by D. A. Keeley
Peyton felt her mother’s eyes on her. We never stop trying to please our parents. It was a line she’d read somewhere. Was it true?
“Okay,” she said. “Gary’s?”
“Great. I have to get back to my sister-in-law. It was great meeting you.”
“You, too,” Lois said. “And my hours are much more regular than my daughter’s. I could meet you for a drink earlier in the evening.”
He laughed and walked away.
“My God, Mother.”
“Relax, Peyton. At my age, life is too short to take things seriously. Now, tell me what’s going on with your sister.”
“It’s not my place, Mom.”
Lois looked at her through a long silence. “It’s that bad?”
“Elise is a strong woman. Maybe stronger than we knew.”
“Both of my daughters are strong.”
Peyton squeezed Lois’s shoulder, then turned back to the game.
Tommy fell attempting to intercept a pass near the opposing team’s goal. He got up, chased the ball, kicked it, fell again. Seven years old. Where had the time gone? He got to his feet, grinned, and waved to her. Then the ball squirted loose from the pack and rolled slowly
to him. Everything seemed to stop then. She yelled, “Shoot!” just as he did. Then he was jumping, hands raised in celebration, teammates hugging him. As he jogged to midfield, he glanced over, eyes sweeping the sideline, then falling at the realization that Jeff was not there.
When the game was over, Peyton was the first person on the field. She leaned to give Tommy a congratulatory hug and saw his eyes pool.
“You were great, kiddo! What a goal! You’re so fast, I could barely see you.”
“Really? Who were you talking to? It wasn’t Dad.”
“Just a friend. Hey, you were a blur out there. Let’s go for ice cream.”
“You saw my goal, right?”
“Didn’t you hear me yelling?”
“So you can tell Dad about it?”
“You can tell him when you see him. I’m sure he has a really good reason for not being here, Tommy.”
“Where was he?” Tommy asked. They had just sat at a window booth in North Woods Ice Cream on Main Street in Garrett. “He said he’d be there.”
The place was dead at 8 p.m. on a weeknight. Peyton handed Tommy a two-scoop strawberry cone. Ice cream in Aroostook County in the fall? Had she eaten ice cream when it was thirty degrees outside?
Nothing in Garrett had changed, yet everything had changed. At Tommy’s age, she’d sat in this very booth with her father. Summer then. Ice cream on the heels of a failed karate test. The two previous belts had come easily. The failure, her father explained that day, was a lesson. “You’ve got to work harder,” he’d told her. “That’s all.”
She remembered that afternoon with the clarity people reserve for a handful of events in their lives: Her father, wearing his red-and-black checkered flannel shirt, reaching across the table, wiping ice cream from her chin. Come to think of it, she too had ordered strawberry.
She felt a pang of guilt. Her life as a seven-year-old had been far less complicated than Tommy’s. No divorce. No missing father.
“I don’t know where your dad was,” she said simply.
Tommy looked out the window. “Just wish he saw my goal.”
“We’ll tell him all about it.”
“Not the same.”
Behind her, a bell jingled and the front door opened. Then she saw Tommy’s face beam.
And she knew.
“Hi, pal. Look what I brought you.”
“For me?” Tommy was on his feet, running to Jeff.
Peyton stood just in time to see Tommy smudge ice cream on Jeff’s pants. Jeff held a soccer ball. Peyton had bought Tommy one already, a ball she’d purchased at Marden’s, a discount store in Reeds, for $4.99. The ball Jeff held, though, was silver and had a professional team’s emblem on it. She saw the price tag: $36.
“This is a pro team in England, Tommy. What do you think, buddy?”
“Where were you, Dad? I scored a goal.”
“Hey, you got ice cream on my pants. You know what I paid for this suit?”
Peyton, standing, cleared her throat. “We’re celebrating Tommy’s goal, Jeff. Would you like to join us?”
“Love to.” He looked her over. “Even in the uniform …” He whistled softly.
She made no reply and slid back into the booth.
