Cutter's Run

by William G. Tapply

  He shook his head. “No, Brady. I’m worried she won’t. Or if she does, I’m worried she’ll only sell it to someone who’ll promise to keep the apples growing, and I know damn well she won’t get what the place is worth that way. Susannah’s smart, all right, but I worry she won’t act smart after I go. I guess she can be a pretty crafty businesswoman. But she’s got a sentimental streak in her when it comes to me and this place.”

  “You’ve got a will, I assume?”

  He nodded, still gazing out at his apple trees. “It’ll all be hers, of course. Susannah don’t think I’m much of a businessman, and maybe she’s right. But I know I could sell some of this land and make out pretty good. I’ve had some inquiries. I just don’t feel like it’s mine to sell. Not since I learned…” He shrugged. “She’s a good daughter, Brady, and after me she’s the only Hollingsworth left. She drops by couple times a week to check up on me, clean the house, take care of things I neglect. Stays the night up in her bedroom, makes me breakfast the next morning, then she’s off to work again. It’s been real nice these past couple weeks, having her around every day. Imagine, a daughter spending her vacation time taking care of her old man. I’ll miss her when she goes back to the city.”

  “Portland?”

  He nodded. “That’s her home office, and she’s got a condo right on the water, though she ain’t there that much. Travels all over, making her deals, as she calls it. New York, D.C., the West Coast, Europe, Japan, the Middle East. She sends me postcards. All these pretty places. I never set foot outside of New England in my life.” He shook his head. “It’s a sign of the times when your kid’s been to more places in her short life than you have in your long one.”

  “Talk to her,” I said. “Tell her what’s happening. Tell her what you want her to do.”

  “I guess I know that,” he said softly. I noticed that his eyes glittered. “She didn’t take it well when Jessie passed. Now me. It’ll be hard.” He paused. “I wonder if you’d do me a kindness, Brady.”

  I nodded.

  “After I’m gone there’ll be… business to attend to.” He cocked his head and looked at me.

  “Susannah will need legal advice,” I said. “Of course I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “It would sure put my mind to rest,” he said.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said. “In the meantime, you’ll feel better after you talk to her.”

  “I suppose I will,” he said. “But it ain’t me I’m worried about.” He reached over and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Thanks for listening to an old man’s ramble.” He held up his glass. “I’m empty. That’s no good. Let’s go get refills.”

  Susannah grilled chicken breasts for dinner, along with fresh green beans and baked potatoes. Paul tossed the salad and mixed his own special dressing. We shared two bottles of a nice Chardonnay, devoured a warm apple pie, and afterward we sipped brandy on the deck and watched darkness seep into the orchard.

  We avoided topics touching on swastikas and business and death. Alex asked a lot of questions about apple-growing, which segued into a discussion of pie and applesauce and cider and a debate over the merits of old New England apples such as Northern Spies and Baldwins versus what Noah called “popsicles” like Delicious and Mcintosh.

  I mentioned the beaver pond in the valley that separated Noah’s property from Arnold Hood’s. I said I was thinking of trekking in one morning with my fly rod to see if any brook trout still lived there. Noah said he remembered when the milldam for the old tannery blew out in an April flood. Sometime back in the fifties, he recalled. When he was a kid, the locals used to catch trout out of Cutter’s Run, he said. Susannah said that they caught them when she was a kid, too.

  Paul sat quietly, smiling at the right times, but he didn’t say much. His eyes kept darting to Susannah, and whenever he did, she always seemed to be looking somewhere else. At one point, I caught him glancing at his wristwatch.

  We left a little after nine. The three of them stood on the porch, waving as we pulled away. Susannah had her arm around her father’s waist, and Paul stood beside her with his hand on the back of her neck.

  We drove the back roads in silence, and when I pulled into Alex’s driveway and switched off the engine, neither of us made a move to get out.

  “Have a nice time?” she said after a minute.

  “Sure.”

  “I worry,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “Oh, it’s ungracious of me, I guess. But we’ve had dinner with them two nights in a row, now. I like them, and it’s nice that they like us. But I’m starting to feel like they’re latching onto us, you know?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I know,” I said. I lit a cigarette. Its tip glowed in the darkness inside the car.

  “I mean,” said Alex, “I’m feeling invaded. I’m not sure I know how to turn them down if they keep wanting to get together. How to say that sometimes we’d just rather be alone.”

  “Just say it, I guess.”

  “I have trouble doing that. I don’t like to hurt people’s feelings.”

  “Mmm,” I murmured.

  “So what’d you think?”

  “Of what?”

  “Paul. Paul and Susannah, I mean. As a couple.”

  “Paul’s all right,” I said. “Hell, he washes dishes.”

  “I didn’t sense much chemistry between them,” she said.

  “I guess not.”

  After a minute, Alex put her hand on my leg. “What’s the matter, Brady?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing, hon.”

  She gave my leg a squeeze. “Come on. What is it?”

  I turned to her, touched her cheek, then drew her face against my shoulder. “It’s Noah,” I said. “He told me he was dying.”

  I felt Alex stiffen against me. She lifted her head and looked at me. “Oh, Brady,” she said.

