Seattle, art supplies from Daniel Smith, and meals at various restaurants. The only restaurant I recognized was a meal for “$56.89” including tax and gratuity from the Hush of the Lark. On the xeroxed calendar pages, he’d penned in entries for such things as “Kate in Seattle,” “Kate at art class,” “Kate and JC at Hush.” I checked the date of the “Hush” entry against the MasterCard slip and they matched. I drew a ragged breath. My God! This must be part of Dad’s investigation. But why Mom?
I closed the file and slipped it back into the drawer between “Printer” and “Public Auctions” where I’d found it. I ran my fingers across the rest of the tabs in the drawers looking for anything that might bear a relationship to child molestation or sodomy or Dirk Thurgood. I found one file with letters to Dad from his brother Seamus, but decided it was none of my business the way John Carlisle and Dirk Thurgood were. I held my wris
twatch under the lamp—it was six-twenty—and calculated how long it would take Dad to drive back from Seattle. Then, it hit me. The computer! Dad’s investigation would be on the computer.
I swiveled my chair sideways and felt around the edges of his computer until I found the power switch. The screen crackled with shards of green light, the processor hummed, the monitor filled with a gray page full of unintelligible codes, and finally the gobbledy-gook cleared and the cursor blinked in the lower left-hand corner of the screen behind the words “User password.” Damn! I sat there with my fingers on the keyboard staring at the pulsing cursor, thinking of those monkeys locked in a room with typewriters, wondering how long it would take them to type the Gettysburg Address. I typed Dad’s last name, his first name, the month, day, and year of his birth, and each time the computer said, “Error.” I tried “Herald” and “Pulitz,” all with the same rejection. Then I went monkey and started typing in swear words. Still nothing. The computer was laughing at me.
I rested my hands in my lap, closed my eyes, and tried to transport myself into Dad’s head. At first everything was blank and it was so quiet I could have heard my eardrums stretch. Then I heard his voice singing some Irish ditty in the shower about “Crazy Jane and her virginity.” He had a good tenor’s voice, a lot like Dennis Day’s on those old seventy-eight records in the attic, but that was so long ago. I hadn’t heard him laugh, much less sing, since Mom died. His singing voice always warmed me, so did his poetry voice when he’d ask us to fold our hands and close our eyes at the dinner table and he’d recite a Yeats poem instead of grace:
She carries in the dishes,
And lays them in a row.
To an isle in the water
With her would I go.
There was romance and derring-do in Tom Scanlon, but Mom’s death had smothered it like a mudslide.
Dad always said don’t use a long word no one understands when there’s a short one they do. The password had to have something to do with Mom. I opened my eyes and typed in “Cooper,” her maiden name, the name he would have courted to and recited poetry to when his love for her was fresh. The computer came alive, humming like a grasshopper quartet through tobacco leaves. Dit, dit, dit, dit, dit, dit, dit, dit, plunk, dit, dit, plunk, dit.
Computer Science was mandatory in second-year and I’d cribbed my way through Mrs. Oliphant’s course, trying not to be so good I would predestine a career for myself as a typist or a data processor. I’d rather rake leaves or pick up litter using one of those poles with a nail on the end of it than numb my brain in front of a computer screen all day. But I found the list of files on the “C” drive. It felt like I was walking around in Dad’s brain, each file another circuit to explore. I scrolled quickly to the end of the list and then returned to the beginning. There were hundreds of them, alphabetized by six-letter titles that made me guess at their contents. Many involved John Carlisle, including speeches Dad had written for him to deliver at Kiwanis and Cascade County Democrat lunches. There was no end to the slavery Dad had been subjected to in his service for the Carlisles.
“JCINVS” turned out to be the file I wanted. At the top of the first page, it said: “CONFIDENTIAL: HOLD UNTIL TRIAL!” The piece was entitled: “The Rest of the Story.” My Geiger counter was racing again and I squeezed my eyes shut to do an examination of conscience, the kind Sister Graziana had taught us. “You’re little house cleaners,” she’d always said, in that sickly, Hansel and Gretel witch’s voice. “Swish your brooms into every nook and cranny, girls.” Before she paraded us across the asphalt playground and through the side door of St. Augustine’s for First Friday confessions, Sister made us put our heads down on our desks for fifteen minutes of sweeping. Since then, I’d become a faster sweeper and I managed to finish this examination in seconds. I was going to read whatever Dad had written. I’d learned a long time ago it didn’t take any more work to confess the big dust balls than the micrococcal.
I scrolled down until the screen was filled with text:
(Stampede, wa) The rape and sexual misconduct charges against John Carlisle have shocked a county and challenged a way of life in this hidden corner of the world where people want to raise their children.
