The Hot Pink Farmhouse bam-2

by David Handler

  “God, don’t let Babette hear you say that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she designed it, and in the world of architecture interesting is synonymous with bad. People call something interesting when they truly hate it.”

  “Well, I meant that I liked it.”

  “Thank you,” he said, gratefully lapping up her praise. He struck her as rather needy. People who craved attention generally were. “We wanted it to blend in with the landscape, unlike those gargantuan trophy palaces that everyone else seems to want these days.”

  “But you do build those, too, don’t you?”

  “That doesn’t mean I like them,” Bruce said defensively. “I’m in business. If you don’t give people what they want, then you don’t stay in business. This is a universal truth,” he pointed out, as if this were a pearl of wisdom she might wish to jot down in her diary. “If someone is sinking two million into a house, then they want what they want, not what you think they should want. We wanted to be as green as humanly possible. We use less than a third of the energy of a normal house here. We installed geothermal heating and cooling, solar panels, waterless composting toilets. The lumber is native or reprocessed. I try to be eco-friendly, believe me. I’m someone who’s active in the Sierra Club. And if you ask me, the suburb is the worst thing that happened to this country in the twentieth century. That probably sounds odd to you coming from a developer, but I believe it.”

  Des said nothing to that. The man was carrying on both sides of the argument all by himself. Hell, it was an argument with himself.

  “But I also think it’s foolhardy to believe that the future can be stopped,” he went on as they made their way across the meadow, the pings growing steadily louder. “There are twice as many people living in the U.S. right now as there were when the baby boomers were born. We have to put them somewhere, don’t we? Unlike a lot of people, I don’t believe in standing on the sidelines complaining. Wherever we’ve worked-Seattle, San Francisco, Denver, Boston-we’ve devised revolutionary, low-impact development for the future. I believe in the future. I believe in cities that live in harmony with mass transit. And I believe in villages. That’s why we’ve put down roots in Dorset. What we have here is a rare and endangered thing-a genuine community. And we have to fight to hold on to that.”

  Des nodded, thinking just how baffled the old-timers must be by this high-profile human dynamo with his deep pockets and his bulldozers.

  “You’re probably thinking that I’m nothing more than a kinder, gentler asshole. But I believe in what we’re doing. I’m excited. Is there anything wrong with that?”

  Des shrugged her shoulders, wondering why Bruce Leanse felt he needed to justify himself to her. Was he just naturally defensive about his chosen, politically incorrect career? Or was this an advanced case of Soul Man Syndrome-a liberal who was desperate for a black person’s approval?

  “Do you rock-climb, trooper?”

  “Uh, no, I never have.”

  “Oh, you’ve absolutely got to. It’s outrageous. A total high. Greatest physical rush there is.” Bruce paused, grinning at her wolfishly. “Aside from you-know-what…”

  Ah, so that was it-the Brat wanted him some of her form.

  “Tell you what-I’ll take you out some Saturday morning and we’ll-”

  “I’m afraid my sked’s pretty crowded right now.”

  “Sure, sure. How about a run? Do you run? God, you must. Nobody’s got a butt like yours without doing roadwork.”

  Des came to a stop and said, “Okay, I have to tell you that I’m not real comfortable with the direction this conversation is taking, Mr. Leanse.”

  “I’m just looking for a workout partner,” he gulped, retreating hastily. “That’s all I meant. I’m not looking for trouble. Really, I’m not.”

  “Good. Neither am I.”

  The breeze coming off of the river was getting chillier. The weatherman had predicted the first frost of the season that night. Des resumed walking, shivering slightly. Beyond the cedars there was a mown stretch of lawn where a baseball diamond had been marked off, complete with bases, a pitcher’s mound and a batting cage. On the mound a pitching machine was disgorging fastballs. And at the plate, little Ben Leanse, her DARE essay winner, was flailing away at them with an aluminum bat that seemed as big as he was. With the oversized batting helmet that was planted on his huge head, the little fellow looked like one of those bobble-headed dolls they sold at ballparks.