  “He said he’s got about eighteen months. He’s worried about Susannah.”

  Alex ducked her head and burrowed her face into my chest. “He’s not that old,” she mumbled. She tilted up her face, and in the darkness I could see the glitter of tears in her eyes. I touched my knuckle to each cheekbone, and it came away wet. I kissed her eyes.

  “I feel like a shit,” she said.

  “For not wanting to have dinner with them every night?”

  “Yes.”

  I held her against me, and after a while I kissed the top of her head. “Are you done crying?”

  “Just about.”

  “You sure? I don’t want to rush you.”

  She looked up at me. “When was the last time you cried?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  She reached up, held my face in both of her hands, and peered into my eyes. “Try it sometime,” she said. She kissed me quickly, slipped out of the car, and went into the house without waiting for me.

  I sat there pondering the differences between men and women, and a couple of minutes later I heard Alex yell: “Brady! Come here.” There was urgency in her voice. Panic, even.

  She was standing on the front porch hugging herself. I jumped out of the car and ran to her. She came down the steps, threw her arms around me, and buried her face against my chest. I held her tight against me. She was trembling.

  “What’s the matter, honey?”

  “The machine,” she whispered. “The goddam answering machine.”

  I took her hand and led her back inside. She wedged herself into the corner of the sofa and hugged her knees while I went to the answering machine. I pressed the button. The tape whirred. Then came a muffled man’s voice: “You like swastikas, Miss Shaw? How would you like one of your very own?”

  That was all.

  I replayed the message. The voice sounded hollow, as if the man had whispered through a tube, and I didn’t recognize it. He spoke slowly and distinctly, almost if he’d been reading his hateful little message, and I heard no noticeable accent.

  I turned to Alex. “You don’t recognize him,
do you?”

  She shook her head.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think,” she said softly, “that if you’d minded your own business, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  I went to the sofa and sat beside her. “I can’t just…”

  “I know, Brady. That’s not fair. But…”

  I put my arm around her, and she laid her head on my shoulder. “It’s scary,” she murmured.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” I said.

  “I thought this was a nice little town,” she said. She twisted her head to look up at me. “You better find the sick son of a bitch. Find him. Okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll find him.”

  CHAPTER 12

  ALEX SLEPT IN MY arms, and the next morning when she woke up, she told me she was okay now. She’d received plenty of threats when she wrote investigative stuff for the Globe, she said, and nothing had ever happened, and she’d be damned if she’d let some asshole get to her now. People who left threats on answering machines were cowards, she said, and they didn’t scare her. “I mean,” she said, “poor Noah is dying. I should let some stupid phone message upset me?”

  I figured she was trying very hard to be a brave, independent, tough-minded woman, and I admired her for it, even if I didn’t share her feelings. I’d pegged Charlotte Gillespie as brave, independent, and tough-minded, and something had happened to her.

  But I didn’t mention that to Alex.

  A little after seven o’clock, we were sipping coffee on the back deck when a car door slammed out front. A moment later a second door slammed. Alex glanced at her watch. “Who could that be? You don’t think Noah and Susannah…?”

  “No,” I said. “They wouldn’t come without calling.” I stood up. “I’ll go see.”

  Alex glanced down at herself. She was still wearing her nightclothes—my old Property of the Yale University Department of Athletics T-shirt and absolutely nothing else. “If it’s for me,” she said, “tell them I’m not presentable.”

  “You,” I said, “are altogether too presentable.”

  I went back through the house to the front door and stepped out onto the porch. A dust-covered blue Ford pickup was pulled into the driveway and two men were standing beside my Jeep. One was a chunky guy wearing work boots, overalls, and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Stringy black hair stuck out from under his baseball cap. The other guy wore baggy blue jeans and a soiled white T-shirt. He was a little taller and a lot skinnier, and the stringy hair under his cap was pale yellow and hung down to his shoulders.

  As I stood there on the porch, the dark-haired guy said to the other one, “No, sir, by the Jesus.” His voice was heavy with anger. “And don’t you sass me, boy.”

  “Well, shit,” whined the skinny one. “I don’t—”

  The first man lifted his arm and balled up his fist, and the blond kid, who I now saw was a teenager, reflexively ducked away.

  “Hey, there,” I called. “Can I help you?”

  They both looked in my direction. Then the dark-haired man grabbed the boy’s arm, and the boy shook it off. I went down the steps and they came over and stood in front of me.

  “Name’s Norm,” said the man. His face was creased and sunbaked. “Norman LeClair. This here’s Paris. My no-good boy, damn him.”

  Neither of them offered to shake hands, so I didn’t, either.

  Norm turned to Paris, who, I saw, wore a hoop in his left ear and a tiny gold cross on a chain in his right. His yellow hair looked pale green where the sun hit it. It obviously had been dyed. A wispy brown mustache and goatee were trying to establish themselves around his small mouth, without much success.

  “Well, go ahead, boy,” said Norm.

  Paris looked at his father with narrowed eyes, then turned to me. “I done it,” he mumbled. He looked at Norm again, as if to say, “There. Satisfied?”

  “That ain’t all,” said Norm.

