“So what’s left?” Matt asked. “I mean, now that you’ve made sure I’ll take a bath on my mobile-home deal, what have you decided to do with the fucking place? Give it to UNICEF? Donate it to that crazy hippie outfit? WILD or whatever they call it?”
“You’re not going to take a bath, Matt.”
“Yeah, well, I got to come up with ten grand by next week. So far you’ve eliminated everyone with that kind of money.”
“I’ve been talking to a lawyer in town named Ed Buckles. There’s a thing called the Tanner Trust I’ve set up. Among other things the trust is going to acquire ten units of your Caravan Towers at a thousand bucks apiece. So that should get you past the first call. Right, Matt?”
Matt frowned, unable to find pleasure in even this. “What the hell is this trust? I never heard of it.”
“Just something I put together.”
“So you were lying about having no bucks. I figured as much.”
I turned to Gail. “What we’re going to do with the farm is rent it out. No sale.”
“Rent it to who?” she asked uneasily.
“Three people. First, the city. We enter a ninety-nine-year lease with them for the twenty acres nearest the road. We also give them a five-year option on another twenty contiguous acres. If they haven’t attracted enough business to use the additional parcel in five years, then they forfeit it. The rent will depend on what they get from whatever business they get to go in there, plus maybe a flat fee to keep them humping to get off the hook. Buckles will negotiate the details for us. That’s one part of it.”
“What else?” Gail asked.
“The rest of the farm is split down the middle. We give the neighboring farmer, Waiters, a five-year share arrangement on the same basis he has now—half and half. After five years he has to make other arrangements. We get it in writing, so he knows that ultimately he has to leave, but he has time to do it. Then the other half goes to Karen and Paul. They farm it on the same basis—half and half. After five years they can farm it all. Waiters claims he’s a good farmer. If he is, then Karen and Paul can learn from him. If he isn’t, all the more reason to get him off after five years. And that’s basically it.”
No one said anything. Not a single thing. I got up and went over to the spoon collection and looked at one. It was engraved with the initial T and was badly tarnished on the bottom. The silence at my back pressed me like a winter wind. “There’s one more thing,” I said after a while.
“What?”
“The rents. Matt, I assume you want your share sent to you in Chicago.”
“Damned right I do.”
“Gail? How about you?”
“I don’t know. Sent here to the house, I guess.”
“Can I get even more pushy than I have already?”
“Sure. I guess.”
“We’re doing something for Karen by leasing out the farm to her and Paul. Maybe you should consider giving a portion of your share of the rents to Bruce. He’s not exactly getting rich on seaman’s pay. And you can give ten thousand a year to someone now without paying gift tax. So think it over.”
“I will. I’ll talk to Tom about it.”
“Tom and Bruce aren’t getting along so well just now. Maybe you should just decide what’s fair and do it.”
“I … maybe I will. Don’t push me, Marsh.”
I turned to Curt. “Curt gave Billy a half interest in his share. Billy and Starbright weren’t married, but I think she could make a good claim that she’s entitled to succeed to that share under the laws of intestate succession. She and the baby. The question is, are you going to make her sue you to get the share, or will you just give it to her?”
“She can have it,” Curt said softly, his voice surprisingly firm. “Billy would want it to go to her.”
“I’ve set it up so you can have your share paid to Buckles, the lawyer, and then he can send half to Starbright and half to you and Laurel. Be easier to do it that way, and it won’t cost you anything. Buckles’ expenses will come out of the trust.”
“I don’t get this trust business,” Matt said. “Is it some kind of tax dodge or what?”
“Something like that. Dodging guilt, is more like it.”
“Jesus. I haven’t felt guilty since I stole all Marcy Stovall’s valentines in the fourth grade.”
I believed him. “So that’s it,” I said. “The land stays in the family, we help the town a little, we get a bit of money every year in rent and, if things change at a later date, we can always do something else. Any objections?”
