by Gerry Boyle
I rang off.
There was stirring upstairs, Roxanne’s footsteps crossing the room, then on the stairs. She came into the kitchen, gave me a wave on the way by. I heard the water run, Roxanne filling the teakettle.
“You want some?” she called.
“Sure,” I said.
More clattering, then the water hissing, then quiet, then Roxanne: “Oh, no.”
“What?” I called.
“Beth.”
“What about her?”
She came in from the kitchen, her cell phone in hand. Crossed to the desk, held the phone up in front of my face. A text.
OMFG IF IT AINT ONE THING ITS A FUCKEN OTHER . . . SO SICK OF THE PETTY BULLSHIT I COULD PUKE . . . CAN WE TALK?
“Is she going to call?” I said.
“Keep going.”
GOT REPORTERS CALLING . . . SO CALLED FRIENDS REAMING ME OUT ON FBOOK . . . FUCKEN PHONSE STRIKES AGAIN . . . RUINS MY LIFE EVEN WHEN HE AINT HERE . . . DRAGGIN ME DOWN BAD . . . B THR N 5
“Here?” I said, but Roxanne was already headed for the front door. I followed her and we stood side by side and watched, listened.
“She thinks she can just show up for a pep talk?” I said. “Doesn’t she get that you don’t do that job anymore? She can’t just—”
Roxanne held her hand up. We listened. A car, loud exhaust, coming from the Freedom end of the road. The noise got louder.
“She won’t be sneaking up on anybody,” I said.
Roxanne’s jaw was clenched, her face tense, eyes narrowed. We waited and then the exhaust noise subsided, no car in sight.
“Clair,” I said.
We stepped out and crossed the lawn to the road. Looked right and saw Clair’s truck backed across the road, Beth’s beater behind the roadblock. Clair was leaning close to the driver’s window.
“Sophie,” Roxanne said.
“I’ll stay,” I said.
She started up the dirt road, walking quickly, arms swinging, back straight. Roxanne all business was a formidable force. I waited in front of the house, watched as she approached the car. Beth got out, looked like she was crying. Roxanne put her hand on Beth’s shoulder. Clair stood to the side with his arms folded. Roxanne turned to him and he nodded, stepped to the big Ford and climbed up into the cab and pulled it out of the road.
Roxanne and Beth got in the car and Beth started it, rumbled down the road toward me. She pulled up in front of the house, looked up at me. Smiled weakly, wiping her swollen eyes. Roxanne got out, came around the car. She gave me her warning look.
“Beth says she heard from Alphonse,” she said. “She wanted to tell us in person.”
“How thoughtful,” I said.
“I told her I’d make her a cup of coffee.”
“Sure thing,” I said.
“We can talk on the deck.”
Behind Roxanne, Beth was clambering out of the car. She reached back in and came out with a jug of coffee brandy.
“This is for you guys,” she said. She held the bottle out. I took it. It was plastic. To her credit, it hadn’t been opened.
“You shouldn’t have,” I said.
“Roxanne told me a long time ago,” Beth said. “You don’t show up empty-handed.”
We assembled on the deck, Beth and Roxanne in chairs, me leaning against the railing. Beth was wearing white dungaree shorts, pink flip-flops, and a black peasanty-looking top. She was skinny, not in a healthy way, a yellowish pallor to her pale skin. There was a blue barbed-wire tattoo around her right ankle. They had coffee. I had tea. The brandy bottle sat on the table like a centerpiece.
“So where is he?” I said.
“Alphonse?” Beth said. “I’m not sure.”
“I thought you said you heard from him,” Roxanne said.
“I did. But he didn’t say where he was, exactly.”
“A state? A region?” I said.
Beth looked at me.
“He said he met this girl,” she said. “Snoopy.”
“Like from Peanuts?” I said.
“Who knows. It’s her street name,” Beth said.
“Know her real name?”
“Nope.”
“This the one, he knew her brother in prison?”
“Yeah. They been writing. Some girls do that. Skanks and losers.”
“Where is this one?” Roxanne said.
