In the morning, they unzipped the tent to see that they were parked near the gates to the Pilgrim Nuclear Generating Station. They drove over the Bourne Bridge and onto Cape Cod. They found an empty beach where they could sit and look at the ocean, but the wind was strong and cold, so after Littlefield smoked a cigarette, they got back in the truck and started driving north.
“It’s not quite the same as camping in Maine,” said Bennie.
“We didn’t find the right spot. That’s my fault,” said Littlefield.
“Maybe Cape Cod wasn’t the best place for us to go in November.”
“Maybe not,” said Littlefield.
They drove for a while, listening to sports radio. This time there was no traffic in Boston; they breezed past downtown, over the Tobin Bridge, and up Route 1. Bennie felt heartsick. “This sucks. Sorry the camping trip didn’t work out too well.”
“Remember that time we went out to Green’s Island?” Littlefield asked. “That fishing trip? That was good.”
“Yeah,” said Bennie.
“Seems like it was easier to do that kind of shit back then.” “I’m not sure why,” said Bennie. Littlefield shrugged. “Things change.”
Bennie knew that even though they could spend a night together playing cards, they weren’t friends anymore. Littlefield didn’t respect the choices he’d made—trying to go to college but quitting, trying to live in New York but leaving after only one winter, trying to make the Olympic team but never really sticking to his plan. He knew Littlefield had similar failures, but somehow the brothers never found a way to relate their experiences. They didn’t seem to understand each other, and being born of the same parents only made things worse. Bennie wondered if there’d be another change, later in life, that would bring them closer together.
When they arrived back at the Manse, Littlefield parked the truck and said, “Not one of our better trips.” “Nope,” said Bennie.
“It’s always good to get off the island once in a while, though.”
“I guess so,” said Bennie. He wanted to say more. He wanted to sit in the truck with his brother for a few more hours, even though they’d barely spoken when they’d been on the road. He wanted to say I know how you’re feeling, even though he couldn’t be completely sure that he did. He wanted to say something, anything. But the moment came and went; Littlefield clicked his door open, the dome light came on, and the cold air from outside rushed in.
There wasn’t much else to do at the Manse that morning other than to cook bacon and answer the phone. Between the calls, Bennie noticed how quiet it was in the house, with Helen and Gwen and Martha sitting in the living room, shocked, waiting for the next call. These calls came in a seemingly endless string:
Eleanor Littlefield, still hoping to talk to either Gwen or Bennie (they let the machine take the message).
Hud Kenneally, in a nasally hysterical voice, wanting to speak with Helen. Julian hadn’t shown up for the lunch shift. Hud had left messages at Julian’s house and had now worked seven consecutive shifts as the head cook and reported he was losing his mind. Helen picked up the phone at the end of his message and asked him to do his best. She couldn’t come in.
Eleanor Littlefield, sighing, hanging up.
Lynne Pettigrew. As soon as she started to leave a message, Bennie grabbed the phone.
“I thought you should know,” she said. “Julian Fischer came to the station an hour ago. This isn’t normal procedure, but seeing as our families have known each other for so long, I wanted you to know that his statement suggests that your brother will probably be taken off our list. We’ll be holding Mr. Fischer until we learn more. But I wanted to let you know. If you happen to see your brother, you could tell him that while we’d still like to talk to him, his interview is currently a low priority.”
“Have you found the body?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that right now. We’re still in the process of assessing the scene. The rain is making it difficult.”
“Thanks for calling, Lynne.”
“It’s an ongoing investigation, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you for your cooperation,” she said.
After hanging up the phone, he held the receiver and let the charge of emotion flood his chest. He appreciated the formality she used to tell him this news, but at its core, the news was ugly. Julian had turned himself in after trying to keep the secret, and asking Bennie to keep the secret, too.
The phone rang again while Bennie held the receiver. It was his mom. “Sweet Jesus,” she said. “Why don’t you kids pick up the phone?”
“I just did,” he said.
She said, “How are you feeling, Benjamin? How’s your leg?”
“I feel okay, Mom.”
“That’s good, sweetie. I’ve been trying to reach you because I might not come down tonight after all.”
He exhaled, relieved to hear this. “No?”
“Well, I was just unpacking my bathing suit and I was putting together a small bag to come down to the island for a few nights when William arrived. He’s out back now, smoking. Has he been smoking a lot recently?” Then she started whispering. “Anyway, I’m surprised he’s here. It’s very nice to have him visit, but I couldn’t believe it when he knocked on the door.”
“Yes,” said Bennie, trying to sound calm.
“I don’t know if he’s ever come to visit me without you or Gwennie,” she whispered. He could tell she was extremely pleased.
“Mom, can you get him for me? Can you put him on?”
“Of course,” she said. “After you speak with him, I need to know what to bring you for dinner.” She put the phone down. When he heard the rattle of the phone on the counter, he steeled himself. But it was his mother who came back on.
“Benjamin? William says he’ll call you later. He’s too tired right now. He’s going to take a nap and he’ll call you later.”
“Please tell him I need to speak to him, Mom. I need to speak to him right now.”
