by Dale Peck
That evening three things happen: Dean says that the children at school told him that his father found a dead body in the river. He wants to know about it.
Stuart explains quickly, leaving out most of the story, saying only that, yes, he and three other men did find a body while they were fishing.
“What kind of body?” Dean asks. “Was it a girl?”
“Yes, it was a girl. A woman. Then we called the sheriff.” Stuart looks at me.
“What’d he say?” Dean asks.
“He said he’d take care of it.”
“What did it look like? Was it scary?”
“That’s enough talk,” I say. “Rinse your plate, Dean, and then you’re excused.”
“But what’d it look like?” he persists. “I want to know.”
“You heard me,” I say. “Did you hear me, Dean? Dean!” I want to shake him. I want to shake him until he cries.
“Do what your mother says,” Stuart tells him quietly. “It was just a body, and that’s all there is to it.”
I am clearing the table when Stuart comes up behind and touches my arm. His fingers burn. I start, almost losing a plate.
“What’s the matter with you?” he says, dropping his hand. “Claire, what is it?”
“You scared me,” I say.
“That’s what I mean. I should be able to touch you without you jumping out of your skin.” He stands in front of me with a little grin, trying to catch my eyes, and then he puts his arm around my waist. With his other hand he takes my free hand and puts it on the front of his pants.
“Please, Stuart.” I pull away and he steps back and snaps his fingers.
“Hell with it then,” he says. “Be that way if you want. But just remember.”
“Remember what?” I say quickly. I look at him and hold my breath.
He shrugs. “Nothing, nothing,” he says.
The second thing that happens is that while we are watching television that evening, he in his leather recliner chair, I on the sofa with a blanket and magazine, the house quiet except for the television, a voice cuts into the program to say that the murdered girl has been identified. Full details will follow on the eleven o’clock news.
We look at each other. In a few minutes he gets up and says he is going to fix a nightcap. Do I want one?
“No,” I say.
“I don’t mind drinking alone,” he says. “I thought I’d ask.”
I can see he is obscurely hurt, and I look away, ashamed and yet angry at the same time.
He stays in the kitchen a long while, but comes back with his drink just when the news begins.
First the announcer repeats the story of the four local fishermen finding the body. Then the station shows a high school graduation photograph of the girl, a dark-haired girl with a round face and full, smiling lips. There’s a film of the girl’s parents entering the funeral home to make the identification. Bewildered, sad, they shuffle slowly up the sidewalk to the front steps to where a man in a dark suit stands waiting, holding the door. Then, it seems as if only seconds have passed, as if they have merely gone inside the door and turned around and come out again, the same couple is shown leaving the building, the woman in tears, covering her face with a handkerchief, the man stopping long enough to say to a reporter, “It’s her, it’s Susan. I can’t say anything right now. I hope they get the person or persons who did it before it happens again. This violence . . .” He motions feebly at the television camera. Then the man and woman get into an old car and drive away into the late afternoon traffic.
The announcer goes on to say that the girl, Susan Miller, had gotten off work as a cashier in a movie theater in Summit, a town 120 miles north of our town. A green, late-model car pulled up in front of the theater and the girl, who according to witnesses looked as if she’d been waiting, went over to the car and got in, leading the authorities to suspect that the driver of the car was a friend, or at least an acquaintance. The authorities would like to talk to the driver of the green car.
Stuart clears his throat, then leans back in the chair and sips his drink.
The third thing that happens is that after the news Stuart stretches, yawns, and looks at me. I get up and begin making a bed for myself on the sofa.
“What are you doing?” he says, puzzled.
“I’m not sleepy,” I say, avoiding his eyes. “I think I’ll stay up a while longer and then read something until I fall asleep.”
He stares as I spread a sheet over the sofa. When I start to go for a pillow, he stands at the bedroom door, blocking the way.
“I’m going to ask you once more,” he says. “What the hell do you think you’re going to accomplish by this?”
“I need to be by myself tonight,” I say. “I need to have time to think.”
He lets out breath. “I’m thinking you’re making a big mistake by doing this. I’m thinking you’d better think again about what you’re doing. Claire?”
I can’t answer. I don’t know what I want to say. I turn and begin to tuck in the edges of the blanket. He stares at me a minute longer and then I see him raise his shoulders. “Suit yourself then. I could give a fuck less what you do,” he says. He turns and walks down the hall scratching his neck.
This morning I read in the paper that services for Susan Miller are to be held in Chapel of the Pines, Summit, at two o’clock the next afternoon. Also, that police have taken statements from three people who saw her get into the green Chevrolet. But they still have no license number for the car. They are getting warmer, though, and the investigation is continuing. I sit for a long while holding the paper, thinking, then I call to make an appointment at the hairdresser’s.