“Here, buddy.” He patted the booth cushion beside him, but Tommy slid in next to Peyton.
“Dad, I hit a home run in Little League last year in Texas, too.”
“Wow, that’s great, Tom.”
“Tommy,” Peyton said, “would you go ask for more napkins?”
Both parents watched Tommy approach the counter.
“You missed the damned game.”
“I was working.”
“He is absolutely desperate for you to take an interest in him. Can’t you see that?”
“Take an interest in him? I picked him up after school this week.”
“You don’t get it, Jeff. Never did get it.”
“Look, I feel terrible. I know I promised him, but I was looking at a new listing for you and Tommy. It’s perfect. If I didn’t go, another agent would’ve snatched it up. I’m telling you, it couldn’t be helped.”
“Bullshit.”
He leaned back and looked at her. “Is this how it’s going to be between us?”
“Look at me,” she said.
He did.
“Look straight into my eyes.”
The man behind the counter handed Tommy a fistful of napkins.
“If you keep hurting my son, it’ll get much worse.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Definitely,” she said.
“Well, it’s our son, Peyton. You know, everything’s always my fault, isn’t it?”
“You’re the one who walked out.”
“Must be nice to always be so sure. Think about it: I never wanted to move to El Paso. You knew that. I gave up my career to do it. And what was it all for? Here you are, right back in Garrett.”
The sound of plastic cleats tapping the hardwood floor made them both turn to watch Tommy approach. He slid in next to Peyton again.
She stared again at Jeff. Was he right?
“You’ll like this house, Peyton. It’s perfect for the two of you. And not far from Lois.” Jeff stood. “I’ll see you, kiddo. I hope you like the ball.”
“You have to go, Dad? You just got here.”
“Yeah, I need to get back to work, son. I’m looking for a house for you and Mommy.”
“Oh. Thanks, Dad.”
Jeff kissed Tommy’s forehead and turned and walked out. The sound of bells reverberated as the door closed behind him.
Peyton sat with her son in silence for several long moments. Finally, Tommy spoke.
“I wish Dad still lived with us. If he did, things like this wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t have to look for a stupid house for us.” Crying, he stood and ran to the door.
“Tommy, wait.”
She caught the door before it closed, turned right, and rounded the building. Tommy was in the middle of the parking lot, running toward their Wrangler.
Three men strolling toward her on the sidewalk caught her eye. Kenny Radke, his face bruised, was limping. Tyler Timms, the obnoxious Iraq War veteran who’d sat next to Radke in the diner, saw her and nudged Radke. They froze. The third man looked out of place among them. The sun was setting, and his cashmere topcoat was buttoned now. He still wore the red silk tie and toted his briefcase. The man she’d seen leaving Professor Jerry Reilly’s office now listened to Timms whisper something. He looked up, eyes meeting Peyton’s, and nodded to Timms.
But Tommy was crying.
Peyton turned away from them and went to her son. She knelt and Tommy cried against her chest.
The three men turned and walked in the direction from which they’d
come.
She knew she’d spooked them. She just wished she knew why.
TWENTY
AFTER PEYTON TOOK TOMMY home, read to him, consoled him, and tucked him in, she kissed her mother’s cheek and drove to the end of a long dirt driveway to knock on the door of Elise’s small ranch-style house.
It was after 10 p.m., and the wind had picked up, a mild afternoon giving way to a brisk evening. Peyton heard a diesel engine rumble in the distance and turned to see a man beneath a hanging light working on a tractor in the barn across the street.
Elise opened the door and followed her gaze. “Old Max Styles plowed over his crop this year,” Elise said. “Only half of it came in. Word is the bank might foreclose. I think he’s getting ready to sell everything.”
“It’s a reality up here,” Peyton said, following Elise into the house.
