Muscle Memory

by William G. Tapply

  “Linda’s getting the kids.” He let out a long sigh. “Any news?

  “On Mick, you mean?”

  He shrugged.

  “No news on Mick,” I said. “I just came from talking with a couple of his neighbors.”

  “The man across the street who thought he saw him?”

  “Yes. And a guy named Darren who mowed their lawn.”

  “Learn anything?”

  I shrugged. “I want to talk to Darren again. I think he might’ve seen something, and—”

  At that moment, Linda stepped out onto the deck. She was holding the hand of a very pretty young woman. Erin Fallon was tall—about five-ten, I guessed—and slender, with long blond hair and her mother’s big blue eyes, which were red-rimmed and puffy. She looked younger and more vulnerable than I remembered from Mick’s photo. She was wearing cut-off denim shorts and an extra-large gray T-shirt that fell below her hips.

  “This is Erin Fallon, Mr. Coyne,” said Linda.

  I smiled at Erin. “Hi.”

  She nodded, said, “Hello,” and looked down at her feet.

  “Danny’s on his way,” said Linda.

  We all sat down.

  “Can I get you guys anything?” said Linda.

  I shook my head and Erin mumbled something I didn’t un­derstand.

  A couple of minutes later Danny and Ned came trooping out onto the deck. Ned was toweling his face and chest with his T-shirt. Danny had already put his on. They both were carrying cans of Coke.

  “Mr. Coyne, this is Danny,” said Linda.

  I held out my hand to him. He gripped it firmly, looked me in the eye, and nodded. “How you doin’?” He reminded me of Mick when he played for the Pistons, rangy and rawboned, but he had his mother’s delicate face. He wore a goatee and sported a gold stud in his left ear. Mick had told me his son was twenty-one. Danny looked several years older than that.

  Lyn stood up. “Well, we’ll leave you alone, then.” He walked back into the house and Linda followed behind him.

  Danny leaned back against the railing. Ned sat beside Erin.

  “It might be better if I could talk with Erin and Danny alone,” I said to Ned.

  He looked up at me, then smiled quickly and slapped the side of his head. “Oh, sure. Dumb me. Sorry.” He got up, gave Danny a little punch on the shoulder, and went inside.

  I looked from Danny to Erin. “I don’t know what Lyn and Gretchen might’ve told you,” I said, “but—”

  “They’ve been great,” said Danny. “I guess there isn’t much to say.” He pulled a chair around and sat down beside Erin. “We know our mother’s been killed and we know they think Dad did it. I went to his apartment, and there was police tape there, and then Uncle Lyn tells me Dad’s… disappeared. He said you might be able to tell us more.”

  I summarized as objectively as I could how I’d found blood and evidence of a struggle at Mick’s apartment. I did not mention the dead blue fish.

  Erin stared at me, her eyes brimming.

  “You think somebody killed Dad, too?” said Danny.

  I shook my head. “There are other ways to interpret it. If I told you I was certain that he was okay, I’d be lying. But I’m trying to be hopeful, keep an open mind, and you should, too.”

  “You’re his lawyer, right?” said Danny.

  “Yes.”

  He glanced at his sister. “We really need to know. They’re saying that he…?”

  I shook my head. “He has told me repeatedly that he did not harm your mother, and I believe him. They were having their problems, as you know. But your dad loved your mom.”

  “You have to say that,” said Erin.

  “If I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t say it,” I said to her. “I’m not here as your dad’s lawyer. I’m here to try to answer your questions.”

  “He’s got a wicked temper,” said Danny.

  I nodded. “I know. Did he ever… hurt your mom?”

  He shook his head. “No. Never. He yelled at her sometimes, and I remember a couple times he kicked a door or punched the wall or something. She really knew how to get to him, you know?” He smiled and glanced at Erin, who continued to gaze down into her lap. “Dad never touched her, though,” said Danny. “Mostly when he got upset, he’d just walk out and drive around for a while. He always came back pretty soon, and they’d be fine, like they realized they were both wrong and didn’t need to talk about it.”

  “I don’t think I can stand this,” said Erin softly.

  “I understand,” I said. “It’s not fair. I can’t think of anything to tell you that would make it better.”

