"No one."
"I heard you've acquired a reputation," she said and baited him with a look. "Arlene Bowman is an acquaintance of mine. I don't see what you saw in her. Sissy Alexander, on the other hand, is married to that beastly ballplayer. You must've taken pity. Am I offending you?"
"You mean you're not trying to?"
"I was testing the water. It seems clear we're in the same boat. We're looking for something, we don't know what. Does that sort of sum it up?"
"For you maybe. I don't know about myself."
They glimpsed Reverend Stottle, but he didn't see them. He was tramping across the far end of the green. Trish said, "Is he a townie too?"
.Not a real one, though he's been here long enough."
"The damn fool made a pass at me. Harry was still alive."
Morgan showed no surprise. "He's harmless."
"I've had it with men, at least for the foreseeable future, though I wouldn't mind acquiring a brother. Could you fit the role, Chief?"
"You have a brother-in-law."
"Doesn't count. I'm in love with him. Does that shock you?"
The cluster of teenagers was breaking up, the wind deadening their shouts. Couples with arms slung around each other headed one way, loners another. "How can it?" Morgan said. "I'm a policeman."
She was suddenly on her feet, leaves racing past her. Her hair flew across her face. "Some evening you must come to dinner."
He looked up at her. "Why?"
"So you can meet my friend. I think you need each other."
He dined at Mrs. Perrault's house, just the two of them. The elder sister had recently joined the younger one in the nursing home in Andover. "They're gone, and I'm glad," Mrs. Perrault said, serving him a pork chop, mashed potatoes, and peas. "I don't miss either of them, Ida least of all."
Morgan added gravy to the mashed potatoes and laid a sliver of butter on the peas. She had poured him a glass of milk, as if he were still a growing boy.
"Ida stopped taking care of herself. She didn't even bathe half the time, and I won't go into other details since we're eating. How's the chop?"
"Fine," he said, though it wasn't. It was undercooked, which worried him a little.
"I'll never let myself go like that. Thank God I got different genes." Her permed hair had a bright hue. Her appetite was good. With an accusing look, she said, "I've been hearing stories about you, James. I hope they're not true."
"What stories?"
"I don't care to repeat them."
"They're not true," he said quietly.
"Good, then I won't say anything more. You haven't said anything about the picture."
A crayon drawing of an elephant on manila paper was attached to the refrigerator door. He had avoided looking at it until now. "Claudia's?"
"She did it when she was in the third grade. I used to save all her drawings. I came across that one in the attic." A few peas fell from her fork. "I've often pondered where God got off making an elephant. I mean, what could have been going through his mind?"
"Maybe he was having a little fun," Morgan said.
"But at the poor beast's expense. That's not right, is it?" She glanced away. She looked old only at odd moments when her small jaw hung slack. And why did he make twisted people? That's even worse."
"I suppose Reverend Stottle could tell us. I can't."
"I spoke with Claudia the other night. It couldn't have been a dream, it was too real. She asked about you, James. I told her you were doing all right. Strange, she wasn't wearing her glasses, and her hair was different. She asked how I liked it. You think I'm going batty?"
He reached across the table and touched her hand.
"When that boy gets out, I hope I'm gone," she said. "I hope I'm deep in my grave."
Morgan returned his gaze to the drawing. The elephant was colored pink, its trunk raised as if to drink from the cloud drawn above it.
"Aren't you going to eat your chop, James?"
"Yes," he said and picked up his knife.
Trish Becker and Gloria Eisner attended a party in the Heights, at the home of the Gunners. Paul Gunner was obese from birth and filthy rich from the recent sale of his software company. The party was garish and loud, people from Andover and Boston adding to the mill. A five-piece orchestra added to the din. Paul Gunner's voice shot into their faces. "Enjoy yourselves!"
Gloria was a striking fixture in a tuxedo jacket and short skirt. Trish wore a silk dress that quivered. A man with a great head of hair told her he imagined her Rubenesque out of it. Stirred by the hot notes of rapid music, he tried to dance groin to groin with her. She pushed away.
