Mid-Life Friends and Illusions

by Jeffrey Freeman

  After minutes that seemed like hours, Samuel took a last deep breath and raised his head. Determination was back in his eyes. He stretched an arm around each of them, patting them on their backs. Then he stood up, breaking their grasp.

  “I’m going to speak with Huff. Find out the specific charges. Make sure they’re adequate,” he declared. He looked at Jane. “And Ed.”

  The county jail in St. Pierre had been remodeled years earlier but it was still a long way from modern. It was adequate to hold a couple dozen prisoners in a pinch though there were usually no more than two or three at a time behind the pale green bars. It was co-located with the sheriff’s office.

  Sheriff Olin Huff was a large man, a tad over six-foot and two-forty. He had the kind of face that conveyed the personality of a no-nonsense man. Indeed, by all outward appearances, he seemed to have molded his persona after John Wayne, except for the slight Vermont accent. The grey around the temples and thinning of hair over the forehead in no way tempered his formidability.

  “Evenin’, Sam,” Huff greeted the senator from his chair.

  “Olin,” Samuel said. “Understand you’re holding George Nixon.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mind if I ask the charges?”

  “Nought.” Huff unwrapped a cheap cigar from the cellophane and stuck it in his mouth. “Can’t light the damn thing. Goddamn politically-correct nonsense.” He liked Samuel but never let his politics show. It went with the job to seem neutral, impartial. He occasionally took a poke at politicians on either side of the fence, or in Vermont’s case, both sides, on the fence, near the fence, and anywhere in between.

  “Got him for attempted first-degree homicide.” The cigar pointed straight out at Samuel from behind clenched teeth.

  “Uh huh. That stem from the shooting last week?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’re talking about Pete Maxham?”

  “Yup.”

  “You haven’t talked with my Sara?”

  “No need, unless you think I ought to.”

  “No, just curious,” he answered quickly.

  Huff stood up. He was half-a-head taller than Samuel. “He confessed.”

  Samuel couldn’t conceal his surprise.

  Huff smiled. He enjoyed catching people off-guard. “Seems he and Pete had a falling-out.”

  Samuel waited for more of an explanation. When it wasn’t forthcoming, he asked, “Over?”

  “Only two things I know of can come between two old friends like that—love or money.”

  Samuel considered that notion. George’s wife was dead. Pete’s wife was twenty years younger than George but not particularly attractive. It was possible that George might entertain thoughts but why would she? What would she have to gain? Then again, there is no accounting for why some men and women are attracted to each other. Even so, Samuel was willing to bet the latter. He would play Huff’s little game.

  “The pot in the pinochle game get out of hand?” Samuel asked. Everyone who knew Pete and George knew they had a standing pinochle game Tuesday nights after their shift. It was Pete’s night out with the boys, according to his wife. She didn’t object. It gave her license for a night out with the girls, usually a late lunch and an early movie.

  “Not that I know of,” Huff answered. “I do know Pete claims that George was monkeying with somethin’. Threatened to turn him in.”

  “George?” Samuel was astonished. “What was he up to?”

  “Pete don’t know. George denies that part of the story but says Pete just wouldn’t let go of it.”

  “So he was going to kill him for it?”

  “Looks like. Prosecutor may have something to say about the charges. You want to see him?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “I was just headin’ home to dinner. I’ll tell ‘em you’re comin’.”

  Samuel started for the door.

  “Funny thing,” Huff said.

  Samuel stopped, looked over his shoulder at the sheriff.

  “We found the tin box with money in it. Not exactly where Pete said it would be but hidden away in the rail office.”

  Samuel frowned. “A lot of money?”

  “Yup. ‘Nough so’s Ed’s holdin’ it at the bank.”

  “Guess I’ll talk to Ed.”

  “Let me know you find out somethin’ I should know.”

  “Count on it,” Samuel assured him.

  All old jails seem cold and dank and foreboding. St. Pierre’s was no different. George stood up as a deputy walked Samuel to outside his cell.