  A muscular, sunburned man in a short-sleeved polo shirt stood behind the cage with his big arms crossed watching him swing… Ping… As Ben feebly fouled off one pitch… Ping… As he popped up another behind first base, barely getting around on it.

  … Ping… Des recognized this man at once-it was her third-floor mattress king from the Frederick House. A video camera was set up next to him on a tripod, filming the boy.

  “Step into it, Big Ben!” he called out encouragingly. “Atta boy! Good job!”

  “We’ve hired a batting tutor to help Ben up his game a notch,” Bruce explained. “He’s desperate to make the Little League team next spring.” Bruce clapped his hands together and called out, “Way to go, guy!”

  “I stink, Dad,” Ben gurgled at him glumly. He had on a fleece jersey with the words DOUGHTY’S ALL-STARS emblazoned across his chest. “I totally suck.”

  “No way-you’re making real progress.” Bruce seemed ill at ease around his boy, his manner forced. “Am I right, Dirk?”

  At first, Dirk had nothing but a cold glare for Bruce Leanse. Des immediately wondered what that was about. Then Dirk ran a big hand over his weathered face and said, “We’re doing real good. Just got to strengthen those wrists of yours over the winter, Big Ben. Right now, they’re like cooked spaghetti.”

  “Okay, Coach,” the little boy responded solemnly.

  “I’ll go see if I can hurry Babette along,” Bruce said to Des. Clearly, the Brat was not anxious to stick around. In fact, he couldn’t hurry back to the house fast enough.

  Des stayed put. “Nice to see you again, Ben,” she said to him warmly.

  “Hello, trooper. Coach Doughty, this is Trooper Mitry.”

  “Make it Dirk,” he said to her. “Pleased to meet you. Let’s take some more cuts, Ben.”

  Des joined him behind the cage as the boy flailed away at more mechanical pitches… Plink… Des guessed that Dirk was in his early thirties. He was a solid six feet tall with broad, hulking shoulders and a massive chest. He held himself with the physical ease of an athlete in prime condition… Plink… Still, she noticed, his eyes had a defeated, beaten-down cast to them.

  “We’re both at the Frederick House, if I’m not mistaken,” she said to him.

  “That’s right.” His eyes stayed on the boy at the plate. “The Leanses have been nice enough to put me up there while I’m working with Ben. I’m all over the Northeast right now. Just spent two weeks in Nashua, New Hampshire. Soon as it turns a little colder, I’ll follow the sun down to Florida for the baseball camps… Move those hips, Big Ben! Pull ’em through the strike zone!… Actually, I grew up around here. I’m headquartered in Toledo, Ohio now. Married a Toledo girl.” And yet, he wore no wedding ring. Some people didn’t like to wear rings. Still, it made her wonder. “Ever been there?”

  “No, I haven’t,” she said.

  “It’s not a bad place. Not as nice as Dorset, but not bad. And, hey, I’m still getting paid to do what I love.”

  “Dirk played in the show!” Ben exclaimed proudly.

  “I’m impressed,” Des said.

  Dirk grimaced slightly. “All I had was a cup of coffee with the Detroit Tigers. But around here, that makes me a hometown hero… Less top hand, Ben!… I still hold all the hitting records at Dorset High and American Legion Post 103. Fun to be back, actually. It gives me a chance to catch up with old friends.”

  And possibly hump one of them night after night, Des reflected. It sounded as if Dirk was on the road a lot. If there was o
ne thing she’d learned from her experience with Brandon, it was this: Men who spend a lot of time away from home do not wish to be home.

  “The Tigers paid me a seven-figure signing bonus right out of high school,” Dirk recalled in a tight, controlled voice. “I was going to be their catcher of the future. I was the complete package. I could hit for average. Hit for power. Had a gun for an arm. Ran the hundred in ten flat.”… Plink… “Well, the bonus disappeared right away-my first wife cleaned me out but good.”

  “And the dream?” Des asked. “What happened to the dream?”

  He showed her the two ugly surgical scars on the inside of his right elbow. “My first winter home from rookie ball I was in a car that hit a patch of black ice and rolled into a ditch. Couldn’t throw a baseball for two years. And that was just the beginning. I had two procedures on my right knee, another on my left. Spent half of my career on the disabled list and the other half on the waiver wire.”