I sit under the dryer with a magazine on my lap and let Millie do my nails.
“I’m going to a funeral tomorrow,” I say after we have talked a bit about a girl who no longer works there.
Millie looks up at me and then back at my fingers. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Kane. I’m real sorry.”
“It’s a young girl’s funeral,” I say.
“That’s the worst kind. My sister died when I was a girl, and I’m still not over it to this day. Who died?” she says after a minute.
“A girl. We weren’t all that close, you know, but still.”
“Too bad. I’m real sorry. But we’ll get you fixed up for it, don’t worry. How’s that look?”
“That looks . . . fine. Millie, did you ever wish you were somebody else, or else just nobody, nothing, nothing at all?”
She looks at me. “I can’t say I ever felt that, no. No, if I was somebody else I’d be afraid I might not like who I was.” She holds my fingers and seems to think about something for a minute. “I don’t know, I just don’t know . . . Let me have your other hand now, Mrs. Kane.”
At eleven o’clock that night I make another bed on the sofa and this time Stuart only looks at me, rolls his tongue behind his lips, and goes down the hall to the bedroom. In the night I wake and listen to the wind slamming the gate against the fence. I don’t want to be awake, and I lie for a long while with my eyes closed. Finally I get up and go down the hall with my pillow. The light is burning in our bedroom and Stuart is on his back with his mouth open, breathing heavily. I go into Dean’s room and get into bed with him. In his sleep he moves over to give me space. I lie there for a minute and then hold him, my face against his hair.
“What is it, mama?” he says.
“Nothing, honey. Go back to sleep. It’s nothing, it’s all right.”
I get up when I hear Stuart’s alarm, put on coffee and prepare breakfast while he shaves.
He appears in the kitchen doorway, towel over his bare shoulder, appraising.
“Here’s coffee,” I say. “Eggs will be ready in a minute.”
He nods.
I wake Dean and the three of us have breakfast. O
nce or twice Stuart looks at me as if he wants to say something, but each time I ask Dean if he wants more milk, more toast, etc.
“I’ll call you today,” Stuart says as he opens the door.
“I don’t think I’ll be home today,” I say quickly. “I have a lot of things to do today. In fact, I may be late for dinner.”
“All right. Sure.” He moves his briefcase from one hand to the other. “Maybe we’ll go out for dinner tonight? How would you like that?” He keeps looking at me. He’s forgotten about the girl already. “Are you all right?”
I move to straighten his tie, then drop my hand. He wants to kiss me goodbye. I move back a step. “Have a nice day then,” he says finally. He turns and goes down the walk to his car.
I dress carefully. I try on a hat that I haven’t worn in several years and look at myself in the mirror. Then I remove the hat, apply a light makeup, and write a note for Dean.
Honey, Mommy has things to do this afternoon, but will be home later. You are to stay in the house or in the back/yard until one of us comes home.
Love
I look at the word “Love” and then I underline it. As I am writing the note I realize I don’t know whether back yard is one word or two. I have never considered it before. I think about it and then I draw a line and make two words of it.
I stop for gas and ask directions to Summit. Barry, a forty-year-old mechanic with a moustache, comes out from the restroom and leans against the front fender while the other man, Lewis, puts the hose into the tank and begins to slowly wash the windshield.
“Summit,” Barry says, looking at me and smoothing a finger down each side of his moustache. “There’s no best way to get to Summit, Mrs. Kane. It’s about a two-, two-and-a-half-hour drive each way. Across the mountains. It’s quite a drive for a woman. Summit? What’s in Summit, Mrs. Kane?”
“I have business,” I say, vaguely uneasy. Lewis has gone to wait on another customer.
“Ah. Well, if I wasn’t tied up there”—he gestures with his thumb toward the bay—“I’d offer to drive you to Summit and back again. Road’s not all that good. I mean it’s good enough, there’s just a lot of curves and so on.”
“I’ll be all right. But thank you.” He leans against the fender. I can feel his eyes as I open my purse.
Barry takes the credit card. “Don’t drive it at night,” he says. “It’s not all that good a road, like I said. And while I’d be willing to bet you wouldn’t have car trouble with this, I know this car, you can never be sure about blowouts and things like that. Just to be on the safe side I’d better check these tires.” He taps one of the front tires with his shoe. “We’ll run it onto the hoist. Won’t take long.”
“No, no, it’s all right. Really, I can’t take any more time. The tires look fine to me.”