  “Call when you’re ready,” the deputy instructed and left.

  “George,” Samuel said.

  “Sam,” George acknowledged. He swallowed.

  The old friends stared at each other through the steel bars.

  “Sara,” Samuel said.

  The look of recognition was undeniable. George closed his eyes tight. Seconds passed. Tears slipped out the sides, squeezed between his eyelids. Finally, he opened his bloodshot eyes. Not bothering to wipe the tears, shaking his head, he said in a voice that sounded strange to Samuel, “I’d give anything… I still … every damn day. Wurst thing … I was … Ain’t had a drink in nine years.”

  Samuel knew the last part to be true. “She thinks you were shooting at her.”

  “Gawd no! I’d kill myself fore that.”

  “But Pete?”

  No response.

  “You confessed to trying to kill him?” Samuel asked, hardly believing his own question.

  George walked to the cot and sat down, holding his head in his hands.

  Samuel watched and waited. Finally, he asked, “You got a lawyer?”

  Still holding his head, George shook it.

  Samuel waited a long time just staring at his old friend before calling for the deputy.

  “All right, Ed, what’s going on?” Samuel’s tone was curt, not one he had ever used with Ed before. But the campaign office was empty and it had been a long and trying day. Darkness had set in. Even with just the back office lights on, any passersby were sure to spot Samuel and Ed talking. Tongues in the small town would be wagging before sunup, speculating on the subject of their conversation.

  Ed blinked in surprise at Samuel’s manner of speaking. It made him defensive.

  “Well, now, just how do ya mean?” Ed asked.

  “I was just at the jail. Saw George, spoke with Huff. He said you’re holding money they found at the rail station in the bank.”

  “That’s true enough. Just shy of fifty-seven thousand dollas wurth.”

  “Pete found it?

  “George found it furst.”

  “And he took some of it, he was going to do something with it, what?” Samuel snapped.

  “By gawd, Sam. You slow down justa gawd damn minute and I’ll tell ya.”

  Samuel swung a hand across his body as if to break the bad energy between them. “Sorry,” he said. “Let’s sit. I’m bushed.” He sat behind the desk. Ed scraped the other old wooden chair across the floor near enough that he could whisper if necessary.

  “You ‘member George had ta go ta the emergency room last winta?” Ed asked, as though conveying some forgotten secret.

  Samuel thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said slowly vaguely remembering the incident. “Got knocked in the head splitting wood if I recall.”

  “Ayaught. Still owed the hospital better’n twenty-five hundred dollas is the way I hear it.”

  “Didn’t the railroad’s insurance cover it?”

  “Would have, if’n he’d listened. Damn fool had somethin’ agin the doctor on call. Made Pete drive him all the way ta Burlington.”

  “Let me guess. The hospital was out-of-network.”

  “Ayaught.”

  “So Pete suspected George used some of the money to pay his hospital bill?”

  Ed looked around, despite knowing they were alone. “Could be.” He bent closer to Samuel. “So’s they had a little tiff. Pete says
they ought ta turn the money in. George is of the notion, finder’s keeper’s.”

  “That doesn’t sound like George. He’s never stolen anything in his life. I don’t think he’d take so much as a paperclip from the office without replacing it.”

  “Eggsactly.” Ed inched his chair forward. “So Pete suspects somethin’ else is goin’ on,” he whispered.

  “Something serious enough for George to shoot at him?”

  “Didn’t Sara say she thought she saw someone else in the alley that night?”

  “So he wasn’t aiming for Sara.”

  “Why would he?” Ed asked.

  Samuel shook his head. “No reason. But what did Pete suspect that would make George want to shoot him?”

  Ed sat upright. “Not shure,” he said as though thinking out loud. “Huff’s keepin’ some things he’s bin told ta hisself. But I know this.” He picked up one of Samuel’s campaign fliers from the desk. “They found one a these in the money box.” He held it to Samuel, waiting to see his reaction.

  Samuel took the flier. A look of bewilderment came over him. “They think I had something to do with all this?”

