On the Loose

by Andrew Coburn

  "He says he's a boss now, a big shot."

  "He must be dreaming."

  "Ben "

  "What?"

  "He says he saw Jesus on the cross. He says the cross was a rope." She began to cry. "He's really crazy."

  "I'll call Grissom," Ben said.

  Gloria Eisner, wearing a black sweatshirt and gray tights, came in from a run, which had taken her throughout the Heights, past all the grand houses, spacious lawns, and stone lions, and beyond, nearly to the Andover line. She pulled off her headband and let her hair fall loose. Her face was full of color. Trish Becker, glancing up from a magazine, said, "I should've gone with you."

  "Yes, you should've. Tomorrow, OK? No excuses."

  "I have to get off my ass."

  "We've just agreed to that. Any calls?"

  "No," Trish said. "Can't understand it. I was sure he would."

  Gloria counted on her fingers. "How many days? Three. Four? I must've scared him. off."

  "I hope not. But I was right about him, wasn't I?"

  "You weren't far off," Gloria said absently. She had brought in the mail and was tossing bills to one side and advertisements to another. "Two letters. One for you, one for me," she said, passing Trish hers.

  Trish thought hers might be from one of her children, though she doubted it, and then knew it wasn't when she didn't recognize the handwriting. Gloria's was from Key West, the stationery of fine quality.

  "Mine's from Barry." She read quickly. "Stirling's sabbatical is over, but he's not going back to teach. He's staying in Key West. Barry says they haven't missed a sunset, wishes we were there to share it."

  "I didn't know you two kept in touch."

  "I wrote him." Gloria smiled. "Stirling's doing OK."

  "That's wonderful," Trish said abstractly. She was reading her own letter, squinting at the penmanship, though the signature sprang at her.

  "Who's it from, Trish?"

  "Harry's son."

  "Christ! The killer kid. Why's he writing you?"

  Trish tucked the letter back into its envelope and looked away. "He wants his father's Rolex."

  "Give it to him. You don't want it."

  "I don't have it. Ben does."

  Trish rose from her chair and headed to the kitchen. Gloria followed her. In the kitchen Trish opened a can of peaches with extra-thick syrup, found a spoon, and began eating from the can. Gloria said, "What's the problem? Tell Ben."

  "Yes, I'll tell Ben. Everything will be fine."

  Gloria hovered. "That kid scares you, doesn't he?"

  "Scares the fucking pants off me. Wouldn't he you?"

  "Yes, he would. Are you going to eat that whole can?"

  "If you don't mind."

  "Get out of Bensington, Trish. You don't need to live here."

  "You're right, I don't. But I'd always find a reason to come back. If it wasn't Ben, it'd be Harry's grave." She licked the syrup off the spoon. "Now you know why I want the chief in our corner."

  Meg O'Brien told Chief Morgan to pick up, a call for him. The voice he heard was Gloria Eisner's, and he wished the door was closed because he sensed Meg was straining an ear. Gloria said, "You haven't called, so I'm calling. Does that bother you?"

  "Not in the least," he said, keeping his voice low. "I apologize for falling asleep. I wasn't used to those fancy drinks."

  "Are you a beer-and-pretzel man, James?"

  He spoke louder than he meant to. "You want the truth? Chocolate milk. I've gone from Hershey to Bosco and back to Hershey."

  "I should be wary. One of my ex-husbands was a chocoholic. Are you busy, James, or can you tear yourself away for a bit?"

  "What have you got in mind?"

  "How about a nice simple thing, like a walk?"

  He chose the place, Paget's Pond. She knew where it was. Stepping out of his office, he tried to ignore Meg, who was giving him a choice look. As he passed her desk, she said, "What kind of conversation was that?"

  "Private," he said, reaching the outer door. She said something else, but he ignored it.

  Paget's Pond, ten minutes from the green and a little longer from the Heights, was past Wenson's Ice Cream Stand on Fieldstone Road. Gloria stepped out of a late-model Mercury still bearing Connecticut plates and gave a curious glance at his car. The edges were rusted, the town seal on the door faded.

  "Shouldn't the police chief have a better automobile?"