“In Massachusetts. Some place I never heard of.”
That did not narrow it down.
“Was he with her when he called?” I said.
“He didn’t say. He just said he finally found somebody who understands him.”
“No mean feat,” I said.
Beth looked at me.
“So was he going there?” Roxanne said, hope in her voice. “To see this woman?”
“I think so. I mean, he’s been in jail for like, five months. He’s gonna want to get—”
She paused. Looked at me. Mixed company.
“What else did he say?” Roxanne asked.
“He said he was sorry for messing up the memorial service. He said he just couldn’t handle it, had to get out of there.”
“Convenient time to need to be alone,” I said.
“Yeah, well,” Beth said. “It’s always been totally about him.”
“No doubt,” I said.
“Where’d he get the phone?” Roxanne said.
“Bought a TracPhone at a supermarket.”
“You have the number?”
“On my phone.”
“We need to tell Foley,” I said. “Maybe they can trace it, figure out where he is.”
“What else did he say?” Roxanne said.
“He said he was feeling conflicted,” Beth said. Therapy speak. She sipped her coffee. Looked at the bottle, then at us. I nodded. She reached, snagged the bottle, and unscrewed the cap. The coffee got a big glug. She sipped and her eyes brightened.
A cloud moved over the sun and then passed. Beth stretched out her legs, rubbed her thighs. There were dots on the inside of her left leg that looked like track marks.
“Conflicted about what?” Roxanne said.
“Well, about Ratchet.”
Beth hesitated.
“About how he died. Whether he should be taking off with this girl. I mean, I’m sure they’ll be partying and everything.”
“Escape from your son’s funeral to go play with your new girlfriend,” I said.
“Yeah, well, like I said, it’s always been about Alphonse. He only thinks about himself. There’s a word for it.”
“Narcissist,” I said.
“No, that’s not it,” Beth said.
“So how do you think he was going to resolve this conflict?” Roxanne said.
Beth drank the coffee, eyed the brandy. Held off.
“He said he could go party with Snoopy or he could—”
She paused. Looked away.
“He could what?” I said.
“He could do the right thing,” Beth said.
“Which is?” Roxanne said.
A longer pause. Beth was looking out at the gardens, flecks of color against the green wall of the woods. I looked, too, watched a hummingbird flit from flower to flower and away.
“He said he could stay in Maine and revenge his son’s death.”
“That would be the right thing?” Roxanne said.
“Yeah,” Beth said.
“How often does Alphonse do the right thing?” I said.
“Like, never,” Beth said.
“Then I like our odds,” I said.
“Right,” Beth said.
“And does he know what will happen if he comes here?” I said.
Roxanne turned to me, held up her hand, said, “Now, Jack—”
“I’ll shoot him on sight,” I said. “If Clair doesn’t get him first.”
Beth looked at me, shrugged, said, “Makes no difference to me. I hate the bastard.”
And then she turned away and I followed her gaze to Sophie, standing in
the doorway. She was rubbing her eyes with one hand, holding her blanket with the other.
“You were all talking,” Sophie said.
“Oh, honey,” Beth said, smiling. “Did we wake you?”
She turned to Roxanne and stage-whispered, “She’s so freakin’ adorable.”
Beth stood, held out her arms. It was all I could do to not jump up and hustle her off the deck.
“Oh, honey, come sit with me,” Beth said. “You can wake up slow.”
16
I called Trooper Foley on his cell. He was at a car accident in the town of Washington, ten miles from Prosperity. He said he’d be over ASAP.
Beth was talking about Ratchet, the cute things he did. He did not have a long life about which to reminisce, and Beth had missed a chunk of it, but she stretched it out. How he had a mop of dark hair when he was born but then it all fell out and grew back blond. How he never sucked his thumb but he did suck his toes. How his first word was Mama, and he never said Daddy, ever, not once. She smiled at the thought. It was terribly sad.
Sophie, standing and leaning against Roxanne’s legs, blanket pressed to her cheek, stared at Beth and listened.
“So every minute with your little one, it’s just, like, awesome,” Beth said, eyes misting. She looked at Sophie.