  Ed twisted his head, shrugged his shoulders, still watching for a telltale reaction.

  Samuel caught the thought behind the gesture. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Ed’s face. “You think somebody’s trying to push money illegally into my campaign? And George and Pete got into a heated dispute over it?”

  “Not shure ‘bout the details but ya gotta admit it’s all a bit peculiar.”

  “That’s nuts.”

  “Who do ya know wants you to lose that’s got that kinda money ta throw around?”

  Samuel thought momentarily. “No one,” he admitted. “Well, maybe.”

  Samuel leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced over his stomach, thinking. Words came slowly as he considered the situation. “Martín Czeiler.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A feller who reportedly doesn’t want light rail from Miami to Orlando.”

  “Reportedly? You ain’t shure?”

  “Howard’s digging into it.”

  Ed scratched his head. “Whoever but it shure looks like someone’s tryin’ ta muddy the waters.”

  “No one who knows me would believe that I would do something like that,” Samuel stated. He cringed at his own words thinking of Walter’s blank check.

  “Ayaught, but not everyone in the state knows you like we do. It’d be enough ta start a rumma. Harder ta dispute a rumma than fact.”

  “You think there’s some connection between this mystery money and Thomas wanting the debate so close to the election?” Samuel asked.

  “Don’t believe in coincidences,” Ed asserted. “Not where there’s money involved.”

  Samuel stared at him, or more precisely through him, thinking, not saying a word.

  Ed let a full minute pass before saying, “Hell’s bells, Sam, ain’t nobody in this state can beat you fair ‘n’ square.”

  Samuel smiled. “Not exactly what you’ve been telling me lately about getting out spent and all.”

  “Well, fair’s fair and … Ah fiddlesticks, you know what I mean.”

  “I do.” He looked like he wanted to say more.

  When he didn’t, Ed speculated, “By thunder, Sam, this is getting’ complicated. Folks thought you might ta be able to bring a little more rail business our way. Ayem beginin’ ta wonda ifn it’s wurth it.” He waited to see if he had read Samuel’s mind correctly.

  “You may be right, Ed. But we’re in it now. We’ve got to run this puppy to the ground.”

  He had poked Samuel in the opposite direction that he wanted him to go and it had worked. “Coon,” Ed corrected him. “Ya use the dog ta run the coon ta the ground. Thought you knew that.”

  “I’m not much of a hunter,” Samuel admitted. “But George is. Hard to believe he missed his target, even in that light.”

  “That’s true ‘nough.”

  “Harder to figure why he’d throw in with Thomas.”

  “Ask him,” Ed suggested.

  “He’s clammed up, at least to me.”

  “Guess we got us a conundrum.”

  Samuel nodded. “Maybe I should talk with Pete.”

  “Good luck with that. Ain’t nobody seen him since the sheriff arrested George.”

  “That is a conundrum.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The moon was full and rising as Samuel stopped the rental car in his driveway and got out. He took a moment to look up at it before opening the kitchen door.

  “Full moon,” he announced to Jane, standing by the sink, and Sara, sitting at the table, legs pulled under her, a cup of tea in one hand, half raised to her mouth.

  “Harvest moon, some would say,” Jane responded.

  “What’d he say?” Sara asked anxiously, biting a fingernail.

  “Not much,” Samuel said. He pulled a chair from under the table, careful not to scrape it on the floor, not to cause any further disturbance or irritation within the household.

  Sara sipped her tea, staring straight at him as he sat down carefully and quietly.

  “Tea or wine?” Jane asked, her hand on the hot teakettle.

  “Wine,” he answered. “It’s been a day.”

  Jane pulled two glasses from the cupboard, picked up an opened bottle of Cabernet, and joined them at the table. She poured the glasses to the brim, leaving only a swallow in the bottle.

  “Well?” Jane asked.

  “He said he wasn’t shooting at Sara.” Samuel took a hefty swig of wine. Sighed. Looked at Sara, spoke softly. “He apologized. Said he was drunk.”