“Only takes a minute,” he says. “Be on the safe side.”
“I said no. No! They look fine to me. I have to go now. Barry . . .”
“Mrs. Kane?”
“I have to go now.”
I sign something. He gives me the receipt, the card, some stamps. I put everything into my purse. “You take it easy,” he says. “Be seeing you.”
As I wait to pull into the traffic, I look back and see him watching. I close my eyes, then open them. He waves.
I turn at the first light, then turn again and drive until I come to the highway and read the sign: SUMMIT 117 Miles. It is ten-thirty and warm.
The highway skirts the edge of town, then passes through farm country, through fields of oats and sugar beets and apple orchards, with here and there a small herd of cattle grazing in open pastures. Then everything changes, the farms become fewer and fewer, more like shacks now than houses, and stands of timber replace the orchards. All at once I’m in the mountains and on the right, far below, I catch glimpses of the Naches River.
In a little while I see a green pickup truck behind me, and it stays behind me for miles. I keep slowing at the wrong times, hoping it will pass, and then increasing my speed, again at the wrong times. I grip the wheel until my fingers hurt. Then on a clear stretch he does pass, but he drives along beside for a minute, a crew-cut man in a blue workshirt in his early thirties, and we look at each other. Then he waves, toots the horn twice, and pulls ahead of me.
I slow down and find a place, a dirt road off of the shoulder. I pull over and turn off the ignition. I can hear the river somewhere down below the trees. Ahead of me the dirt road goes into the trees. Then I hear the pickup returning.
I start the engine just as the truck pulls up behind me. I lock the doors and roll up the windows. Perspiration breaks on my face and arms as I put the car in gear, but there is no place to drive.
“You all right?” the man says as he comes up to the car. “Hello. Hello in there.” He raps the glass. “You okay?” He leans his arms on the door and brings his face close to the window.
I stare at him and can’t find any words.
“After I passed I slowed up some,” he says. “But when I didn’t see you in the mirror I pulled off and waited a couple of minutes. When you still didn’t show I thought I’d better drive back and check. Is everything all right? How come you’re locked up in there?”
I shake my head.
“Come on, roll down your window. Hey, are you sure you’re okay? You know it’s not good for a woman to be batting around the country by herself.” He shakes his head and looks at the highway, then back at me. “Now come on, roll down the window, how about it? We can’t talk this way.”
“Please, I have to go.”
“Open the door, all right?” he says, as if he isn’t listening. “At least roll the window down. You’re going to smother in there.” He looks at my breasts and legs. The skirt has pulled up over my knees. His eyes linger on my legs, but I sit still, afraid to move.
“I want to smother,” I say. “I am smothering, can’t you see?”
“What in the hell?” he says and moves back from the door. He turns and walks back to his truck. Then, in the side mirror, I watch him returning, and I close my eyes.
“You don’t want me to follow you toward Summit or anything? I don’t mind. I got some extra time this morning,” he says.
I shake my head.
He hesitates and then shrugs. “Okay, lady, have it your way then,” he says. “Okay.”
I wait until he has reached the highway, and then I back out. He shifts gears and pulls away slowly, looking back at me in his rearview mirror. I stop the car on the shoulder and put my head on the wheel.
The casket is closed and covered with floral sprays. The organ begins soon after I take a seat near the back of the chapel. People begin to file in and find chairs, some middle-aged and older people, but most of them in their early twenties or even younger. They are people who look uncomfortable in their suits and ties, sport coats and slacks, their dark dresses and leather gloves. One boy in flared pants and a yellow shortsleeved shirt takes the chair next to mine and begins to bite his lips. A door opens at one side of the chapel and I look up and for a minute the parking lot reminds me of a meadow. But then the sun flashes on car windows. The family enters in a group and moves into a curtained area off to the side. Chairs creak as they settle themselves. In a few minutes a slim, blond man in a dark suit stands and asks us to bow our heads. He speaks a brief prayer for us, the living, and when he finishes he asks us to pray in silence for the soul of Susan Miller, departed. I close my eyes and remember her picture in the newspaper and on television. I see her leaving the theater and getting into the green Chevrolet. Then I imagine her journey down the river, the nude body hitting rocks, caught at by branches, the body floating and turning, her hair streaming in the water. Then the hands and hair catching in the overhanging branches, holding, until four men come along to stare at her. I can see a man who is drunk (Stuart?) take her by the wrist. Does anyone here know about that? Wh
at if these people knew that? I look around at the other faces. There is a connection to be made of these things, these events, these faces, if I can find it. My head aches with the effort to find it.