“Oh, if I could do it all over again,” Beth said.
“Don’t go there,” Roxanne said. “You can’t undo the past.”
“I know,” Beth said, and she started to cry, her lips pressed together, fist pressed to her mouth. Her fingernails were deep purple. “I just miss him so much.”
“I’m sure you do,” Roxanne said, as Sophie suddenly ran from the deck into the house. There was a clattering noise from the kitchen, a chair being pulled across the floor. I was starting to go to check on her when there was a flurry of footsteps and she was back. She had a cookie in her hand and she trotted to Beth and held it up.
“Don’t be sad,” Sophie said.
Beth smiled through her tears and took the cookie.
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. It’s just that I loved my little Ratchet so much.”
“My mommy and daddy love me,” Sophie said.
“I know they do, honey,” Beth said. “And you know what? I love you, too.”
She sniffed. Took a bite.
“If I can’t have my little boy, maybe I can have you.”
Roxanne and I exchanged glances.
“Like a substitute,” Beth said. “A substitute family. You know, I never had a family like yours. My daddy, he wasn’t nice to me, and he was really mean to my mommy.”
Sophie’s eyes narrowed.
“And then I had a boyfriend and he was mean to me, too. And I made some bad decisions.”
“Oh, Beth, I don’t think—” Roxanne said.
“So don’t ever take drugs,” Beth said, leaning toward Sophie. “Drugs are a bad thing.”
“What are drugs?” Sophie said.
And there was the sound of a car, a police radio. I whisked Sophie up into my arms and went to answer the door.
Foley talked to Beth on the deck while we waited inside. Sophie asked Roxanne about drugs again, and Roxanne told her they were a grown-up thing and some of them made you better and some of them made you sick. Sophie asked if drugs made Beth sick, and Roxanne said yes, but now she was feeling better.
“Is she part of our family now?” Sophie said, and Roxanne said, “Not exactly.”
Foley had Beth’s phone and was copying something onto his notepad. Alphonse’s number. I heard bits and pieces, then Foley saying, “I’d like you to talk to some other investigators. And then maybe we should have you call him back.”
They walked around the house to the road and then Foley knocked at the front door. I answered it and looked out, saw Beth in the backseat of the cruiser.
“I’m gonna take her to a couple of the people in CID,” he said. “We’ll try to get him on the phone, see if we can get him to reveal a location, maybe trace the call to a tower.”
“Great,” I said. “Can you let us know? Especially if he’s far away?”
“Sure,” Foley said. “It’s a concern for you and your family, I know.”
“He shows up here, I can’t guarantee his safety,” I said. “Just so you know that, too.”
“We’d prefer that you let law enforcement handle it, Mr. McMorrow.”
“It isn’t only me that you have to worry about.”
“You mean Mr. Varney?” Foley said, looking in that direction.
“He cares a lot about my wife and daughter.”
“Like I said,” the trooper said. “We would prefer to handle this.”
“Like I said.”
“I’ll call you,” Foley said.
Pokey was frisky, relatively speaking. In the paddock he was moving at almost a trot, Sophie bouncing in the saddle. She lifted herself up on the stirrups and got the rhythm of it, and for a minute looked like a little jockey on a small, hairy racehorse. Roxanne turned at the end of the lunge line, saying, “Good girl.” Clair and I leaned against the fence. We were talking about Mozart, our topic for the Ballantine Book Club. And then Clair said, “This girl.”
“Today she told Sophie not to get involved with drugs,” I said.
“She know what drugs are?”
“She does now, sort of.”
“Hate to be a pessimist,” Clair said, “but everything she’s got to deal with, odds are she’ll start using again. And it won’t be pretty.”
Pokey and Sophie circled, like Roxanne was a millstone and they were grinding wheat.
“In the war,” Clair said, “the North Vietnamese Army was straightforward. They had different uniforms from ours.”
“They were the enemy.”
“The Vietcong, whole different animal. Obsequious villagers during the day, toss a grenade in your hooch that night.”
“So Alphonse is NVA,” I said.