  “I want to see my mother,” she said. “I mean, her—her body.”

  “The police have her. You won’t be able to see her until they release her.”

  “When’ll that be?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll try to find out for you.” I looked from Erin to Danny. “Can either of you think of anyone who’d want to—to harm your mother? Or your dad?”

  They looked at each other, then at me. They both were shaking their heads.

  “I know this is hard,” I said. “But did your mother ever mention another man? Someone she might’ve been interested in?”

  “Mom?” said Erin. “Do you think—?”

  “I don’t really think anything,” I said. “It’s just a logical ques­tion.”

  “She never said anything,” said Danny slowly, “but…”

  Erin turned to him. “What? What are you saying?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just a feeling. The past year or so she seemed—I don’t know—happier. Know what I mean?”

  “No,” said Erin. “That’s nuts. She wasn’t, like, dating or any­thing.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “you’re probably right.”

  “Did she ever mention someone named Will Powers to either of you?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “Did you know a guy named Darren?”

  Erin smiled. “Sure. He lives in our neighborhood. He’s kinda sweet.” She suddenly frowned. “You’re not thinking that Darren…”

  “I met him today,” I said. “He seems to have a quick temper, that’s all.”

  “Darren’s harmless,” said Danny. “If something happens he doesn’t like, he just runs away and goes fishing. He doesn’t even kill any of the fish he catches. He talks to them and puts them all back. He’s just a gentle guy.”

  “So what’re we supposed to do?” said Erin.

  I shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. I’m sorry. Just try to be patient, take care of each other.”

  “I’m fine,” said Danny.

  I looked at him. “Are you?”

  He nodded. “Sure. I can handle it. I’m…” He shook his head. “Shit,” he mumbled, and I saw tears well up in his eyes. He wiped at them with the back of his wrist, then turned to Erin. She leaned toward him and put her arms around his neck. He held onto her, and she patted his shoulder and whispered to him, and the two of them cried together.

  I sat back in my chair and looked out toward the river. I had to swallow back a lump that was rising in my throat.

  After a few minutes, Danny and Erin released each other. “You’ve been keeping it all bottled up,” she said to him.

  He gave her a little smile. “And you’ve been bawling your eyes out.”

  “We gotta stick together now,” she said. She turned to me. “Thanks, Mr. Coyne.”

  I shrugged. “It was great to meet both of you. Your dad’s always bragging on you two, you know.”

  They smiled.

  “I just want you to know that you can call me any time,” I said. “I don’t expect you’ve given much thought to questions like who might’ve done this to your mother or what could’ve happened to your dad. But maybe you’ll talk with each other about it, and if you come up with any ideas, I hope you’ll share them with me.” I gave one of my cards to each of them. “And if I learn anything, I’ll tell you, okay?”

  They b
oth nodded.

  I stood up and held my hand to Danny. “It takes a real man to cry,” I told him.

  He shook my hand. “I feel like I’ve gotten rid of a big hole in my stomach.”

  I turned to Erin. She stood up and hugged me. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  I smiled and nodded, lifted my hand, turned, and walked off the deck quickly, before they could see the tears in my eyes.

  Twelve

  I DROVE THE BACK roads. I had all the windows rolled down and the Saturday afternoon Red Sox game on the radio and no further obligations for the day. I was in no hurry to get back to the city.

  There’s still a lot of farmland in Concord—cornfields, pick-your-own strawberry patches, acres of asparagus, celery, squash, pumpkins, tomatoes, and peppers. Old-fashioned farmstands huddle close to the road, with hand-lettered signs on the outside walls advertising the crops that are in season. I stopped at one such farmstand near Nine Acre Corner and bought two pints of organically grown strawberries, prepicked, precleaned, prepack­aged, and prewrapped for nonself-pickers such as I.

  I zigzagged over more back roads through Concord and Lincoln and out past Walden Pond to Route 2, and I didn’t get back to my apartment until around six. I half filled a big bowl with Cheerios, sliced a generous handful of fresh strawberries on top, added a sliced banana, sprinkled it with brown sugar, and took it onto my balcony. No milk. I prefer to crunch my Cheerios, and the sliced fruit gives each mouthful a delicious mixture of contrasting textures.