The sisters knew that reality well. Banks floated loans to potato farmers, anticipating the year’s potato prices and crop sizes would equate to a fiscal success that would allow the farmer to not only pay off the loan but to earn a decent wage. When the crop or the price fell short, some banks continued to support the farmer, who then skated on margin. Peyton’s father had once told her the average farmer in this region turned a profit once every three years. And when her father had lost their family farm, she’d learned that skating on margin meant the thin ice eventually cracked, and the water beneath was ice cold.
“I need to see Jonathan,” Peyton explained.
Elise stopped walking and turned to face her. “See him? You sound all formal.”
Elise and Jonathan’s dog, Rambo, a mutt acquired at the Reeds Humane Society, leaned against Peyton’s leg. Peyton patted the Shepherd-Lab mix.
“You’re in uniform, Peyton. Thought your shift didn’t begin until eleven.”
“I’d like to interview Jonathan.”
“Interview him? About what?”
“Nothing big.” Peyton crouched in the hallway beside the dog and scratched behind its ear.
Elise’s eyes were steady on her. “You won’t tell me?”
“Can’t. No big deal, though.”
Elise walked past Peyton and held the front door open for the dog. The house was surrounded by potato fields, leaving it defenseless against the wind. A gust strained the screen door against its chain. When the dog was outside, she closed the door.
“Jonathan’s not home,” Elise said. “He’s at school, preparing for tomorrow.”
“It’s after ten,” Peyton said.
“He’s working really hard this time. He does that a few times a week now. He’ll do well in this new job. Won’t be like Boston. That one little comment cost him.”
“What did he say?”
Elise waved that off.
“Got the kettle on?” Peyton said, the air of formality leaving her.
Elise led her to the kitchen. Max was nowhere in sight, obviously in bed, but a plastic replica tractor lay on the floor.
“Mom told me you went to see her.” Peyton could smell creamed corn and hamburger. “Is that her Quebec Shepherd’s pie recipe?”
“Yeah, Jonathan loves Mom’s Shepherd’s pie.”
Peyton was struggling to follow her sister’s reasoning. Elise was leaving Jonathan, but she was still cooking his favorite dishes.
“I told her we were having trouble. Jonathan’s working hard. He’ll land on his feet.”
“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind.”
“The reason doesn’t leave a lot of wiggle room, P.”
“Yeah, of course. Just hard for me to watch you go through a divorce. I know what they’re all about.”
“I can’t go on pretending to be who I’m not.” Elise put the kettle on the burner. “Done that for thirty years. Time to move forward.”
“Discuss custody and child support yet?”
Elise shook her head.
Peyton looked at her. “Does he know?”
Elise turned away and retrieved two mugs. “We haven’t been intimate for three months.”
“Elise, does he know why?”
“I haven’t told him I’m gay. He’s just furious that I stopped telling him how attractive he is. You know how he can be. He thrived on that.”
“Don’t you think you should tell him the truth?”
Elise turned from the counter to face her. “I will, but …”
“But what?”
“He’s got a temper,” Elise said.
“Has Jonathan ever hit you?”
“What? No.”
“You keep saying he’s got a temper.”
“Not like that.”
“I’ve never liked how he’s treated you. I think he’s a bully, Elise. And he constantly needs to be the center of attention.”
“He says you never liked him because of his past.”
“His past? He’s a convicted felon, Elise.”
“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“He was incarcerated for Possession with Intent. He was selling prescription drugs to kids. I realize you met him after that phase of his life, Elise, but please don’t act like it didn’t happen.”
“Peyton, that was never proven. He pled guilty because he had a bad attorney.”
Peyton exhaled slowly and went to the breakfast counter. “I’m not arguing with you. Look, Mom put me on the spot this afternoon. I don’t want to pressure you to tell her, but you know what she can be like. The old lady could get a confession from O.J. Simpson.”
Elise smiled. “Mom’s the best. She just wants to help, but I don’t want to upset her. I know she drags you and Tommy to Mass with her on Sundays. This will be a huge conflict for her.”
“She might surprise you.”
“Let me tell Jonathan first.”
“I can be here when you tell him,” Peyton offered.
“I won’t put you through that.”
“I’m your sister.”
