by Ed Gorman
“Wouldn’t work, DePaul. We were talking about science fiction. And she’d testify to that.”
“Science fiction.” His lips twisted into a particularly ugly frown. “That’s why she doesn’t have any friends. Sits in her room and reads that crap. No wonder other kids don’t want to hang around her.” He’d lost his place in the book. Now he went back to the right page. “But that doesn’t make her any less vulnerable to some creep like you trying to get to her.” He slammed a big hand flat on my hood. He was strong enough to dent it. I scanned the impression his hand had left in the light dust. No dent. “Now you get the hell out of here and don’t try to contact her in any way. I don’t ever want to see you again. Because if I do, I’m going to file a complaint against you. And how’ll that look for you and that fancy-ass judge you work for? Accused of statutory rape.” He was suddenly delighted with the idea. “I can see her face now when she’s trying to explain it.”
“It’d never stick. And she’d know better.”
“It might not stick, McCain. But it’d be in the paper. And people wouldn’t forget it even if the charges got dropped. Tryin’ to pick up an innocent fourteen-year-old girl. See how many clients you get then.”
I wanted to ask him who his late-night visitor had been. I wanted to ask him why he was so afraid of what I’d find out about the fire and his role in assessing it. I wanted to ask if he’d taken money for his trouble, or had somebody blackmailed him into calling it an accident.
But I couldn’t ask him any of these things. If I brought up his visitor, he’d know that his stepdaughter had told me. And if I asked him the other two things, he’d just sputter and stammer and threaten me.
I turned the engine on and dragged the gearshift into reverse. “I’m sure we’ll be talking again sometime, Chief. Whether you want to or not.”
“Try me, McCain. Try me and see what happens.”
But by then I was backing up and turning on the radio. “Wooly Bully” was the perfect exit music.
I thought about my conversation with Nina DePaul as I sat across the living room from my father an hour later. He’d fallen asleep in his easy chair, his chin touching his chest, his snoring soft and gentle. Telepathy had always been one of my favorite themes in the science fiction Nina and I had discussed. The dramatic use was to pluck earth-shattering secrets from the minds of enemy agents. But what I wanted to do was share my father’s life through his eyes. His early years on the farm, his father crushed in a tractor accident. His trek with his brother to Black River Falls looking for work. Their mother virtually deserting them by marrying a man who didn’t want them. The worst of the Depression and then the death of his brother from influenza. Settling in a shack along the river and meeting my mother one day when she was out picking vegetables from her family’s small garden. Their courtship that always sounded glamorous despite all the poverty. The years apart during the war. And the war itself that still sometimes troubled my father’s sleep. And then coming back to enough prosperity to escape the Hills, only to see my brother Robert die. And now his final years, this smaller man in the old chair where he’d watched his sacred football games every Saturday and Sunday; where he’d ranted against the GOP; and where he tried to make his peace with cultural changes as different as Elvis Presley, civil rights, and yet another war.
There were times I’d resented him, times I’d even hated him, I suppose; but these times were always forgotten in the respect I had for what he’d been through and the love I felt for all the patience and encouragement and love he’d given me. Hell, I’m sure there were times when he’d hated me.
So I sat there now in the flurry of the fans in the windows and the faint kitchen sounds of my mother making a cold meal for this hot day and his rerun of Maverick playing unseen on the TV set—I sat there once again thinking the unthinkable. That he was going to die and die soon. And then I thought of my mother and my sister in Chicago and how we’d never quite be the same again.
I eased off the couch and went into the kitchen.
The way she looked at me, I knew she knew. She wiped her hands on her apron and came over to me and with a single finger dabbed away the tears on my cheek. Then she slid her arms around me and hugged me.
I went over to the refrigerator and got a can of Hamm’s and sat down at the table.
“I put extra mayo in the potato salad the way you like it.”
“Thanks.”
She was using a wooden spoon to mix up the contents in a green glass bowl. She didn’t look up when she spoke. “We want to be happy for him when we eat.”