“And she’s the VC. Smiling at you, ‘Hey, Joe. Hey, Joe.’ Underneath she’s not mentally sound, this girl,” Clair said.
“I don’t know. I’m beginning to think of her as sort of screwed-up but well-meaning.”
“She’s a time bomb, Jack. Even if she doesn’t know it. Takes all of her effort to maintain the facade. Grieving mom. Sort of your friend. Troubled woman, but a good person at heart.”
“She’s working at it,” I said.
“One of these days she’s gonna fall apart. Self-destruction. Whatever reason. These people are broken, Jack. Not their fault.”
“Something tells me her life as a kid was pretty hellish.”
“I’m sure it was, and I’m sorry for her. But you don’t want to be too close when she blows up.”
“It just seems cold to think of it that way. Her little boy dead,” I said.
“You protect your own,” Clair said. “Once that’s done you can try to put Humpty Dumpty back together.”
Pokey snorted as he passed. Shook his head.
“We’re just trying to stay out of court,” I said.
“I know that. But I think Roxanne is getting bad advice.”
“You should tell her.”
“I will,” Clair said. And he did.
I was in the box stall with Pokey and Sophie. We were brushing him, making his mane beautiful. Sophie was saying maybe we could get some barrettes. I said boy horses didn’t wear barrettes. Sophie asked why not. I was trying to formulate an answer when I heard Roxanne, in the tack room with Clair.
“If I thought that way, I wouldn’t have spent fifteen years doing what I did.”
“I know that,” Clair said.
“Yes, she’s got a substance abuse problem. And yes, that made her a crappy mom. But that doesn’t make her a bad person.”
“I’m not saying she’s bad; I’m saying she’s dangerous. She’s dangerous to be around.”
“I didn’t invite her, Clair.”
“I know. But I’d make sure she doesn’t come back.”
“I declare her the enemy, that’s how she’s going to act.”
“Well, that’s the reality.”
“Clair, don’t you understand?” Roxanne said, her voice raised.
I picked up Sophie, held her up to Pokey’s mane, said, “You missed a spot.” She began to brush and I said, “Good job.” Still, Roxanne’s words could be heard from beyond the wooden walls of the stall.
“I made a decision, and as a result of that her son is dead.”
“Not your fault,” Clair said. “You weren’t there. You had nothing to do with it.”
“But I did.”
Her voice was breaking now.
“If I hadn’t pulled him, maybe he’d be alive right now. Not perfect, but going along.”
“Or he’d be dead at someone else’s hand,” Clair said. “Or abused. Or molested.”
“I was part of it, Clair. I set off the chain of events.”
“But that’s not logical. Like saying, if I’d turned left at the corner instead of right, I wouldn’t have hit that squirrel.”
“But he wasn’t a squirrel,” Roxanne said, crying now. “He was a little boy. An innocent little boy with big brown eyes and a sweet smile and he didn’t deserve to die.”
Sophie stopped brushing. We could hear Roxanne sobbing. Sophie’s eyes were filling with tears.
“Mommy’s crying,” she whispered.
“Yes, it’s a sad thing,” I said.
“I think I need to give Mommy a hug,” Sophie said.
“In a minute,” I said. “Let’s get Pokey all set.”
I did, holding Sophie, her arms wrapped tightly around my neck. I unfastened the lead from Pokey’s bridle, took the bridle off, and dumped a scoop of grain in his trough. He was snuffling up the grain when we gave him a last pat on the neck, stepped out, and fastened the door closed. I hung up the brushes and the bridle and we walked down the passage and out into the yard. Roxanne and Clair were leaning over the fence. His big arm was around her shoulders, his T-shirt damp with her tears.
I walked over and Roxanne turned and took Sophie from my arms. They hugged and Roxanne kissed Sophie’s cheek and Sophie kissed her back. Roxanne smiled and Sophie slid to the ground, ran off toward the house, where there were kittens on the back steps.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Clair said to Roxanne.
“I know,” Roxanne said. “It isn’t you. It’s just all bottled up inside me.”