by L. L. Enger
He took a towel from where it hung on a dock post and dried his chest and shoulders. He was rubbing his hair dry when he heard Carol’s voice.
“Still in your longies, I see.”
Gun looked up and saw her in the outfield grass. Even from twenty yards he could tell her green eyes were rested. Her black hair shone. Beside her was her son Michael, whom Gun had met the day before. He had his mother’s long legs and someone else’s face, a rugged face, wide cheekbones, a bony nose. Gun joined them on the grass and shook hands with Michael.
“We’ve got some news,” Carol said. “They found Berg, and Geoff too.” Berg and Geoff had been the only two unaccounted for since the other night. The search had been large and well-publicized.
“Together, were they?” asked Gun.
“Far from it. Berg was hiding in Nick Faris’s barn, up in the haymow. State police bloodhounds found him last night, about eleven-thirty.” Carol touched Gun’s arm. “We’d better get you inside, you’ve got goose bumps.”
“What about Geoff?”
Michael put an arm around his mother’s shoulders. Carol said, “Geoff washed up on the town beach. Early this morning.”
Gun turned toward the lake. “That was a strong wind we had. Came straight out of the north.” He pictured Geoff’s face, bloated and tanless, forced it out of his mind.
After a moment Carol said, “Michael and I were wondering if you and Mazy would like to go out, get some breakfast.”
“Can’t you smell anything?” said Gun, turning toward them again. Carol and Michael put their noses in the air. “That’s Mazy’s bacon frying.”
Four plates of bacon, eggs, and hash browns later, they sat at Gun’s pine table sipping strong stove-top coffee. Yesterday they’d all been obliged to tell their stories over and over again—to investigators from the FBI and the state crime bureau, to media folks of every stripe. Mazy had phoned an exclusive to the Tribune, which had appeared this morning under a headline an inch tall. Today was a breather. There had been several minutes of silence when someone belted Gun’s door, boom boom boom, and an enormous voice bawled, “Gun Pedersen, you home?”
Mike blinked at his mother, who lifted her shoulders. Mazy said, “Beats me.” Gun smiled, took a long plug
of coffee and stood from the table.
Bowser was clean-shaven and round-headed, grinning. The bottom several buttons of his red flannel shirt were missing and his big hairy belly looked like somebody’s naked rear end backing out of a tent. “Went into that cutesy barber shop of Loretta’s last night,” he said. They were standing next to home plate. Behind them a celebration of summer birds swirled in the white pine. “Went in and sat down and told them, I don’t want bald but I want its first cousin.”
“You’re improved,” Gun said.
“Talk in town is all Gun Pedersen,” Bowser said.
“Great.”
“You done a job on ‘em,” said Bowser. His left eye held respectfully on Gun’s face while the right went wandering off toward the lake. “Done a job on Hedman, may he fry on the Big Griddle. Done a job on the old Loon Mall. I’m admiring of that, Gun.”
“Come in for breakfast?”
“Naw. You got folks over.” Bowser stood in the bird-wild noise of the morning, hands in his pockets, breathing easily. A swell of far-off laughter came from the house, Mazy and Carol and Mike.
“I felt real bad about missing your dad’s funeral,” Gun said. “I thought about it a lot that day.”
Bowser shifted his weight from one thick leg to the other, shot a stream of saliva at home plate. “Hard to be in two places at once. And you didn’t miss a hell of a lot. Arnie Quinn at the funeral parlor don’t waste no time. A couple of tunes and a prayer, and Arnie and his helper roll ‘em right out to the limo. Best thing about it all was the taps at the graveyard. That trumpet player, now, he knew how to make a pretty sound. I loved that.”
They were quiet. Bowser took one hand from his pocket and peeked at the dirt under his nails, then looked evenly at Gun. His eyes almost seemed to focus on the same point, nearly came together to function as a matched pair. “You’re welcome at the home place, Gun. Anytime.”
“Thanks.”
The kitchen was relaxed and gold with sun when Gun stepped back inside. Mike was leaning into the refrigerator, reading a buttermilk carton. Mazy rested back in her chair, eyes closed. Carol folded the newspaper she held and looked a question at Gun. He raised his arms and held them out from his sides, palms up.
“Happy day,” he said.