  "I take what they give me."

  "Do you ever wear a uniform?"

  "It has moth holes."

  They moved into pinewood, past a NO SWIMMING sign, and followed a path to the pond, where frog spit lay on the quiet water. Farther out a breeze was skimming pictures. The breeze could have been warmer. Each wore a jacket.

  "You're quiet," she said.

  "How many times have you been married?"

  She held up three fingers. "Scary, huh?"

  "Children?"

  "My unions were never blessed."

  They followed the path along the pond. The sky was mauve, the sun subdued. Morgan said, "I'm curious. Why am I an attraction?"

  "We like you. Isn't that enough?"

  "I suppose it could be. If I believed it."

  "Trish thinks we three should be friends. I don't think it's a bad idea at all."

  A broken branch lay across the path. Morgan pushed it out of the way with his foot. "What's she afraid of?"

  "Ah, you guessed that. You know what she's afraid of. Him. Harry's son." A smell of stagnant water wrinkled her nose. A number of crows, squawking mightily, flew out of the pines and startled them both. "He'll get out one day."

  "That's a bit up the road," Morgan said.

  "He wrote her a letter."

  "Did he threaten her?"

  "Nothing like that, but she's upset. We're two women alone. Trish would like to know there's a man like you we can call on. I like the idea too."

  "You can call on me anytime. I'm a policeman. I'm the chief here."

  "Why can't we all be friends at the same time? Is that against the law?"

  They rounded a bend where they could see the whole of the pond, which had taken on a greenish glow. Near the far shore the water looked clean and inviting. She took his arm.

  "Why can't people swim here?"

  "It's full of bloodsuckers and snapping turtles. When I was a kid I saw a snapper as big as a wash tub here."

  "How many years ago was that, James?"

  "Probably forty."

  "And now you're an adult. Adults know that life is short. It's the price of growing up." She slowed her step. "Give me a small kiss."

  "On the cheek or the mouth?"

  "You choose."

  When Ben Sawhill's secretary started to enter his office, he threw her a look that stopped her in her tracks. She backed off fast and closed the door behind her. He was on the phone, Trish Becker on the line, her voice deep in his ear, nothing cushioning it. "Calm down," he said.

  She said, "Are you going to give him that damn watch or not?"

  "He can't walk around with a Rolex. I'll give it to the administrator. He'll keep it for him."

  "Just let Bobby know it's coming from you, not me. Christ, he's almost seventeen now. I don't want him bothering me, Ben. I don't want him writing to me."

  "I'll do what I can."

  "What are you going to do when he comes out? Tell me that."

  "I'll deal with it then," Ben said. "Maybe it'll be a different Bobby."

  "What are they going to do, shave his brain? I hurt, Ben. There's an awful emptiness in me."

  He tried to be patient, understanding, but his head was beginning to fill. "We all hurt, Trish."

  There was a significant silence. He was ready to hang up. Then she said, "Take pity on me, Ben. You owe it to Harry."

  A few minutes later he was back on the phone, a call to Sherwood, to Mr. Grissom, with whom he was on close terms. A month after Bobby had gone to Sherwood he had made a thousand-dollar contribution for gymnasium equipment a
nd more recently had provided the money for a twenty-four-inch Sony for the TV room. He told Grissom about the watch.

  "I'll send it Federal Express. You can hold it for him."

  "No reason he can't wear it, Mr. Sawhill. Nobody's going to take it from him. I run a tight ship, believe me."

  "How's he doing?" Ben asked.

  "I'm happy to report marked improvement. He's learning to handle responsibility."

  "He's never written letters to us before. Now he's written two, one to my daughters. He says he saw Jesus on a cross that was a rope."

  "I'll have to look into that. I wouldn't worry about it."

  Ben ran a hand over his forehead. "Perhaps you could divert any future letters, send them all to me. To my office."

  "I don't see a problem in that," Mr. Grissom said.

  Ben went into his private bathroom and shut the door. He took aspirin, ran cold water, splashed his face, and talked to himself in the mirror, in which he saw his brother's image merging with his own. His secretary rapped on the door.

  "Are you all right?"