“Sounds to me like you think you know what we need more than we do,” Matt said. “Typical liberal crap.”
“Are you voting no, Matt? Because if you are, that trust doesn’t have any interest at all in making an investment in high-rise mobile-home parks.”
“I’m not saying no,” Matt said quickly. “I’m just saying I don’t like being preached to by my younger brother.”
“I took enough of it from you in the old days,” I said. “You can stand a little now.”
“I wish Karen and Paul could get it all, Marsh,” Gail said.
“They will in five years. All but the share the city has. We reserve an easement so the city has to give access to the rest of the farm, by the way, so there’s no way Karen will be cut off from the road. I think there’s some kind of back way in there anyway, so it’s not a big problem.”
“But times are so hard, Marsh. Five years may be too late.”
“Times are hard for Waiters, too, Gail. He told me he almost doubled the yield out there since he took over. I don’t think we should just throw him off overnight. Curt? How about you?”
“It sounds okay with me, Marsh.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“Then I tell Buckles to go ahead and prepare the papers?”
Three heads nodded, one of them reluctantly. “When do I get my money?” Matt asked.
“Middle of next week.”
“Okay.” Matt moved to the door. “I got to blow this pop stand. See you when I see you. It’s been nice.”
And he was gone.
“Curt?”
“Yeah, Marsh?”
“I’m leaving in the morning. It’s been good to see you.”
“You, too.”
“I’m sorry about Billy.”
“I know.”
“I may find out something about his death before I leave. If I do, do you want to know?”
“No. Not unless I have to. No.”
“Okay.” I hesitated, then asked Curt another question. “You know that psalm the minister read at the funeral? The one right before the rifle salute?”
“I guess so. Why?”
“Did you and Laurel pick it out or did the minister?”
Curt shrugged. “The minister, I guess. I don’t know much about it. I didn’t hear a word he said, to tell you the truth.”
I nodded and slapped Curt on the shoulder once again and stood up. “Gail? Thanks for everything. I’ll bring your car by in the morning early. Say good-bye to Tom for me.”
“Don’t you want me to take you to the airport, Marsh?”
“Sally said she’d do it. I guess she wants to talk.”
“Oh. Well. Okay.”
“Call me next week, Gail. Tell me how things are.”
“Maybe I will.”
“It’ll all get better, Gail. Really, it will.”
“If you say so, Marsh.”
“There’s no law that says you have to be unhappy, Gail. That says things have to stay the way they are. Try to keep that in mind, okay?”
“Okay.”
I kissed my sister and left her house, feeling purer than I had a right to feel.
Twenty-seven
The church spire reached high toward a divinity that lay beyond the clouds. The stained-glass circle above the door portrayed the Son of God as teacher, shepherd, healer, priest. The wooden doors were open as Tamara had predicted. I swung them
wide and entered the sanctuary.
The altar and pulpit were sheets of heavy walnut, the pews slick oak, the walls imperiled plaster, and the polished crucifix a golden source of awe and wonder above the silver altar candles. A current of cool air blew through the chapel, but my memory was of other days in another church, when heat had visited the room as mightily as the preacher’s promise of God’s own wrath. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the tranquil absence of the Lord’s bureaucracy.
Long minutes of weightless time went by. I spent them imagining a sumptuous form of afterlife I didn’t believe existed. As though on cue, I heard an organ’s singing tones, played with an almost pagan passion. I went through a door near the rear of the sanctuary and entered the Sunday school room and saw the man I had come to see.
He sat like a frenzied conjurer at the small electric organ, hair flying, shoulders bobbing, his being inseparable from the pulsing rhythms of the music. His fingers pressed juice from the ivory keys, as though a thousand pipes lay subject to his chords. I listened with pleasure to the piece, as its familiar notes danced nimbly among the metal folding chairs that were the only witnesses besides myself.