“No. I’ll handle it.” Elise took a bowl of tea bags from the cupboard and held it toward Peyton, who selected green tea. “I have to.”
“What did Jonathan say in Boston that was so bad?”
“I don’t want to get into it. What do you need to talk to him about?”
“Nothing big,” Peyton said again. “Mom’s worried about you ending up alone like me.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad. You’re pretty self-reliant.”
“Is that code for stubborn?”
Elise smiled and took a teabag from the bowl. “I’ll tell Mom soon. I promise.”
Peyton didn’t feel self-reliant at 11:15 p.m. She felt exhausted.
Wearing a hands-free headlamp, she stood where the baby had been found, careful not to trip a sensor. The seismic motion sensors had picked up nothing in the twenty-four hours since she’d buried them. But Hewitt was big on these things, so she’d returned to Monty Duff’s desolate potato field to check on them.
Everything looked fine. No footprints nearby, but that meant little since the ground was frozen.
Stan Jackman’s voice crackled over the radio clipped to her belt. The call wasn’t for her. Jackman told Miguel Jimenez that he was at the west end of the potato flat. Jimenez replied; he was to the east. No lights emanated from east or west, so Jackman and Jimenez were using night-vision goggles.
“Stan”—Jimenez’s voice was clear over the radio—“there’s a light on in the potato house. Harvest is over. I’ll check it out.”
A voice called from behind, “Peyton Cote, is that you?”
She turned, and a flashlight’s beam blinded her. Feeling the instantaneous sense of helplessness and fear a sudden loss of vision induces, she moved her hand to the holstered S&W on her right hip.
She exhaled slowly. “Turn—the—light—off.”
“Oh, sorry, Peyton.” The light went out.
“Who is that?”
“Just me, Monty Duff.”
Her eyes readjusted to the darkness. Monty Duff was five feet away.
“
Hello, Mr. Duff. I spoke with your wife.”
He nodded. “Just wanted to see what these things look like.” He scanned the ground looking for them. “This is where my main crop will be next year.”
“The equipment is already buried. But don’t worry. I put it between rows. Your crops won’t be damaged.”
“You’re the daughter of a farmer,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“I appreciate it. Where is the thing?”
Peyton wouldn’t divulge that. “How was the crop this year?”
“Oh, great,” he said. “Not many of us had big years, but it was one of my best.” He spoke enthusiastically, forgetting his previous question.
“Well, I appreciate your cooperation, sir.”
He made a hand gesture that said, It’s nothing. “If something’s happening on my land, I want to know.”
Peyton wore her heavy flannel field coat. The forecast predicted an overnight low of twenty-five degrees. Duff wore only a hunting shirt atop overalls.
“The sensors will be out well before planting,” she said.
“Want coffee? Jenny and me eat dinner at four-thirty. I’m usually in bed long before now. Thought I’d stay up. See what this was all about. We don’t get much company. I can bring you a cup.”
“No. But thank you.”
“Well, it’s good to have you back in town, Peyton.” He paused. “Jenny baked cherry pie. I can bring you a piece. We don’t get much company,” he said again.
“That’s an awfully nice offer, but I can’t accept. I’m on duty. Really, thank you very much.”
“Sure,” Duff said, looking down.
She saw his dirt-covered hands. His daughter had moved away. He and his wife led a lonely existence. What had life been like for Lois when the sisters were gone?
Duff offered a warm smile and started back to his house. Ten yards away, he froze, and they both looked eastward. “Was that a gunshot?” he asked.
But Peyton didn’t answer.
She was already sprinting east.
Peyton knelt near the Crystal View River beside the north wall of the potato house, gun drawn, eyes scanning the terrain. It had been a gunshot. There was no doubt, but if she’d not grown up here, she might not have been certain. Unlike the sounds she’d forever associate with the southern border—the bursts of automatic weaponry, the snap of a handgun—this shot had been the large singular explosion she’d heard from her late-father’s hunting rifle during deer and moose season.