The Distant Echo of a Bright Sunny Day

by Patrick O'Brien

  “I’d like to. And I’m sure, after it’s over, I’ll wish I had. But somebody has to stay behind to hold down the fort.”

  “What exactly does that mean—‘hold down the fort’?” Carlos wanted to know, looking around the table at the others.

  “Somebody who can act quickly, unencumbered by immediate circumstances, in case of an emergency, Carlos,” Mitch interjected. “She’s our ace in the hole, in case anything happens.”

  “What’s gonna happen?”

  “That’s the whole point—we don’t know. But that’s why we need somebody in neutral territory, so to speak, in case anything does happen. In a situation like this, it’s only smart to have a third party who’s not directly involved. It’s kinda like going off into the wilderness on a hike: You always wanna let somebody know, and you always wanna make sure there’s somebody there to respond, if necessary. She’s our safety net.”

  “And she’s paying for our meals,” Heidi reminded everyone.

  “Yeah, Carlos, she’s financing everything, including our motel rooms,” Tony added. “Right?”

  “The best in the west—Best Western!”

  Laughter went around the table, and Carlos, looking sheepish, said, “Hey, I’m cool—I was just asking. Okay?”

  “It’s okay to ask, Carlos. I’m not trying to hide anything.”

  Her candid response seemed to settle the matter, and everyone resumed the breakfast meal. A few minutes later the cross-table chatter had a tone more reminiscent of former meals together, and the incident—such as it had been—was forgotten.

  About the time the waitress came around to ask if everything was all right, if anyone wanted anything else, Heidi’s cell phone rang. She had left it next to her coffeepot, and as she picked it up, everyone stopped talking.

  It was Rick.

  “Rick!” she exclaimed for the benefit of the others. “What’s up?”

  She listened as he explained about a flat tire at the last minute: “The spare’s bad, and I’ll have to wait until my buddy opens his shop. Go ahead without me…I’ll catch up.”

  “Are you sure? We can wait.”

  “No. It’s probably best for everyone’s morale to get started. They’re nervous as it is. No sense letting them sit around and think about it.”

  “Yeah—right—good thinking. But how about if we drive as far as The Dalles and wait for you there? That’s a couple of hours away.”

  “We can do that. I’ll give you a call, anyway, when we get rolling again.”

  “Everything else okay?”

  “Couldn’t be better! You guys in good spirits?”

  “Just finishing a great breakfast at IHOP. We’re all anxious to get started.”

  “Great! I’ll see you later, then.”

  Heidi told the others about the flat tire.

  “He wants us to go ahead. He’ll meet us at The Dalles.”

  “He didn’t have a spare?”

  “I guess it was bad.”

  “Man, if he’s gonna drive all the way to Montana, he better be damn sure he’s got good rubber,”

  “He’ll manage…Is everybody about ready? Maybe we should start.”

  While the others trailed out to the parking lot, Lisa paid the bill; Mitch stood off to the side and waited for her.

  “What did it come to?” he asked.

  “My business.”

  “I wanted to give you my share…”

  “It’s the least I can do, Mitch.”

  “You’re not letting what Carlos said bother you, are you?”

  “Of course not. Why should I?”

  “Well, I don’t want you to worry about it.”

  “I’m not worried about it. But thanks all the same for stepping in. I appreciate that.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  They were standing in the restaurant foyer, near a newspaper box. Mitch leaned in quickly and gave her a prolonged kiss.

  “I’ll be thinking about you all the time I’m there,” he said.

  “Don’t think too much, Mitch.”

  “I meant more along the lines in your sexy nightgown.” He grinned.

  “Well, then that’s okay.”

  He kissed her again; hand in hand, they walked outside and joined the others.

  37

  Ed Tipper led the two police detectives into the living room and offered them a seat. Detective Steve Bolder sat down in one of the two armchairs across from the couch, and his partner, Mike Bledsoe, took the other.

  With Jennifer in his arms, Ed went back to the couch.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked. He knew the visit had something to do with his wife and was prepared for the worst.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Detective Bolder said courteously. “It’ll take just a few minutes of your time. I know it’s late, and you were probably getting ready to put your daughter to bed…”

  “We just finished supper, didn’t we, Jennifer? And we’re gonna get ready for bed pretty soon. But certainly, gentlemen, ask whatever you like.”

  “We’re investigating the death of a young man, a Dalton Crocker. You may have read about it. His body was found at a construction side, under suspicious circumstances. We think he may have died as a result of an accident, but we’re not sure. We’ve managed to identify him and we’ve contacted his family. But we don’t know what happened. We’re hoping Mrs. Tipper might be able to help us. Her name came up in a telephone book we found in the young man’s apartment. Along with that, we discovered her name written on the inside cover of a number of books that were also in the apartment. We can only assume that, at some time anyway, they belonged to her.”

  “What kind of books?”

  Detective Bolder took a notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped it open.

  “Some Maoist literature, Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth, Das Capital, some pamphlets by Greenpeace, a couple of Dostoevsky novels, and several pamphlets having to do with civil disobedience and anarchy—mostly the kind of thing that anyone interested in radical politics might be interested in.”