  "No," he said. "I'm flushing myself down the toilet."

  They drove to his house. Chief Morgan parked his car in the driveway, Gloria Eisner left hers on the street. They entered the house from the side, directly into the little kitchen. He wished he had not left dishes in the sink. She was amused by the jar of peanut butter and can of Hershey Syrup on the table. Climbing stairs, he wished the woman who came in once a month to clean had come yesterday instead of three weeks ago. She glimpsed a shirt hanging from a doorknob. He wished he had made the bed. She read his thoughts and said, "Don't worry about it." Her voice crept past him. "Where's your bathroom?"

  "To the right," he said and hoped it was decent.

  While she was gone he smoothed pillows and straightened sheets. He kicked a stray sock under the bed. In the dresser mirror his face was a stopped clock.

  Returning, she said, "I looked into your medi cine cabinet. It didn't tell me much. How much of you is true, James?"

  "Fifty percent."

  "That fits everybody."

  Some of her clothes seemed to have wandered off. So had his chinos. The tails of his shirt hung over tapered boxer shorts.

  "You have nice legs," she said.

  Her bra was off. Her breasts were gifts he wasn't sure he deserved. He undid his shirt and she removed briefs that could have been spun by a spider. When she leaned toward the bed he glimpsed duckling fuzz in the small of her back. Lying on her back, she smiled.

  "Stare if you like."

  Her navel was a screw sunk deep, her pubis rust on a hinge. Her long thighs had heft.

  "What do you see?"

  A shadow divided his face. "Ghosts," he said. "TWo in particular."

  "Which am I?"

  "Neither one."

  "Good," she said. "Don't make me unreal." She beckoned. "I'm getting chilly."

  Naked between the sheets, they warmed each other and kissed as they had at the pond. Her thighs parted lazily to accommodate his hand, which was not aggressive. Patient and precise, he had the finger of a jeweler nudging a stone in and out of place, which would have brought her about had he continued. Instead, to her annoyance, he rose over her. She was not fully confident she could enjoy him but soon found herself arching her spine. There was no frantic heaving. They harmonized, savored, and held off until the effort became overwhelming.

  He rolled away and played dead. Speaking from the grave, he asked if she knew the time.

  "I can't tell. My eyes are still crossed."

  "Mine must be on the floor," he said.

  She raised a reluctant wrist. "It's after five. Will you be in trouble?"

  "I'm the boss."

  His eyes stayed closed, but she knew he was awake. His breathing belonged to the living. "What do men want from women, James?"

  "I don't know about other men."

  "What do you want?"

  "I no longer expect anything. Women I know have a habit of wandering off with me, vanishing." He shifted an arm and touched her. "I take what's given me. Gratefully. No questions asked."

  She returned to the Heights and, famished, made herself a thick sandwich, Polish ham on rye, German mustard, kosher pickle on the side. She drew a bottle of Mexican beer from deep in the fridge and snapped off the cap. "You should see the house. Tiny. More Gothic than Victorian."

  "Sounds quaint," Trish Becker said.

  "Sears decor. Funny wallpaper in the bedroom." She swigged from the bottle, hard. "The things I do for you!"

  "I didn't ask you to go that far."

  She took a big bite from the sandwich and chewed angrily. "I never should have met him."

  Trish looked at her knowingly. "You telling me you-didn't- enjoy it?"

  "I'm telling you he got to me, but I'm three husbands too late."

  Trish went to her. "Jesus, Gloria. I'm sorry."

  Bobby Sawhill was playing Ping-Pong, slapping the ball back and forth, his opponent a newcomer from Dormitory B. They seemed equally matched until Bobby began exerting himself. Dibble had taught him the moves. When he chose to put spin on the ball his returns were deadly. Mr. Grissom was watching, waiting until the game was over.

  "C'mere, Sawhill. 1 -want to talk to you."

  They went out into the passageway and ambled down to the soft-drink machine, where Mr. Grissom bought him a Pepsi, none for himself. Mr. Grissom was wearing new sweats, black with blue stripes running around the chest and a single one down each leg. He had grown a mustache.