  … Plink…“I also had me a bit of a nightlife problem. No longer. I’ve been clean and sober for four years… Good one, Ben! Now you’re in the zone!” He fell silent, breathing slowly in and out. “I finished up with a hundred twenty-seven Major League at bats, trooper. My lifetime average is two forty-four, with four dingers. You can look it up. I also played two seasons in Japan for the Yokohama Bay Stars before the Tigers took me back and shipped me down to Toledo. Spent three more seasons there until they released me. That’s when I knew it was over. Knew it in my heart. But what the hell, I chased the dream for twelve years. And now I’m actually doing some good. I had a high school girl down in Vero Beach last winter who was real close to getting herself a college softball scholarship. Working with me for two weeks put her over the top. That’s a satisfying feeling, helping a kid who can’t afford college earn herself a four-year ride.”

  Maybe so, Des reflected, but clearly he felt cheated by what had happened to him. It wasn’t in the words he spoke. Dirk Doughty was saying all of the right things. It was in the way he bit off his words. It was in those defeated eyes of his.

  “Mostly, I get kids like Ben,” he confessed. “Their parents are looking for an esteem booster. What the hell, I don’t mind. It’s what I know… Okay, Ben! Let’s call it a day!”

  “Right, Coach!” The boy promptly laid down his bat and got busy gathering up the balls he’d popped feebly around the diamond, stretching out the belly of his fleece jersey to form a crude sack for them.

  “Some of these yuppie parents can really get in my face,” Dirk said, watching him. “They put so much pressure on their kids to succeed that they turn something that’s supposed to be fun into something utterly joyless.”

  “Are the Leanses like that?”

  Dirk considered this a moment. “Actually, I have to hand it to them-they’re okay. Plenty involved in their own lives. And Ben’s a real nice kid. Super-bright. He’ll end up being a brilliant scientist or something.”

  Babette came tromping briskly across the grass toward them now, clutching a cell phone tightly in one hand. “Trooper Mitry, so sorry to keep you waiting. How is our ballplayer doing, Dirk?”

  “Doing good,” Dirk responded pleasantly as Ben dumped a shirtload of baseballs into a duffel bag. “C’mon, guy, let’s hit the kitchen for a protein shake.” They headed off toward the house together, Dirk placing a big arm protectively around the boy’s narrow shoulders.

  Babette watched them go. There was a fixed brightness to her eyes, an intense sureness that Des found alarming. “We don’t harbor any illusions about Ben’s athletic ability,” she said. “We know he’ll never be another Mike McGuire.”

  “I think you mean Mark McGuire,” Des said, observing once again just how imposing this woman seemed in spite of her height. Attila the Hen indeed.

  “But he needs to be good at something so he’ll be able to play with the other boys,” she went on. “His teacher, Miss Frye, is in complete accord. It was she who recommended Dirk. There’s a bench out on the rocks overlooking the river. Shall we sit there?”

  The bench was sheltered by a rustic gazebo of rough, bark-covered posts and beams. They strolled across the field to it and sat, Babette pulling the shawl collar of her sweater up tighter around her neck. The breeze was really picking up. A sailboat was making impressive speed as it knifed its way toward the old iron bridge up at East Haddam.

  “Needless to say,” Babette commented, “the athletic facilities at Center School are as deplorable as everything else is. My God, every time I walk in that place and see those kids wearing their coats in class, I want to cry. This is Connecticut, not Kosovo! My friends in the city keep asking me why we don’t just pull Ben out of there and put him in a private school.”

  “And how do you answer them?”

  “I believe in our public schools,” she replied firmly. “If people like us abandon them we will create a society of haves and have-nots. That’s just not acceptable. But neither is Center School-over the summer, a state building inspector found over two hundred safety-and fire-code violations. I know the old guard in town thinks it can be fixed. Well, it can’t. I’m telling you it can’t, okay? I’m an architect. I know buildings.”