  “My wife dabbles in that kind of thing,” Ed Tipper said, clearing his throat. “She was a political science major in college. She works with the homeless and does church volunteer work. Over the years, she’s come in contact with lots of people who do that kind of thing, and I suppose she’s either lent or given away any number of books like those on your list. She keeps a small library in our bedroom, and I daresay over half of it is devoted to literature of that kind.”

  “Is she involved in environmental activity in any way?”

  Ed set Jennifer down on the couch. As she snuggled in close to him, he put his arm around her reassuringly.

  “Frankly, Detective, she doesn’t tell me everything she does. I work long hours, and we don’t always get around to having a conversation about what we’ve been up to in our respective spheres. All I can really tell you is, she’s a very active person. She works with a ladies auxiliary at the church we sometimes go to, and she attends rallies and demonstrations of one kind or another. She did a lot of that when she was a student at Reed, and I think it’s probably in her blood now. But, basically, if you must know, she’s a dilettante.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Ed thought for a moment before answering.

  “Ah…just that she has a good life here, and I don’t think she would do anything to jeopardize it, if that’s what you’re getting at. She’s more a theoretician or an abstractionist than a genuine activist. In fact, I believe some of the more radical activities you read about, she generally finds appalling. Her efforts have always been toward finding a middle ground.”

  Detective Bolder’s partner had been listening quietly, taking it all in; now he spoke up.

  “You’re saying that she wouldn’t damage a chemistry lab where they do experiments on animals, or that she wouldn’t chain herself to a tree?”

  Ed Tipper smiled.

  “Hardl
y, Detective. She doesn’t have it in her to do anything like that. I’ve been married to this woman for over a dozen years, and I can vouch for her character and her disposition. She’s not someone to commit a rash act. She has certain principles and beliefs concerning social issues and the environment, but does not approve of extreme behavior, regardless of the cause.”

  “What about her friends? If she goes to rallies and the like, she probably knows a variety of people. Some of them may engage in that kind of thing?”

  “So many individuals have trooped in and out of here over the years, Detective, that I’ve lost count. No doubt some of them are, and have been, affiliated with the kind of activity you’re talking about. But I really couldn’t speak to that.”

  “These people who troop in and out—what’s that all about?”

  “Meetings—get-togethers. She has potluck dinners every now and then—they discuss politics, the state of the world…that sort of thing. Little dinner parties, if you will—that seems to be one of her favorite activities. Sort of like people who read the same book, then get together to discuss it. All very harmless, from what I’ve seen.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Tipper, you don’t sound like you entirely approve.”

  “Really? Well, I guess you caught me there…”

  Up to a point, Ed had managed to keep himself in check. The fact that the police were in his living room, asking questions, was alarming enough. He couldn’t say why exactly, but for some time now he had dreaded the possibility. He had suspected that sooner or later they might show up. In terms of explaining this apprehension, or a mounting fear, he supposed the young man’s death had been the proverbial straw. It had released all the repressed anxiety accumulated over the many months his wife had been surreptitiously engaged in a campaign of civil disobedience. She had gotten away with any number of dubious activities, but none had involved a death.

  But equally dismaying was the realization that he couldn’t simply dismiss their questions as part of a routine procedure in the same way he could if he knew he had nothing to hide. On the surface, and as it was now, their presence in his home at this time seemed little more than a courtesy call to confirm a few details as a way to complete their report. But all that could change in a flash. If they began to suspect his answers as less than forthright, if, indeed, they thought he might not be telling the truth about what he knew of his wife’s activities, they might sharpen their questions. If they detected a reluctance to cooperate, what was now a friendly, informal visit could devolve into a form of interrogation devoid of the usual niceties.

  “I confess,” he continued, keeping his tone and his expression placid, “I’m sometimes annoyed when I get home late after working hard all day and find my house full of people, and sometimes people I’ve never seen before. Most of the time when that happens, I fix a bite to eat and retreat to the bedroom. But, yes, I do sometimes feel resentful that my wife has seen fit to give priority to others. It’s usually a fit of pique, though, and depends on whether I’ve had a good day at the office,” he finished with a laugh.

  “It’s not always the same people at these affairs, then?” Detective Bolder inquired further.

  He felt on solid ground again. The crisis had passed. He had acquitted himself in a convincing manner, and presumably the two detectives had dismissed the thought that he might be holding out.

  “Most of them are familiar faces,” he volunteered. “I’ve probably seen them a dozen or more times. Every now and then, I see a stranger. But I can’t tell you any more than that…I’ve never made it a point to get to know any of them, even their names.”

  “Not into politics, huh?”

  “I read the newspaper. And I vote.”

  The two detectives laughed.

  “Not much of a political animal myself,” Detective Bolder said. “But where is your wife now, Mr. Tipper, if I may ask?”

  Ed’s antennae went up again; but he was ready for them now. “In Seattle, at her sister’s. Her sister is having a hysterectomy, and my wife will be helping with the kids for a week.”

  “I see.”

  Detective Bolder looked at his watch, then, with a glance, passed the baton to his partner.