There is an ebb and flow to these revelations that has been as predictable as the tides and the fractions of the moon. First there was the denial as people insisted, “It couldn’t happen here. Not in my town. Not with my children. Not by one of our most revered citizens.” The denial was followed by self-doubt as each citizen explored his and her own flaws and once again became humbled by the frailty of the human condition. “Maybe it could have happened. I always wondered why he was such a loner.” Now we are caught up in the third and most cynical phase of the cycle, where folks just heap it on in a desperate attempt to differentiate themselves from the accused. This is when nervous parents corner their kids and almost demand their participation. “Are you sure he didn’t touch you while you were shopping? What about when you saw him at the swimming pool? How can you be sure?”
Unfortunately, such accusations are like smoke and once they are made they can’t be put back in the bottle. True or not, they float among us, leaving an enduring odor of suspicion, especially when something as dear as the safety of our children is at stake. Like Salem, Stampede has become the breeding ground for unfounded accusations against a decent man.
There is something else that should be as dear to a town as the safety of its children. And that is the reputation of an innocent man.
The light in the hallway went on. Damn, it must be Dad! There was no time to get out of the file so I just flipped the computer off, punched the halogen lamp switch, and as quietly as I could lifted myself out of Dad’s chair and placed, not walked, my feet one foot in front of the other until I was in my own cubbyhole office next to his. I could hear somebody moving in the hallway. What if he turned on the computer to work on the investigation and the file was already open, or lost? I hadn’t paid close enough attention in Mrs. Oliphant’s class to know what happened when you shut the computer off in the middle of something. She’d always made sure we didn’t do that, with her baby-step directions, proving my point once again that you learn best by making mistakes, rather than avoiding them. What would I say I was doing down here? I never set foot in the paper after hours, unless it was to drag Dad home, which Mom made me do sometimes. I could say I was doing homework, a paper, better yet a thesis. Sorry, Dad, I know I should have asked first, but you were gone. Anything was okay as long as he didn’t know I was into the John Carlisle article, which wasn’t really an article as much as an editorial. “The good editorial captures the voice of a whole community,” he’d told me.
Dad had never hit me but I knew he’d do it for breaking into his computer. Confidentiality and protection of sources were sacred to the journalist. The dust balls were beginning to roll out of reach of my broom. How would I explain why I was in the dark? I should have left the lights on. Maybe he was just down here to pick up some copy to read at home. If I turned the lights on now, it was a guaranteed confrontation. I’d have to have some excuse. Oh, Dad, I must have passed out from the bad air. I haven’t been eating well. Willard gave me some putrid meat. I’m fasting to cleanse my systems. I fell asleep and didn’t realize everyone else had left.
“Anyone home?” The ceiling light in Dad’s office flashed on, but it wasn’t Dad’s voice. It was an older man, not someone I recognized. I was sitting on the floor in the dark, leaning into the chairs stacked against the wall of my office. The edge of a molded seat was digging into my back, but I didn’t dare move for fear the whole stack would shift. Maybe it was a security officer and he’d shoot me if I surprised him. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, pray for us thieves and sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
Squeaky wheels entered Dad’s office. There was the banging of something and whistling and I recognized the hollow sound of a wastebasket. It must be the night janitor! I was fine. I could go back and finish reading the file. I�
��d tell him I was working on a story. I just had to transition gracefully from hidden to visible. I’d wait until he was finished doing whatever else he was going to do, but he seemed to take forever as he lifted pictures and paperweights off the desk and dusted and fussed. Then he dragged the vacuum into the office and did the carpet. I could hear the rubber guards on the sides of the brush hood bumping into furniture and walls. Everything had to be perfect for the editor-in-chief. Then he shut off the vacuum and punched in someone’s number on the phone. I had him now. If he squealed on me, I’d squeal on him. Whoever he was calling must not have been home because he cleared his throat and left a message.
“Hey pumpkin, it’s your knight in shining armor. I was thinkin’ about what you said and I’m ready to take you on. So get those sugar limbs warm, huh? And don’t bolt the door.” So much for pleasing the boss.
He limped out of the room, singing “Hey look me over” to the accompaniment of the wheels on his cleaning cart.
He didn’t close the door, so that was the first thing I did when I came out of hiding. Then I went back to the desk, found the switch to the computer in the dark and fired it up. It sounded like an overheated pot in a baking oven the way it swelled and cracked and finally advanced to the password test, which I nailed on first try. Before I could move on, however, it asked me if I knew there was another program running and I crossed my fingers and responded, “Okay.”
Relief! The file was still there. I quickly scrolled “Page down” until I found the place where I’d left off. I expected details about what Dirk had told the police, how many times he’d been assaulted, where it happened, when, but the author of this piece wasn’t telling that story. It assumed the reader knew all of that. This was counterpoint. “Hold until trial,” it said. This was going to be Dad’s deus ex machina.