“Hold your horses,” she said. She would get flustered sometimes when she had to mediate a disagreement within the family. She put the phone down again, and this time he didn’t hear any talking. A few minutes later she came back to the phone. “He says he can’t talk right now. I’m sorry, Benjamin. I tried. As your humble servant I am happy to pass along a message.”
“Will you tell him, please, that Lynne Pettigrew and Vin Thibideaux made a mistake,” he said. “They don’t need to talk to him.”
“The police? For heaven’s sake, Benjamin! What on earth for?”
“Parking tickets, Mom. Please tell him they made a mistake.”
“You’re not telling me the truth, Benjamin.”
“Just do me this favor, please, Mom.”
“Oh, glory. You and Gwen treat me like a child.”
“What are you going to tell him?”
“That Lynne Pettigrew and Vin Thibideaux made a mistake.”
“Thank you, Mom.”
“What can I bring you for dinner tomorrow?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll be fine. We’ll cook for you.”
“How about steak?” she asked. “A special treat. Steak and new potatoes and green beans.”
“Okay, Mom. That’d be great.”
When he hung up the phone, he was sure Eleanor would be asking too many questions of Littlefield about the parking tickets. The message would be botched. It would be no real error on his mother’s part, but her curiosity would annoy Littlefield, and he wouldn’t call Bennie for clarification. Bennie needed to drive up to Clover Lake and deliver the message himself.
He told the women in the living room—they were still on the purple couch—that Littlefield was in Clover Lake. Gwen and Helen offered to come with him, but he figured it would be better for them to stay with Martha, so he told them he wanted to go alone.
On the drive up Route 26, the road was dark in the rain, but he kept a steady pace. He
knew Littlefield wouldn’t be staying at Eleanor’s house for long. As he passed through Mechanic Falls and Oxford, he turned it over and over in his mind, not knowing how Littlefield could possibly feel guilty about LaBrecque’s death if he hadn’t been involved.
He pulled up to the house and could see his mother peering through the porch window. She came onto the front steps wearing a purple raincoat, hood up, white sweatpants, and sandals. Without her glasses, she squinted to see who it was. When Bennie rolled down the window, she said, “Oh, my goodness!” Her face was tan beneath the hood of the jacket.
“Did you give him the message?” asked Bennie.
“For Pete’s sake. I told him your ridiculous message, of course I did. Come inside,” she said.
He told Eleanor he needed to speak to Littlefield in private. He went to the guest room and found Littlefield lying in the middle of the king-size bed. The blinds were closed and he was smoking in the dark room.
“Thanks for taking my phone call,” said Bennie.
“I’m taking a nap,” he said.
“Why are you here?”
“I’m napping,” he said.
“Put the cigarette out,” said Bennie.
“Please?”
“Put the cigarette out, please,” said Bennie.
He stubbed it out in a coffee cup on the bedside table.
Bennie sat on the edge of the bed. “You didn’t leave me a note.”
“Nope,” said Littlefield. “I was planning on calling you. Or writing you—you know, after things were settled.”
“Julian just turned himself in. He hit LaBrecque with his truck. He killed LaBrecque.”
Littlefield shook his head, disgusted. “That’s wrong.”
“How do you know?” Bennie asked. “I saw his fucking motorcycle, Littlefield. I saw it in the ditch.”
“That must have been where he parked it.”
“It was mangled.”
“Maybe he parked it on the shoulder and someone knocked it in the ditch.”
“Julian was driving on the Masungun and hit LaBrecque. He saw him right in the middle of the road before he hit him. He couldn’t stop.”
“Fuck you,” said Littlefield.
“What do you mean?”
“Fuck you. That’s not what happened.”
Bennie jumped on top of his brother, trying to pin his arms down, but Littlefield slipped out from under him and got to his feet on the other side of the bed. Bennie lunged at him again, grabbing him around the waist, tackling him to the plush carpet. They rolled once, and Littlefield landed on top. “You’re a psycho,” said Littlefield.
“Listen to me. Julian has no reason to lie about this.”
“What happened to your cast?” He held Bennie firmly against the carpet, his forearm pinning Bennie’s neck.
“Gwen helped me take it off,” said Bennie. They hadn’t wrestled like this since they were teenagers. Littlefield was still much stronger. Bennie used his free hand to reach up and grab the front of Littlefield’s plaid shirt.
“Don’t rip it,” said Littlefield.
Bennie pulled as hard as he could. It ripped somewhere in the back, and two of the front buttons popped.
“Christ!” Littlefield released Bennie’s neck. Bennie squirmed out from under him and jumped on his back, putting him in a headlock.
Bennie said, “Julian just turned himself in. Why else would he do that?”
“I have no idea,” said Littlefield. He pried Bennie’s arm from his neck, shook his brother off. They both landed on the carpet. There was a knock at the door.
“Are you two okay in there?” their mother asked.
“Fine,” said Littlefield.
“Has someone been smoking?” she asked.
“Yes,” Littlefield said. “I’ll open the windows.”
They remained kneeling on the carpet, facing each other, out of breath. “Look, Bennie. I’m about to leave. It’s not about telling you what happened. That’s not going to help any. It’s done.”