  Paris shifted his gaze to my feet. “I’ll pay for it, sir,” he said.

  “You mean the swastika on my car?” I said.

  “Yeah.” Paris glanced quickly at Norm, then met my eyes and said, “I’m sorry. It was stupid.”

  “Why’d you do it?” I said.

  Paris shrugged. “It was just stupid.”

  “Of course it was stupid. That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “No reason,” the boy mumbled.

  I waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, I turned to Norm and said, “Mind if I talk to him alone?”

  Norm waved his hand. “Help yourself.”

  I touched Paris’s arm. “Come over here for a minute.”

  We walked around to the side of the house. When I figured we were beyond Norm’s hearing, I leaned close to Paris and looked straight into his eyes.

  He glanced away.

  “Look at me, son,” I said.

  He lifted his eyes, met mine, then let them slide away.

  I grabbed his scrawny biceps and squeezed. “I said look at me.”

  This time his eyes held mine. “I told you I did it,” he said, “and I told you I’d pay for it. Ain’t that good enough?”

  “No.” I tightened my grip on his arm. “Do you know what that thing on my car is?”

  “It’s a swastika.”

  “Do you know what it symbolizes?”

  He frowned. “Huh?”

  “Do you know what a swastika means?”

  “Sort of. They talked about it in school. It was on a flag or something. I hate history.”

  “I’m sure you do,” I said. I leaned close to him so that our noses were almost touching. “Do you have some reason to hate me?”

  He gave a little cynical laugh. “I don’t even know you, mister. How can I hate you?” His eyes shifted to the side.

  I squeezed his arm harder. “I told you to look at me,” I said. “What about Charlotte Gillespie? Do you hate her?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know anybody with that name.”

  “Then why’d you paint a swastika on her sign and her outhouse?”

  “I told you. It was just—huh? What about an outhouse?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  He shook his head. His eyes held mine. “I admit I did that to your car,” he said. “We were driving by and saw that sign, and then we saw that old Wrangler parked there under it. Weezie put me up to it. It was stupid. I was just showin’ off.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry, mister. I really am.”

  “Who’s Weezie?”

  “My girlfriend.” He smiled quickly. “My old man—” He jerked his head in the direction of Norman, who was leaning against the side of my Jeep smoking a cigarette.” He thinks I’m queer because I wear earrings.” He smiled. “But he’s ignorant. Me and Weezie, see…” He arched his eyebrows.

  “I get the picture,” I said quickly.

  “We’re gonna get married,” he said.

  “Well, congratulations,” I said, without trying to disguise the sarcasm in my voice. “Anyway, you’re telling me you did not paint a swastika on that sign or the outhouse?”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t know nothin’ about that.” He shrugged. “I told you it was stupid. I was just—you know, showing Weezie what a hot shit I am.”

  I grabbed Paris’s other arm, so that I was holding both of them. My hands went almost all the way around his biceps, and I squeezed them until I brought tears to his eyes. “Listen to me,” I said. “I’m sick of your bullshit. I’ll give you one minute. Then I’m going to call Sheriff Dickman. I’ll press charges against you, and he’ll arrest you, I promise. Understand?”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “I want to know who painted the fucking swastikas on Charlotte Gillespie’s property.”

  “Honest to Christ, mister,” he said. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Who, then?”

  “I don’t know. Fuck, man.
You’re hurting me.”

  I stared into his eyes for a moment. He held my gaze. If he was lying, he was good at it.

  I let go of his arms. He reached up and began to rub them. “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll hold off talking to the sheriff for a day or two. Meantime, suppose you check around, see what you can find out about those other swastikas. You get me some answers, I won’t press charges. What do you say?”

  “Sure. Okay.” He gave me a quick smile. “I really am sorry about your car, man. It wasn’t personal. I don’t even know you.”

  I nodded. “I want to know if it was personal for whoever did those other ones. Understand?”

  He nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out. I promise.”

  “I just want a name,” I said. “That’s all. We got a deal?”

  “I’ll pay for your car.”

  “Bring me a name and you don’t have to pay.”

  “I want to pay. It’s my stupid thing, and I should pay.”

  I nodded. “Okay. I’ll get it taken care of and let you know what it costs. But I still want that name.”

  He held out his hand. “It’s a deal.”

  I took his hand. His grip was firm, and he held my eyes as we shook. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s talk to your father.”

  We went over to where Norm was standing. “We’ve worked it out,” I said to him.

  He glowered at Paris. “I didn’t raise no goddam vandal,” he said.

  “He’s going to take care of it,” I said. “Do you have a VCR?”

  “Huh?”

  “Do you have—”

  “Shit, I know what a VCR is. Course we got one. What about it?”

  “I want you to rent a movie and sit Paris down and be sure he watches it. I want you to make him pay careful attention. And when it’s over, rewind it and make him look at it again. Okay?”

  Norman frowned. “You want him to watch a movie?”

  “A particular movie,” I said. “It’s called Schindler’s List, and it’s a very good movie. You might enjoy it yourself.”

  Norman shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  “After you’ve watched it,” I said to Paris, “you come on over here and we’ll talk about it.”

  “I’ve heard of that movie,” he said.