  "This is our world here, Sawhill. Out there's a different one, nothing to do with us unless we let it. What goes on here should stay here. And what goes on in your head should stay in it unless you're talking to me. You understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Another thing, which I've told you before. Dibble did wrong, so don't you make him into something he wasn't."

  "I still see him, sir. Him and Duck. Duck doesn't like the way the new kid's doing the toilets, thought I should tell you."

  "You keep that kind of talk in your head. Even I don't want to hear it. Where'd you get that T-shirt, Martin Luther King on it?"

  "It was Dibs's. I got all his stuff."

  "Get rid of it. Fellas not your race don't like you wearing it." Mr. Grissom took the Pepsi cup out of Bobby's hand and drank from it. "Too sweet," he said and gave it back. "I have news about one of our alums. Ernest. Some guys in the big place taught him manners. Went to work on him with a knife. He's alive, but he's not the same."

  "Good," Bobby said. "I'm glad."

  "I thought you would be," Mr. Grissom said.

  Bobby removed the T-shirt in his room. His roommate was a scared skinny kid named Jason, thirteen years old, with a face as dark as a coffee bean. "You want it," Bobby said, "you can have it."

  "Gee, man, thanks."

  "Don't call me man. Call me Sawhill." Bobby slipped on another T-shirt, plain, one of several his uncle had sent him. "You know who Martin Luther King was?" he asked, and Jason shook his head. "You come to the library tomorrow, I'll give you a book. I don't want a dummy rooming with me."

  Jason quickly nodded. He was seated on Bobby's old cot. Bobby had Dibble's. Jason said, "Why can't we have a radio in the room, Sawhill?"

  "You want a radio, go live in the dorm. Plenty of them there."

  "Naw," Jason said. "I wane stay with you."

  Bobby did his homework at the writing table, none of it taxing. He read Dickens for a while and then turned out the lights, even though Jason was still up, reading a comic book. He soon fell asleep, but less than an hour later, in a dream, he heard a telephone ring and ring until it woke him up. He thought it was his mother trying to reach him. In the dark he heard Jason crying. "What's the matter?"

  "I don't know."

  When his mother appeared in his dreams he saw her as he remembered her, though with the texture of age added to her face. "You a bawl baby?"

  "No!" Jason said.

  Sometimes in dream
s she fetched up his face and kissed his brow. "I don't like bawl babies."

  "I ain't one."

  He turned on his side and placed an arm outside the covers. "You want to come over here with me?"

  There was a silence. "You mean fool around? Naw, I don't think so."

  "Up to you," Bobby said. "No one's pushing you." A number of moments passed, and then he heard the slither of bare feet.

  "I changed my mind:"

  "Too late," Bobby said and shoved him away. "I don't ask twice."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Chief Morgan did not see as much of Gloria Eisner as he would have liked. She drifted in and out of his life according to her moods, a situation he accepted with argument. The last time he had seen her was when he was again a dinner guest, Trish Becker's invitation. Ben and Belle Sawhill were also there and seemed uncertain whether he was Gloria's special friend or Trish's. During dinner and after he talked more with Trish than with Gloria, who had learned that a friend of hers had fullblown AIDS. Apparently it was Trish's friend too, but Trish seemed less affected.

  During a few moments alone together, Ben said to him, "I hope you know what you're doing, Chief. Either one of 'em could eat you up."

  "We're all just good pals."

  "Is that what you call it?"

  Morgan colored slightly, as if he were in unholy complicity with both women. Casually he asked after Ben's nephew.

  Ben said simply, "He's eighteen now."

  At evening's end, Morgan managed a private moment with Gloria. His hand closing smoothly over hers, he told her he missed her. Light glanced off her metal jewelry, items she'd bought in Key West.

  "Maybe you're just horny," she said.

  He was on edge during intervals when he didn't see her. At the station Sergeant Avery's chatter annoyed him and Meg O'Brien's gimlet eye got under his skin. Meg, sensitive to his emotional shifts, said, "When are you going to settle down?"

  His spirits lifted when his car broke down. He was cruising County Road when the overheating motor clattered, sputtered, and went dead. Felix from Felix Texaco towed the car away and phoned the next morning.