“I know.”
“I try to do my crying in the morning when he takes his first nap. Isn’t that crazy? It’s like making an appointment. But he needs me to be happy because he’s afraid.”
“I know he is. I see it in his face sometimes.”
“He believes, but he doesn’t believe.” This time she did look at me. “He’s like you in that respect.”
“Yeah, I guess he is.”
“I wish you two could believe the way I do. Then it wouldn’t be so bad. I really believe that God will take him to heaven. And I don’t mean angels and harps and all that stuff. That’s for children. But to a place where he’ll know real peace. You know he’s never gotten over his brother dying. Or your brother dying, either. All our lives I’d see him sitting alone sometimes, and he’d have the same kind of tears you just had in your eyes. And I always knew who he was remembering. In the days when it would get real bad with him, I’d hold him and rock him the way I used to hold you and your sister and brother. And rock you the same way. And I never felt closer to him than I did then. Because I’d never felt so needed or useful.” She wrenched away without warning and moments later was sobbing into the hands covering her face.
I went over and held her. Her entire body shook. I remembered doing this when I was twelve years old. My father had fallen on the ice and cracked his skull. For several hours, the docs wondered if he’d live. I’d never seen my mother cry like that. I hadn’t known what to do. I just stood still and let her cling to me. Finally I put my arms around her and patted her back the way I would pat a dog. It was stupid, the way I handled it, but I could tell it helped her.
“And here I’m the one telling you we need to be happy,” she said, pulling her apron up from her waist to pat the tears from her eyes. She took a deep breath. “Potato salad and cold cuts and slices of fresh melon and iced tea. How does that sound?”
“That sounds great.”
“There should be a vegetable, but he hates them as much as you do.”
“I learned from the master.”
“I’m going to run to the bathroom and freshen up. Would you mind setting the table, and then we’ll be ready to eat?”
“Fine.”
There were the everyday dishes and the special dishes. I used the former. Paper napkins, too, not the cloth ones. I used to get an extra quarter a week on my allowance if I set the table every night. I decided not to charge her this week.
When we were all set, when my mother was placing the food on the table, I went in and woke my father. Or tried to. This was one of those terrifying times when he didn’t respond right away. One of those terrifying times when I was almost certain that he was dead.
But then his head raised and his eyes opened and he gazed up at me with blue eyes that were both innocent and ancient. I couldn’t help myself. I leaned down and gave him an awkward hug and kissed him atop his freckled bald head.
Then we went in and ate, and he got to telling some of his favorite war stories, and the happiness my mother wanted came pure and natural to each of us. There was even laughter in the McCain household.
I was pushing open the back door when the phone rang. Wouldn’t be for me. Didn’t live here any more. All grown up. More or less. For her last birthday, my mother was the recipient of a yellow wall phone for the kitchen. She was as proud of that phone as I would have been of a 1939 Ford Woody. I had one foot on the rear steps when
she said, “It’s for you, Sam.”
When I was just a few steps away she covered the phone and said, “It’s a woman.”
“A woman?” my father smiled. “Did you hear that, Sam?”
“It’s fun to be back in seventh grade,” I said. “Our little Sam has a girlfriend.”
My mother swatted me on the arm and winked at my father.
“Hello.”
“My mother always told me that boys didn’t like girls who called them,” Wendy said. “Too forward. The boys lost all respect.”
“I think she was right. I’m so disgusted I’m going to hang up. By the way, we have an audience. My folks. They just told me I have to be in by ten.”
“Well, I’m hoping I can keep you out a little later than that. I’d like to see you, and I also have a little bit of information about Lou Bennett you might find interesting.”
“I’d like to take a shower and change clothes.”
“I was thinking the same thing myself. How does eight sound?”
“Sounds just about right. I’ll pick you up.”
“I really enjoyed seeing you, Sam. That’s all I’ve been thinking about all day. It’s just so weird how things happen sometimes. Good things and bad things.” Then: “By the way, let’s go someplace where we can dance. It’s been a long time for me.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Well, I’m no ballerina, so we’re even up. See you at eight.”