  Des nodded, well aware that this was the lady bragging on herself some. Because if architects really did know buildings, then there would be no need for engineers.

  “Plus we need more classrooms,” she went on. “There are new homes going up all over town. More people. People with kids. Where are we going to put them? We must build this new school.”

  “The support of the school superintendent wouldn’t hurt, I imagine.”

  Babette shifted uncomfortably on the bench, her face tightening. “Look, I am very sorry about what happened this morning. I don’t enjoy seeing anyone suffering. But this is simply another illustration of why it’s time for Colin to go.” She hesitated, her tongue flicking across her lower lip. “As to why I was there to see him… It’s an extremely delicate matter. I can only share this with you in the strictest professional confidence. Because if word were to leak out

  …”

  “It won’t,” Des promised her. “At least, not from me it won’t.”

  Babette took a deep breath, as if to gather herself. “An allegation of gross personal misconduct has been leveled against Colin. I was there to urge him, for everyone’s sake, to offer to resign quietly, thereby avoiding a public airing before the entire school board of his… behavior.”

  “Exactly what kind of misconduct are we talking about?”

  “It seems he was using his office computer to conduct an online affair.”

  “Cyber romance is pretty common these days, isn’t it?”

  “It was a homosexual romance, trooper,” she said tightly. “Male-on-male sadomasochism, as I understand it. Very explicit. Very pornographic. And he left it there on his screen while he was away from his desk. Melanie Zide, his secretary, happened upon it during the normal course of her duties. She has informed the school board that she was made to feel very uncomfortable.”

  “Sounds like she’s hired herself a lawyer.”

  “That she has,” Babette affirmed unhappily. “He’s informed us that she intends to file sexual harassment charges against the Dorset school district unless we remove him. Our own lawyer says she’s well within her rights-by leaving that material on his screen Colin created a hostile work environment. If we don’t remove him we will be condoning inappropriate sexual conduct by a school official. That girl will nail us but good unless we take action. Even if Colin gets the boot she still may have grounds for a financial settlement.” Again, Babette Leanse took a deep breath. “Obviously, you can see why we wish to handle this quietly.”

  “I absolutely can,” Des said, her mind racing. Greta Patterson had called this school-bond squabble a war. And she’d said something else: “God help anyone who gets in Babette Leanse’s way.” Colin Falconer had done just that, and now he looked to be a battlefield casualty. Was all of this just his own stupid fault? Or was
there something vastly more wicked going on here? “And I appreciate you filling me in. I like to know what’s happening.”

  “A real mess is what’s happening,” Babette said sharply. “And I really, really don’t appreciate getting caught in the middle of it. But, damn it, how can we let a man who’s incapable of managing himself be responsible for the well-being of our children? The short answer is we can’t. Colin’s behavior is absolutely shameful. Intolerable. He must resign. I can’t imagine he’d choose to fight us-it would end up in the newspapers that way, and that would not be in anyone’s best interest. Trooper, I hope and pray he will go quietly. Because if he doesn’t, if he decides to stand and fight, well…” Babette Leanse trailed off, shaking her head.

  “Well what, Mrs. Leanse?”

  “It will tear Dorset into little pieces,” she warned in a voice that was frighteningly cold and quiet. “And no one, but no one, will ever be able to put them back together again.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Wendell Frye did not have a doorbell, just a giant wolf’s-head knocker that resonated like a clap of thunder when Mitch used it. The door itself creaked ominously as the old man swung it open to greet him.

  Mitch had half-expected that the great sculptor would have forgotten all about inviting him to dinner. But he couldn’t have been more wrong. Hangtown seemed genuinely pleased to see him, cheerful and bright-eyed. His flowing white hair and beard were neatly combed. He had red suspenders on over a navy-blue wool shirt, green moleskin trousers that were tucked into a well-worn but polished pair of riding boots. Sam, his German shepherd, followed him, tail wagging, as he led Mitch into the living room, a damp, gloomy room that smelled of mold and genteel decay. There was no wheezing organ, but there may as well have been. Mice skittered in the walls.

  “I’ll get us a couple of beers,” Hangtown offered. “Shall I do that?”