"No thanks."
A man in a beige shirt with an upturned collar cornered Gloria and engaged her in quiet conversation, as if to establish trust, which went for naught when he began telling her of his latest experience on a water bed. Later she circulated with an eye out for someone who might be worth her interest. Only other women were candidates.
A man with too much to drink told Trish she was a wish granted, and she said, "Think again, Buster.' She caught up with Gloria and said, "Everyone's hitting on me. I'm getting bruised."
Paul Gunner was plowing toward them, couple of fellows he wanted them to meet. Gloria's eye was on the rise and sink of his belly. He looks like a funhouse," she whispered. They got away from him, snacked voraciously from a platter of baked stuffed mushrooms, and then sought their coats, two minks among many. The cloakroom attendant was careful that they got the right ones.
On the way home, Trish driving, Gloria said, "What a fucking bore."
"There's still hope here," Trish said. "I know someone who might interest you. You should meet him."
"Does he have money?"
"Absolutely none, I'm sure."
"Then why should I meet him? Is he handsome?"
"Not so much handsome as refreshing," Trish said. "That's it, refreshing."
The week before he was scheduled to leave Sherwood Dibble came to a decision actually made some months ago and stored in the back of his mind. In the night he woke Bobby Sawhill and in the dark told him about it. Bobby didn't believe him, thought he was fooling.
"This way I get to stay," Dibble said. "You understand?"
Bobby felt a chill in his stomach. "You don't mean it."
"I ever say anything I didn't mean?"
"No, Dibs, never. Not the whole time I've been here, but don't you want to get out?"
Dibble laughed and slipped into his jeans. "What's out there for me? Name one thing."
"I'll be out too in time. We'll be out together."
"In here, Sawhill, we're in the same world. Out there we'd be in two different ones. You're white, I'm not. Here, I'm a prince. Out there I'd be dogshit." Dibble stood over him. "You want to come and watch? I wouldn't ask anyone else."
They padded barefoot down a long corridor to the toilets, Dibble in jeans, Bobby in skivvies. The silence was stunning. Duck's ghost stood by the sinks, scrub brush in his hand, a silly smile on his face.
"You see him, Dibs?"
"Yeah, I see him. Get out of here, Duck. This is not for you." Dibble opened the door of the storage closet and rummaged past mops and buckets for what he had stashed.
"I have to go to the toilet," Bobby said.
"Make it fast."
Bobby entered one of the stalls and, lowering his skivvies, sat on the cold open seat. He'd thought he had to go, but now he couldn't. He felt he was being lowered into a well and would have no means of getting out.
"Wash your hands," Dibble said when he came out of the stall.
"I didn't do anything."
"Wash 'em just the same."
"I'm afraid, Dibs."
Dibble was working a length of rope. "It's a kind of slip knot," he said. "Guy in Dorm C showed me how to do it." Standing on a metal chair, he secured the rope to a steel fixture on the ceiling and gave it a yank to test it.
"You're not really going to do it, are you, Dibs? Mr. Grissom won't
like it."
"This will tell him I've never been his boy. He'll hate me, but you'll be all right, Sawhill. Just remember the stuff I told you."
"What will Sharon think?"
"She'll understand."
"She's white."
"Next time look at her real close."
Bobby moved from one side of the chair to the other, a panic building. "What will it be like, Dibs?"
"Oblivion. Nothing more, nothing less."
"I don't want you to do it."
"It's what I want that counts," Dibble said, looking down.
The noose was around his neck. His stomach muscles were flexed.
"You got the honors, Sawhill. Kick away the chair."
"I don't know if I can."
"I'll do it myself."
Bobby started to cry. "Dibs, don't."
If you can't do it, get out of here."
Bobby kicked the chair.