After I hung up and peeked around the kitchen door into the dining room, I saw my folks sitting there with their after-dinner coffee smiling at me. They’d seen me forlorn ever since Jane departed.
“And may a mother ask who that was?”
“Wendy Bennett.”
She glanced at my father. “A cheerleader and one of the prettiest girls in the whole high school.”
“Well, Mom, we’re ten years out of high school, so I don’t think stuff like that matters any more.”
But yeah, it still did to immature guys like me. I wanted to call up all the popular boys I’d gone to high school with and say, “Guess who’s got a date with Wendy tonight?” Eat your hearts out.
17
“THERE’S A LETTER.” I’D SKETCHED IN WHAT I WAS WORKING ON. She looked fascinated.
“What kind of letter?”
“That part I don’t know. All I can tell you is that when I went back to see Linda, I heard David and Roy Davenport arguing about a letter of some kind. I got the impression they couldn’t find it. I was surprised Davenport was even there. Linda hates him.”
We’d had small steaks and scotches and waters and a number of cigarettes. We’d said hello to a combined total of a dozen people (mine were clients, hers were friends). And we’d danced slow to a medley of Platters songs played by a house band that had been in grade school when the Platters had been popular. We’d even danced fast several times. Now we were having our second drinks, sitting in a tiny dark alcove that overlooked the dance floor.
She wore a pale-blue dress and matching one-inch heels. Her face was lightly made up and even prettier than usual. She’d always been a sort of sophisticated version of the girl next door, and adulthood had only enhanced that impression.
She was also stubborn, a quality I’d forgotten about. Not until now was she willing to go back to the brief conversation we’d had earlier about the letter.
“This letter you were telling me about two or three days ago.”
“Very funny. It was just about an hour ago. You’ve held up pretty well for a geezer. I was afraid you might fall asleep on me.”
“They were arguing about a letter.”
“They sure were. Davenport said they had to get busy and find it.”
Somebody looking for a letter might explain why somebody had tossed my office and Kenny’s trailer, knocking out both Turk and Kenny in the process.
“Tell me about Linda’s husband.”
“Do I have to? This soon after eating?” She reached over and patted my hand. “Only because I’m having a good time.” She sipped her scotch and said, “I read a lot of British mystery novels. They’re like fantasies for me. Pure escape. Murder in all those little villages. And David fits right in there. He’s the bounder who seduces all the beautiful married women and lives off his wife’s inheritance.”
“You mean that literally?”
“The part about sleeping with beautiful married women? Of course. My parents are big at the country club, and they always have stories about who David is sleeping with on the side. He’s even been beaten up a few times. Once badly enough to put him in the hospital for a week. Lou despised him. He always begged Linda to get rid of him. But that’s the irony. You know what a snob she is. A very arrogant woman. But she’s completely at the mercy of her husband. I never thought I’d feel sorry for her, but I can’t help myself. It’s almost as if she’s deranged. Obviously she knows what he’s doing. And she also knows that he practically destroyed the two small businesses Lou put him in charge of. Lou had to step in to save them from declaring bankruptcy. She could have so many men—men just as handsome but men who’d treat her the way she deserves. It’s pretty sad when you see them together. The way she looks at him. It’s like puppy love to the highest power. Bryce used to talk about it, too. He and David loathed each other.”
“But Lou put up with him living under the same roof?”
“Well, the north section is kind of separate from the rest of the house. You know how big the place is. Linda and David have their bedroom and study and living room over there. And their own separate entrance when they choose to use it. And they take most of their meals in the living room. The maid always makes two separate meals—excuse me, ‘made’ two separate meals—one for Lou because of his health, and the other one for Linda and David.”
“Does David work?”
“Oh? You didn’t know? He’s a writer. Or says he is. He’s been working on this novel for a couple of years now. He won’t let anybody read it until it’s finished, Linda says. I doubt it even exists.”