After the final chord had fled, the minister slumped wearily on his bench as though he lacked the strength to move. Then he gulped a block of air, shook his blond head quickly, and stood. His bright eyes struck me like a spark. His smile was quick and real. “I didn’t realize I had an audience,” he said bashfully. “I hope it wasn’t painful.”
“I enjoyed it. You must play often.”
The compliment pleased him and he showed it. “Not often enough to do justice to Bach, I’m afraid. But it picks me up. My drug of choice, you might say,” he added with a boyish grin.
“Only Bach?”
“Oh, no. I’ve been known to wax positively ecstatic during a Springsteen album, but I try to confine that particular variety of religious experience to the manse.”
“Is it still the big place on Blaine Avenue?”
He nodded. “Do you know it?”
“I was there once, for some kind of youth meeting. At some point in the evening I snuck away. I hope the place has been painted since.”
“Oh, yes. The congregation does the best it can. The heat bills are the killer. It’s so large and drafty. Last February our utility bill was over three hundred dollars. Fortunately, it doesn’t come out of my stipend.” He smiled like a kid with a secret again, then peered closely at me with narrowed eyes. “You were at the funeral, weren’t you?”
I nodded. “I’m Marsh Tanner. Billy’s uncle. I should have introduced myself at the cemetery but …”
He waved a small pink hand. “It’s all right. I don’t feel comfortable myself exchanging pleasantries over an open grave.” He smiled again, looking even younger than his years, which I guessed were thirty-five. “I’m Gary Vesselton. How can I help you?”
“I was struck by the psalm you read at the funeral. The last one.”
“Yes? What about it?”
“Not a common choice.”
“No.”
“Select it yourself?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t say anything else and the Reverend Vesselton didn’t volunteer. The traffic outside performed a raucous fugue of its own. The air in the church seemed suddenly to have lost the cool breeze of piety.
“What are we doing, Mr. Tanner?” the minister asked at last. “Has it something to do with Billy?”
“Billy was murdered, Reverend.”
He registered no surprise, only interest. “The paper said suicide.”
“The paper is run by Mary Martha Gormley. She happens to be very interested in seeing to it that nothing frightening happens in this town at the moment. So as not to scare off a potential employer.”
The reverend nodded. “She has been known to sacrifice accuracy for her concept of the greater good. Are you the detective, Mr. Tanner?”
I admitted it.
“Billy told me about you once. He admired you, as much as he admired anyone. He saw you as an antiestablishment figure, I think.”
“He must have thought that because I spent some time in jail. But the protest was strictly private. The only one it served was me.”
The reverend only smiled, as though his cause were private, too.
“I take it from the psalm and from what you just said that you knew Billy pretty well,” I said.
“I knew him. Yes.”
“Did he go to this church?”
“Not in the accepted sense.”
“I didn’t think so. That wouldn’t have squared with the picture of him I’ve gotten from everyone else in town.”
“Pictures are sometimes misleading, Mr. Tanner. There is frequently an element of trompe l’oeil about them, particularly when framed by a town like Chaldea. Billy was a very devout young man, in his own way.”
“He and a girl he knew used to have trysts down in your basement, Reverend. Did you know that?”
“Generally, yes. Specifically, no. It didn’t matter, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I lifted my brows.
“One of the greatest mistakes people in my profession make is to apply the same standards to everyone. The Lord does not demand inflexibility, except perhaps when dispensing forgiveness and compassion. Were it otherwise we would not revere Saint Paul or Saint Augustine, among others.”
The minister put his hands in his pockets and began to move among the scattered chairs as though he hoped to lose me in their maze. I just stood and watched him meander for a minute. “Why did Billy come to see you, Reverend?” I asked, as he was about to pirouette again.
“Just to talk.”
“What about?”
He stopped walking and looked around, as though surprised to find himself in such a thicket. “The kinds of things you would expect us to talk about. And more. Billy was a thoughtful young man. More so than I, in many respects.”