  “That’s all? That’s it?” Jane demanded.

  “He clammed up after that. Wouldn’t say another word.”

  Sara reached for her mother’s wine. She drained half the glass at one swallow. Jane got up to get another glass and another bottle.

  “But they’re going to prosecute him for shooting at Pete?” The repugnance in Sara’s tone was unmistakable.

  “He confessed,” Samuel offered.

  “But not to me!” It was obvious to both Samuel and Jane that Sara’s conscious and subconscious minds mixed her words. They understood that she meant George would not admit to shooting at her and had not, would not, apologize to her.

  Silence filled the kitchen.

  It was broken at last by the popping of the cork when Jane pulled on the corkscrew.

  “What did Pete say?” Jane asked quietly.

  Samuel shook his head. “Ed said he’s disappeared.”

  “A day and a half,” Jane said. She picked up the nearly empty bottle and drank it clean.

  Samuel and Sara looked at her with amazement. In all their years, neither had ever seen Jane do something so un-lady-like. It broke the tension. With a smile, knowing precisely what she had done and purposefully, Jane poured herself a full glass from the second bottle.

  “And did you and Ed put to bed any other rumors?” Jane asked coldly.

  “You mean about the divorce? No,” Samuel replied.

  “Divorce? What divorce?” Sara exclaimed.

  “Nothing,” Samuel was quick to respond. “Some idle gossip going around.”

  “Mother?” Sara demanded.

  Jane raised her glass, preparing to drink. “Maybe idle, maybe not. We’ll see.”

  Samuel’s jaw dropped.

  “In any event, I was referring to the money.”

  “What money?” Sara asked.

  “How?” Samuel started to ask of Jane. There was no point. It was a small town. It didn’t matter who had told her. “Pete accused George of covering up a large amount of money. Some folks think it’s tied to my re-election campaign.”

  “Is it?” Sara regretted the words before they came out of her mouth.

  Samuel glared at her.

  Jane refreshed all three glasses.

  After emptying the third bottle of wine, they all retired.

  Jane, in her
cotton nightgown, was under the covers, curled up on her side away from his. Samuel stood at the end of bed, unbuttoning his shirt. “Should I sleep downstairs?” he asked.

  “Not tonight,” she answered groggily.

  He finished undressing and slipped into bed on his back. He reached a hand to her hair.

  “Don’t push your luck,” she warned.

  He withdrew his hand, turned on his side with his back to hers.

  Moonlight lit the bedroom eerily sometime past midnight, so much so that Samuel didn’t need to turn on a light to make his way to the bathroom to relieve his bladder.

  “Get off!”

  He heard Jane’s exasperated voice from the hallway. It took him two steps to be standing in the open doorway. He saw Jane, on her back, flailing at some imaginary specter, her eyes still closed. Then he heard it, or imagined he heard it. A laugh. A deep, guttural laugh. A man’s laugh. Jane’s eyes popped open.

  She saw him, standing, looking at her. “What are you doing?” she accused him.

  “Me? Nothing. What are you doing?”

  “You were on top of me.”

  “Hard to do from over here.”

  She sat up, fully awake now. She realized it was impossible. He couldn’t have made it from on top of her to the doorway that fast. She sank back down in the fetal position.

  He cautiously slipped into bed. On his back, he pulled the covers to his chin. His eyes darted around the ceiling from corner to corner. “Did you hear it?” he whispered.

  “No,” she lied.

  In the early morning, gathered around the kitchen table drinking coffee in their nightclothes and robes, the conversation between the three was muted.

  Samuel was the first to break the silence. “Had a visit from Henry last night,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  Jane’s eyebrows shot up in anger.

  “What?” Sara asked, not fully awake.

  “Your great grandfather,” he answered. “Woke your mother up.” A twinkle in his eye betrayed his otherwise solemn demeanor.

  “What are you talking about?” Sara asked, more awake now.

  “Henry, he was right on top of her when I interrupted.”