  When I finished eating, I sat there for a long time smoking and watching the sky grow dark.

  After a while, I wandered back inside and called the Ritz. The operator let the phone in Sylvie’s room ring about a dozen times, but she didn’t answer. I declined to leave a message.

  Then I tried Horowitz’s office. It was a Saturday night, and he wasn’t there, of course, so rather than annoy him by calling his cell phone number again, I told his voice mail about meeting Darren and Mitchell Selvy in Lexington and suggested that a cop with any imagination might want to consider them suspects in Kaye Fallon’s murder. I did not tell him I’d met Erin and Danny. Knowing Horowitz, he’d probably want to interrogate them. The least I could do was to shield them for as long as possible from Horowitz’s evil Jack Nicholson grin.

  I thought of calling Alex up in Maine. But I hadn’t talked to her in several months, and I realized that hearing her voice would not be likely to cheer me up.

  I thought of calling Billy and Joey, my two boys, too. But Billy would be out fishing on some river in Idaho, miles from his telephone, and Joey was in California, three times zones away, and unlikely to be near his phone, either.

  I’d run out of people to call. Another wild Saturday night for the bachelor.

  So I pawed through my fishing gear and piled what I needed for tomorrow’s trip with Charlie beside the door. Then I found an old Robert Mitchum movie on my black-and-white TV. I sprawled on the sofa and watched it all the way through without falling asleep—and without dwelling on the fact that Alex was living in Maine and Sylvie was unavailable and I was alone.

  When the movie ended, I decided it was late enough that I could go to bed.

  Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow I’d go fishing.

  My eyes popped open at six in the morning. Outside my bed­room window a perfectly cloudless sky was just beginning to grow light. No rain today.

  It seems as if more than half of the fishing excursions that Charlie and I plan end up weathered-out by gullywashing rainstorms or tree-rattling winds—and often both—which defies all the odds. Charlie believes that he and I have the power to cure a drought simply by planning to go fishing.

  But today the low-angled beams of the just-risen sun streamed in through the sliders that opened onto my balcony. It was impossible to feel anything except exultant on a morning such as this, especially with a fishing trip to look forward to. I fetched the Sunday Globe from outside my door, had a bagel and a handful of strawberries and three cups of coffee and a couple of cigarettes while I read the sports section, then lugged my gear down to the car. Charlie and I had agreed to meet at nine, and I was going to be early. But I couldn’t put it off any longer.

  An Italian restaurant called Papa Razzi occupies the structure which had been the Howard Johnson’s just east of the traffic circle by the Concord prison. For more than fifty years, the orange-tiled roofs of Howard Johnson restaurants were highway landmarks all over New England. A family couldn’t drive past a Hojo’s without stopping for one of their fifty-two flavors of ice cream, or a fried clam roll, or a hot dog. Now virtually all of them are defunct, replaced by a new generation of highway food joints—Roy Rogers, Burger King, Popeye’s, KFC, Taco Bell. The first thing the new tenants of the old Hojo buildings always do is paint those orange roof tiles a less garish color.

  I parked in the Papa Razzi lot a little after eight—an hour before our scheduled rendezvous. Charlie’s Cherokee pulled in beside me less than ten minutes later.

  I got out and bent down to his open window. “Hey, you’re early,” I said.

  He grinned. “You’re always early. I figured for once I’d be the first one here. I should’ve known better. Pile your stuff in back. Let’s get going, before it decides to rain,”

  It takes a little over two hours to drive from the Concord rotary to the catch-and-release section of the Deerfield River where it flows from the bottom of the Fife Brook Dam a little west of Charlemont, Massachusetts, hard by the Vermont state line. Somewhere around the halfway mark, Route 2 narrows and winds through rural villages, where it becomes scenic as hell and is called the Mohawk Trail.

  Charlie and I picked at the strawberries I’d brought and sipped coffee from car mugs. I told him about watching Darren fish with a bobber and worm, how it had reminded me of my youth, how Sylvie and I used to catch perch at Granny Pond, how Alex had nobly tolerated my fishing, how I’d screwed up all my relationships, beginning with my marriage to Gloria and ending, most recently, with Alex, how Sylvie was in town and how seeing her had rekindled a lot of confusing memories and emotions, but how I didn’t think I had the courage for another relationship that I’d also surely screw up.