A waitress worked her way over to our alcove. The white silk blouse and the black skirt with the large sash-like black leather belt combined with her long dark hair and exceptional height to give her a dramatic effect.
We decided on one more drink, and then Wendy said to the young woman, “I’d like to wake up some day looking like you.”
The waitress had a wide TV-commercial smile. “Are you kidding? You’ve got those aristocratic facial bones and those beautiful eyes. I’ll be happy to trade you.”
“You’re going to get a very nice tip out of this,” I said to her. After she was gone, I said, “She’s striking, but you’re a lot betterlooking.”
“Maybe. But there’re a lot of women who look like me. Young housewives. Millions of us. But she—” She picked up her cigarette, took a deep drag, and said, “Does it bother you that we’re getting older?”
“Well, if we weren’t getting older we’d be dead.”
“That’s very cute, Sam, but how about an honest answer? I wanted to do something with my life after I finished college, and I didn’t. I wanted to make Bryce love me, and I didn’t. I wanted to have a child, preferably a daughter, and I didn’t.”
“You’re not exactly haggard.”
“No, but I’m weary sometimes. And I’m only twenty-eight. If I’m this weary now, what’ll I be like when I turn thirty-five?” Then she waved her words away. “I’m feeling sorry for myself because I’ve got this stupid idea that maybe we’ll sleep together tonight and I want to, but I more don’t want to.”
“Then we won’t.”
“I haven’t slept with a man in two years.”
“You’ve dated a few. I’ve seen you out sometimes.”
“In the movies it’s always sex sex sex, but it’s never been that way with me. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. I really need to feel something for the man I have in my bed.”
“I’m not much for one-night stands m
yself.”
“But I’ll bet you’ve had some.”
“What I’ve had—mostly—is a series of relationships that didn’t work out.”
“Pamela Forrest? God, I used to feel so sorry for you in high school. The way you followed her around. And Stu was such a shit to everybody. I always thought they deserved each other. I always thought you should have married Mary. She was so sweet and pretty and nice.”
“Everybody thought I should’ve married her. But I just didn’t love her the way she wanted me to—the way I should have.”
“And then this last one?”
“Jane.”
“I saw you a few times on the dance boat that goes downriver. I was there with one of my gentleman friends. He was quite taken with her looks. And I have to say she is a very elegant woman. Very big-city.” The soft laugh. “Needless to say, I didn’t invite him in for a drink.”
“I’m not over her completely yet, but I’m getting there.”
“Well, this should be interesting then, Sam. I’m worried about going to bed because it has to mean something to me, and you’re still in love with somebody else.”
“Not exactly. I’m getting over someone else. There’s a difference.”
The waitress returned with our drinks. We thanked her and she left.
“By the way,” Wendy said. “David can be very funny—but not on purpose. He always does this he-man thing. God, I hate that. I guess he still thinks he can charm me into bed. I was very cruel to him one day. I needed to move a lot of furniture around. The neighbor I usually use had a baseball game he had to play. And by coincidence I ran into David at the supermarket. I told him about my furniture and he went all strongman on me. Seemed he loved moving heavy stuff around. One of his favorite things in the whole wide world. I could read his mind, of course. He had pictures of us in bed doing all sorts of things you can still get arrested for in some states. He’d slide a few chairs around and then we’d be naked and racing to my bedroom. But he didn’t know what he was in for. I had heavy chairs I needed moved from the basement up to the first floor and other heavy things I needed moved from the first floor up into the attic. I kept offering to help him but he wouldn’t let me. So I just sat in the family room and drank Pepsi and smoked cigarettes and watched soap operas. You should have seen him when he was done. He had a bad crimp in his back and he couldn’t get his right hand to close, and I could see that his legs were shaking. I thought he was going to fall down. The last thing he had on his mind was sex. He just sort of doddered his way out to his little sports car and took off. I’m sure he didn’t want me to see him when he collapsed. I laughed for days.”