“It’s not done. You’re not listening to me. Julian hit LaBrecque with his truck. That’s what happened. I saw the bike.”
“Yeah? Well, I saw the body. Did you see the body? No. I saw the fucking body, Bennie. What do you think of that?” Littlefield whispered, fiercely.
“Where?”
“Out by the corner of the stone wall. I didn’t find him that night, but I went back at dawn, after the snow lightened up, and I found him. Stiff as a fucking board.”
“You did?” In all of his imaginings of that night, Bennie was never able to picture LaBrecque’s face, but as soon as Littlefield said this—stiff as a board—Bennie could picture LaBrecque’s placid expression, his icy eyebrows, with Littlefield stooped over him, digging him out. Bennie imagined his own hands doing the same work, brushing aside the snow, seeing the face.
Littlefield took out his pack of Winstons, shook one out, and lit it. He blew smoke out the corner of his mouth, a long breath. “I ran after him, Bennie—just like I told you. He kept running and running. It was hard to tell what direction we were going in. Sometimes I would see something I recognized, like the edge of the quarry or the stone wall, but most of the time I was just following his tracks.”
“I couldn’t see a damn thing that night,” said Bennie.
“It seemed like I could see the next two or three tracks in front of me—that was all.”
“You couldn’t hear him?”
“Hell no.”
“But you knew he was running?”
“I wasn’t thinking about what he was doing. I was just trying to catch up with him, but it was like he knew where he was going. I wanted to win the game. That’s what I was thinking about—winning. Finishing the job. That snow was fucking awful—you know how it was. I kept my head down and followed the trail he was making—I couldn’t hear him, but I’m sure he was getting tired, Bennie. I had to have been catching up to him. That’s all I was thinking about. I was like, He’s got to be tired. And I came right up to the edge of the quarry and I could have run right down onto the rocks, but his gun was lying there in the snow, on the edge.”
Bennie thought about how he would have reacted if he’d seen a paint gun lying in the snow. “You didn’t see him then?”
“There were no tracks. It was steep. I knew right then that things had gotten bad. I knew I’d fucked up by chasing him so hard, all the way out there. He ditched his gun.”
“Right there at the edge? Did he drop it?”
“I have no fucking clue, Bennie. If I hadn’t seen it there, I would have probably tumbled right down into the rockfall myself. I left my gun next to his and I went down in there looking for him. I was trying to hold on to the rocks, but my hands were numb in my gloves, so it took me a while. And it was dark—too dark to see much of anything. I’m not even sure why I went down there—I knew he was fucked—I should have left right then, as soon as I saw his gun. But I went down, and I couldn’t find him. I looked everywhere. I had a light with me, but I couldn’t see much in the snow. I was thinking I might even hear him, but I didn’t. Shit. I couldn’t even see the rocks anymore. I stayed there for a while, but then I took off.”
“So when did you find him?” he said.
Littlefield shook his head, looking down. “Early the next morning.”
“Not in the quarry.”
“No. He might have fallen off the edge, but if he did, he climbed out. I found him out by the corner of the stone wall.”
“That’s right near the road. Don’t you see? You thought it was your fault, but it wasn’t.”
“I chased him until he couldn’t get out of the woods, Bennie.”
“He made it out of the woods. He made it to his motorcycle, and just as he was getting back on the road, Julian hit him.”
This time, Littlefield didn’t say anything. He looked back at Bennie, squarely. He shook a cigarette from his pack and lit it.
Bennie said, again, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I can’t talk with you about this.”
“Why not, asshole? Why can’t you talk to me? Who can you talk to if you can’t talk to me?”
“You’re acting like a crazy person,” said Littlefield.
“Yeah? What if I am? Why didn’t you ever tell me any of this?”
“You wouldn’t have understood,” said Littlefield.
“I’m your brother.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“What matters, then?”
“The things I’ve done,” said Littlefield.
“You didn’t kill LaBrecque.”
“Maybe not. It doesn’t matter now, does it.” He held his head in his hands.
“Will you talk to me about this, Littlefield?”
Littlefield took his hands away from his face and looked up. His eyes were red and wet with tears. “We’re different, Bennie. You and I are different. I can’t hold it together. I really thought something would happen between me and Martha. I’m a fucking idiot. Is that what you want to hear?”
“That’s a start,” said Bennie.
“Here’s what I want, Bennie. I want you to trust me. I can’t talk it through with you. I want you to trust me that I need to leave. I need to get the fuck out of Maine, okay?”
Bennie had never heard his brother ask for something like this. He answered him quickly. “Okay.”
“I also need to know that if I stand up, you’re not going to tackle me again.”
“Okay,” said Bennie.
Littlefield looked down and took another drag from his cigarette. “You’re pretty sure about Julian hitting LaBrecque with the truck?”
“I’m positive.”
Littlefield shook his head. “I am so fucked.”
When they stood up, Bennie took a small step forward and put his arms around his brother. Littlefield hugged him back. “Jesus,” he said. “I didn’t ask you to hug me.”
Bennie squeezed, hard, and Littlefield held on tightly, too.
“Don’t leave, Littlefield,” he said. “I really don’t want you to go. I think things could change here, for both of us. Things could get better.”
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