  “You and Sarah,” I said to Charlie. “Good, solid twenty-year marriage. What’s your secret?”

  He didn’t say anything for a minute or two. Then he said, “Guy’s out walking on the beach one morning. California, somewhere. Spots a green bottle on the sand, and when he picks it up, out pops a genie. Before the guy can say a word, the genie says, ‘One wish, pal. That’s it, and consider yourself lucky. None of this three wish shit.’ So the guy shrugs, thinks a minute, and then he says, ‘Okay, fine. I’ve wanted to go to Hawaii all my life, but I’m petrified of flying and I get seasick. So my wish is this: Build me a bridge to Hawaii.’”

  Charlie glanced at me. I pretended to be staring out the side window.

  “Well,” said Charlie, “the genie blows his stack. ‘You shitting me?’ he says. ‘A bridge to fucking Hawaii? You know how far that is? How in hell do you expect me to get supports all the way down to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean? Or,’ he says sarcastically, ‘did you want me to make you a suspension bridge? What do you think I am, anyways? You better come up with a better wish than that, buddy.’

  “The guy shrugs. ‘Well, okay,’ he says. ‘There’s something else I’ve always wanted.’ ‘Yeah?’ says the genie. ‘And what might that be? A bridge to the moon?’ ‘Naw,’ says the guy. ‘Easier than that. See, genie, all my life I’ve had terrible luck with women. Three divorces, and that’s not counting broken engagements. Even my mother hates me. I just don’t get them, you know? Women. They baffle me. So my wish is simple. I just want to understand women.’”

  Charlie paused to indicate the punchline was imminent. I nodded. I thought I saw it coming.

  “The genie,” he said, “looks at the guy, shakes his head, and says, ‘So this bridge. Would two lanes be okay?’”

  I refused to laugh, and
we drove in silence for a few more miles. Then Charlie chuckled. “It’s just luck,” he said. “We are what we are, and we can’t help it. Turns out Sarah loves baseball, and that’s made all the difference. There’s no way to know if you’ve married the right woman until you do it.”

  I didn’t believe it, of course, and I don’t think Charlie really did, either. But it was very supportive of him to say so.

  Charlie did not mention Mick Fallon, and neither did I. That subject qualified as business. We did not talk business on fishing trips.

  There were only two other cars in the pull-off by the river. We tugged on our waders, strung our rods, shrugged into our vests, and slipped down the steep bank with all the eagerness of teenagers on a double date with sisters who were reputed to do it.

  The water was littered with a smorgasbord of insects—mayfly duns and spinners, midges, terrestrials, caddisflies—and there were enough surface-feeding trout to occupy us all day. Charlie and I fished within shouting distance, which was our agreement on the Deerfield, where sometimes the dam released water suddenly and in great volume and a heedless angler could find himself lifted off his feet and bob-sledded downriver. It had happened to me once. Fortunately, Charlie had been fishing downstream from me, and he’d managed to grab me on the way by and haul me out.

  We quit around six. The trout were still rising, and we knew we could continue catching them into darkness. But we hadn’t even stopped fishing for lunch, and, anyway, we’d had enough. It had been a perfect day. Anything more would’ve been too much of a good thing.

  We stopped at a roadhouse near Greenfield for burgers and coffee. We listened to Charlie’s Miles Davis tapes on the drive home, content to savor our own thoughts, comfortable enough in each other’s company that we didn’t need to talk.

  I transferred my gear from Charlie’s truck to my car in the Papa Razzi lot. We agreed it had been a good day and that we should do it again soon. Then I headed back into the city.

  It was about ten when I pulled into my slot in the garage under my apartment building. I got out, opened the back door, and leaned in for my stuff. When I straightened up and turned around, a man was standing behind me, not five feet away. He wore an expensive-looking suit and a Dick Tracy hat. In the dim orange light, his face was deeply shadowed, and I didn’t recog­nize him at first.