“You’re not very forthcoming, Reverend.”
“I seldom am when it comes to what people have told me within these walls.”
“You’re not a priest and Billy wasn’t a penitent,” I said with anger. “No legal privilege attaches to those conversations.”
“That’s hardly the issue,” he replied placidly, and resumed walking. I moved to cut him off.
“I’m leaving town tomorrow,” I said, when he had to stop to keep from stepping on me. “I’d like to know who killed Billy before I go. I think you can tell me, or point me in the right direction.”
Vesselton closed his eyes and rubbed them. “Come into my office,” he said finally, and walked around me toward the farthest door.
I followed him into a closet of a room that was lined with books and prints of modern art. Among the books were a surprising number of novels, as well as tracts by Eastern mystics. Among the art were reproductions by men as secular as Warhol, as ambiguous as Rauschenberg.
The reverend sat at a littered desk. The chair I sat in was soft and comfortable, making conversation or confession easy. Beside me on a stand was a King James Bible, heavy and black, as thick as sod. Beside the Bible was a typed text dated the following Sunday. Its title was “Nuclear War—The Hell of Man, Not God.” When I was comfortable enough to suit him, Vesselton spoke. “Now, what makes you think I can help you, Mr. Tanner? I have no evidence that Billy was killed.”
“I’m not suggesting you do. But I’ve been nosing around a lot the past couple of days. Virtually everyone in Chaldea disliked Billy, as I’m sure you know. But I can’t match any of them with when and how he was killed. By the process of elimination I’ve reached the point where I think the key is something in Billy’s past. And I have the feeling, based upon the psalm you read, that you know more about Billy’s past than anyone else in Chaldea, his parents included.”
The reverend considered my words for a long minute. A clock on the shelf behind him peppered the room with sound. The curtains across the little window behind me made the air seem scorched. I looked
at the books again. Vesselton seemed equally enamored of Thomas Merton and Peter de Vries.
“Do you have anything specific in mind, Mr. Tanner? I mean, I’m reluctant to simply spew out everything Billy told me. He was an imaginative and an angry boy. A true skeptic. He challenged everything, in ways that many would find shocking, if not blasphemous. Perhaps even a sophisticated man such as yourself.”
“I haven’t been called sophisticated since I took a bottle of cognac and a foreign exchange student to a frat party, Reverend. But if you want me to be specific, I will. Vietnam. Talk to me about Billy and the war.”
Vesselton nodded slowly. “It’s where I would begin as well. The horror of what he went through is unimaginable, I think, even to me. And I was there myself for a time.”
“As what?”
“A chaplain. Americal Division. At one time I intended to make it my life’s work. I thought God should more than anywhere be present on the field of battle. I soon realized that war is a corruption of everything I believe, of everything that Jesus taught, and that many of the most corrupt enlist God in their enterprise. So I decided the deliverer of God’s message can’t wait till the trigger is pulled, he must speak before the gun is purchased.”
“That tells me something about you,” I said. “Now tell me something about Billy.”
“But what?”
“Something he did that would make someone want to kill him.”
“It’s quite a long list.”
“Tell me,” I insisted.
Vesselton reached for the paraphernalia for lighting his pipe and scraped it to him. It was a ritual he enjoyed and performed with the precision of a watchmaker. I endured it, barely.
“Billy served as a special scout,” he said, after the room was putrid with aromatic blends. “Essentially his assignment was to kill people. Specific people.” The reverend looked at me to see if this was news. I indicated that it wasn’t.
“Most of his victims were Viet Cong agents who had infiltrated otherwise friendly hamlets and were trying to subvert them. But at other times Billy killed friendlies, popular village leaders who were clearly on our side. The psy-war types evidently felt that if some such leaders were killed in ways that made it appear to be the work of the VC, then the village would be more easily pacified. This was in the days when shaded maps were more important than human lives.” The reverend’s smile was spectral.
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