  Detective Bledsoe shrugged. “I don’t have anything else. Just that when your wife comes home, could you have her give us a call? We’d like to ask her a few questions…just routine, of course.”

  “Certainly. In fact, I was intending to call her this evening. I’ll mention that you were here.”

  The two detectives stood up in unison. Detective Bolder took out his wallet and withdrew a card. “If you’ll see that she gets this…?”

  “Of course.”

  Jennifer had fallen asleep against Ed’s shoulder. As he rose from the couch to walk the two detectives to the door, he laid her down on her side and propped her head against a pillow.

  “How old is she?” Detective Bledsoe asked.

  “She’ll be five in a couple of months. She can hardly wait.”

  “Mine’s five, too. She’s a handful.”

  “They keep you busy, that’s for sure.”

  Ed walked the two detectives into the foyer and, as they stepped out onto the porch, held the door for them. “Watch those steps,” he advised. “I keep intending to install better lighting.”

  He watched the two men as they made their way down the porch steps and around to the pathway. Then he closed the door, locked it, and went back into the living room.

  Jennifer was still asleep on the pillow; he picked her up and carried her upstairs.

  Later, after he had tucked her into bed, he went down to the kitchen and took a bottle of Guinness Stout out of the refrigerator and carried it and a beer mug out to the flagstone patio at the side of the house. Leaving the French doors open, he walked across a strip of lawn and sat down at a wooden picnic table. He poured the Guinness into the beer mug until the foam almost brimmed over, then sipped it slowly. Light from a shaded floor lamp in the living room cast the area in a muted amber glow, creating a chiaroscuro tableau that heightened the effect of himself sitting in the darkness, looking on as an observer.

  In the first few years of their marriage, before Jennifer had come along, he and Heidi had spent many of their evenings out here. Heidi had rustled up something simple but nutritious—usually a tossed salad and a pasta dish—and, with the melodious strains of a classical piece playing unobtrusively from inside the house, through the open doors, they sat at the table, next to the lilac shrub they had planted, and ate their meal together while talking of the personal and the familiar.

  In those years, the talk had come easily, without the awareness and constraints of serious problems between them. Back then, they had been more like close friends, with an intimacy of feeling and expression now little more than littered wreckage along the way. Back then, their conversations had been more like a dance: a minuet of playful banter; an uninhibited exchange of gossip about their respective workplaces; an animated sharing of impressions and opinions about people and events; a lighthearted recounting of experiences, both past and present; and, always, hopeful discussions about the future. Innocence and lack of self-consciousness had characterized those halcyon days, and they talked to each other without reservation and restraint. Nothing was too silly or too trivial, nothing too mundane or off the table—it all figured into the spontaneous interplay that constituted the relationship.

  He drank off more of the Stout and gazed around.

  He saw that the lilac shrub they had planted so long ago now had leaves that were drooped and lifeless. A couple of years earlier, he had bothered to check its condition and learned that it had acquired a Latin-sounding disease that had stunted its ability to put forth its purple flowers. Not a gardener but (perhaps whimsically) wanting to preserve the traditional symbol of love’s first emotion—a symbol they had made their own—he had purchased a bottle of spray that was supposed to remedy the condition. For some reason—he couldn’t recall why—h
e had never used it. It still sat unopened in a brown paper sack on a dusty window ledge in the garage.

  But the same held true for their intention of planting rosebushes in the back area of the house. They had talked about creating an enlivened and colorful space where, of a summer’s evening, they could sit together and talk of the day’s events while enjoying a feeling of domestic contentment. But spring and summer had come and gone, and the months had turned into years, and nothing had been done. Those plans, like so much else, had withered: a casualty of the gap that had grown between them. Even the birdbath Heidi had picked up at a roadside emporium—the bowl had cracked, and it now sat at the back of the garage, next to a collection of gardening tools he seldom used.

  Looking back, he wondered how it had all fallen into a state of near-dissolution. Was it something he had done or not done? Had he spent too many hours working his job, hoping to build the kind of life he thought they should have? Or had he missed some early warning signs? Had he not seen something that would have given him a clue? Had he not realized then, as he perhaps should have, that Heidi was too much the free-thinker, with her own bent, ever to be satisfied with a conventional life—a picket fence, a rose garden, and a baby in each arm? Before they had even met, her life revolved around, and had been defined by, a strident student activism of a kind demanding of its devotees an obsessive commitment, if not outright fanaticism. He hesitated to use the latter term, but perhaps she had been that all along and he had been simply beguiled by his own need to provide her with everything he thought a woman desired.

  The evening had grown chilly and he thought to go inside and close up for the night. Before going to bed, he would check on Jennifer to make sure she had enough covers. Then, perhaps he would read a chapter of a Somerset Maugham novel he had started two nights ago. Morning would come quickly enough, and he would have to get Jennifer up and ready to drop her off at his mother-in-law’s. She would spend the day there, and he would pick her up after work. Perhaps, if he could get off early, they could do something together, maybe go for ice cream or over to the Lloyd Center, where she could pick out a dress or a blouse for herself. He spent little enough time with her as it was; the least he could do, especially with her mother gone, was give her extra attention.