He didn't sleep. He lay on his cot and let the pain from loss embrace him. The embrace was comfort ing because it was familiar. Swept from his mind was the agonized expression on Dibble's face, as if he'd been poisoned. In its place was a false and peaceful one.
He didn't go to breakfast. Nor did he report to his job in the library. He stayed in his room until the attendant named Pete pushed open the door and said, "Grissom wants to see you. Guess you know why." He got into his sweats and sneakers while Pete smiled. "Whole place knows about it. Guess you knew first."
They skirted Dormitory C, from which a swell of voices rose. Bobby's sneakers and Pete's crepe soles muted their steps. Pete stroked his beard.
"We ain't had such excitement since Duck went out feet first."
"He's still here, some of him," Bobby said.
"Yeah? What about Dibble?"
"I haven't seen him yet."
When they reached Mr. Grissom's office, Pete turned away.
"You're on your own now."
Mr. Grissom was seated behind his orderly desk and wearing a shirt and tie instead of sweats. The set of his face was no different from any other time, except that he seemed more official now, his voice deeper.
"You were there, weren't you?"
Bobby stood with his hands behind his back, military style, parade rest. "Yes, sir."
"Why didn't you stop him?"
"He didn't want me to."
"Did you help him?"
"He asked me to."
Mr. Grissom's stare sharpened noticeably. "Some of us never should have been born, Sawhill. Dibble was one, you may be another."
Bobby nodded as if he had no argument with that, no quarrel with anyone, least of all Mr. Grissom.
"You and Dibble were pretty close, weren't you?"
"Sometimes we slept with our heads on the same pillow," Bobby said with a smile.
"I suspected that. He left me a note, Sawhill. I have it here. He said he wanted his death to count for something since his life didn't. That's a coward talking. He left you, betrayed you, you realize that?"
"No, sir. It wasn't that way."
"You're absolutely right, Sawhill. It wasn't that way at all. It wasn't a suicide, remember that. It was an accident."
"No, sir. It was-"
"You're not listening. It was autoerotic asphyxiation. Do you know what that means? It means Dibble was getting his rocks off and went too far. We've had that here before, we'll have it again. It's something boys do, some boys, not you."
Bobby wanted to return to his room and sleep. Sleep was a retreat. Sleep strapped him into himself, placing him where he had long ago been.
"The police will be here," Mr. Grissom said, "but there's no need for you to be involved. You'll stay in your room. If you're smart, Sawhill, you'll come out of this all right. In fact, even better. You want to take Dibble's place? You want to wear T-shirts and jeans?"
He wanted his head in a pillow, Dibble's.
Mr. Grissom planted both elbows on his desk. "Dibble was my eyes and ears. He let me know what was going on. How tall are you now? You must be six feet, and you got muscles. You don't have to be strong, just look strong. And always use good English. It sets you apart. Even better is you get to keep your room, no going into a dorm. You want the job?"
Bobby didn't need to think about it. "Yes," he said. "I want to be Dibs."
CHAPTER TEN
Chief Morgan was a dinner guest at Trish Becker's. Trish, with some help from Gloria Eisner, had prepared something fancy with sea bass served in a spicy sauce not entirely to Morgan's taste, though neither woman would have guessed it from his appetite. Dessert was a variety of sliced fruits, papaya and plum among them. Trish poured coffee into delicate cups that had the aspect of sea shells. Morgan feared his would shatter in his hand.
All were in pleasant moods from aperitifs served before dinner and French wine during it. The liqueur was creme de cacao, which they carried into a room where a fire was going, the log applewood. Morgan sank heavily into an upholstered chair.
"I'm flattered," he said. "I didn't realize I'd be the only guest."
"We wanted you to ourselves," Trish said. "We've never known a policeman, and certainly not a chief."
"Though you don't look like one," said Gloria, seated nearest him. Patterned hosiery gave her crossed legs the look of chased silver. "I'd have guessed an architect or an engineer."
"Not a townie?" he asked.
"Certainly a townie. You have that air of belonging."
He smiled at the two of them. "I feel I'm on exhibit."
"Good," the voice was Trish's. She wore dark eyeliner and showed cleavage. "Now you know how I feel when I have business around the green. The townies stare at me like I'm from another planet. And by the way, Chief, Reverend Stottle is coming on to me again. Should I swear out a complaint?"
Morgan sipped his liqueur, the taste coating his tongue. "Why do you keep calling me `Chief? James is fine. Jim, if you wish."
"I like James," Gloria said. "I've not yet met Reverend Stottle. Is he a local character?"
"Only a preacher with a thirst for the unknowable," Morgan said.
"Must be frustrating for him. He obviously wants to know Trish in the biblical sense."
Trish rose with a flourish, her dress animating her large shape. "I have things to do in the kitchen. I'll leave you two alone for a minute."
Gloria recrossed her legs. "It'll be more than a minute. She's trying to fix us up. She thinks you'd be good for me, which means I should ask you some questions. Are you of a gentle nature, James?"
"I've never known myself to be violent."
"How's your health? You look fit."
"Mentally, I have my moments."
"Teeth?"
"Intact. More or less."
The liqueur bottle, ornately crafted, stood between them on a miniature table. Extending an arm, Gloria refilled the little glasses, which sparkled into gems. The play of firelight on her slender face gave no hint of her age except to lessen it. "A relationship is bound to lead to sex. How are you in bed, James?"
"I've never rated myself."
"My eyes cross when I come. Like this," she said, demonstrating.
"Mine bug out," Morgan said, not missing a beat.
Her laughter pleased him, soft on the ear. Her voice was plummy. "Are you tipsy, James?"
"Aren't you?"
"Warmly so. Nice fire. If you had money I'd marry you."
"I( I had money," he said, "I'd be hard to get."
When Trish returned with a tray of leftover dessert fruit, they were content with their creme de cacao, the taste of which Morgan was beginning to like. The fire held his gaze.
"Have you two hit it off?" Trish asked.
Morgan closed his eyes. "She's been teasing me."
"But he's been letting me," Gloria said. "He's a good sport."
We need a good sport," Trish said. "A good sport who's a friend. Did you hear me, Chief?"
"James, we're talking to you."
He was asleep.
The mail had
come. Sorting it, Belle Sawhill was horrified when she came upon a small envelope postmarked Sherwood and addressed to her daughters. They had long ago stopped writing to their cousin, and now, after all this time, he was writing to them. Trembling, she folded the envelope in half, unopened, and shoved it into her skirt pocket.
She was alone in the house, the girls still at school. No matter where they were she worried about them. They were at that awkward pivotal age, their bodies turning into events, their breasts noted for their early fullness. Boys were already phoning them, an obscene call now and then. Sammantha could handle it, but she was not so sure about Jennifer.
Sammantha was quicker in school but studied less. Jennifer, who applied herself, got the better grades. Sammantha kept a diary under lock and key, Jennifer wore her feelings on her face. A terrible tease, Sammantha could, if she chose, reduce her sister to tears but seldom did. Each was fiercely protective of the other. That protectiveness, Belle sometimes felt, was their weapon against the world.
Composing herself, she telephoned her husband and spoke in a clear rapid voice. "Bobby's written a letter to the girls. I'm not giving it to them, I don't care what you say."
"I didn't say you should," Ben said evenly. "In fact, I'd rather you didn't. What does it say?"
"I haven't opened it."
"Do it," he said. "I'll hold on."
She wedged the receiver between her jaw and shoulder and ripped the envelope open, a jagged piece of the flap falling to the floor. In her hand was a single sheet torn from a pad. The handwriting in the body of the letter was small and neat, but the signature was bold and big, unequivocal, manly in its sweep. It seemed about to spring off the paper.
"What's it say, Belle?"
She was reading rapidly and feeling sick. "He says they can visit him if they want."
"No way. What else?"
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