The Best American Mystery Stories, Volume 17
Page 39
“Hey, my resolve is set in concrete. It’s just that... can’t we do this a little earlier?”
“Sure we can. You want to go get some breakfast and then break into Kenny’s office? That would be, what—right around nine? Maybe we should take Kenny a coffee while we’re at it. I can’t guarantee we’ll be all that effective with him watching us, but hey, at least you’ll be awake for it.”
“That’s what we’re going to do? Break into his office?”
“You wanted a plan, I came up with a plan.”
“I hope there’s a little more to it than that.”
Will blows out a breath. “You going to meet us or not?”
“Us? Who the hell is us?”
“Stevie’s in on it, too.”
“Ah, jeezus. Now I know we’ll get caught.”
“I had to use him to get something we need, and he wouldn’t agree to do it unless he could come along.”
“Jeezus. We’re all going to end up in jail.”
“You know, this is the way it’s always been with us, hasn’t it? You get some wild hair up your ass and come running to me about it, I lie awake all night trying to figure out how to help you out with it, and next day you’re like, ‘Oh, I guess it’s not so bad after all.’”
“Did I say that?”
“I don’t know; did you? Truth is, I don’t think you even know what you’re saying half the time.”
“I can still beat the shit out of you.”
“Still? You never could. Not since I was sixteen, anyway.”
Harvey tries without success to suppress a smile. He remembers well the time Will first took a swing at him, how after all those years of torment from his big brother, all those knuckle-thumps and punches on the arm, Will, instead of running away this time, threw a short, unexpected punch that bloodied Harvey’s lip, then stood there waiting for the rest of the fight, stood his ground like a man, ready to take another beating if necessary. Harvey should have told him then that he was proud of his little brother, glad to see that the boy’s balls had finally dropped. But he hadn’t. He had sneered, as if the blow stung no worse than a mosquito bite. And then had walked away wordless, still seeing stars.
“Eleven o’clock tonight?” Harvey says.
“Wear dark clothes. And by the way, if you’re so much as three minutes late, don’t ever come to me again with one of your problems.”
“What makes you so eager all of a sudden?”
“Because if I do say so myself, this is a beautiful plan. I’ll derive a great deal of personal satisfaction from sitting back and watching all the pieces fall into place.”
“And what’s the end result going to be?”
“That wild hair up your ass is going to be extricated once and for all.”
“Oh yeah? Extricated, huh?”
“And I don’t mean just shaved either. I mean plucked. Pulled out by the roots.”
“That sounds like it ought to hurt, but I’m getting the feeling I might actually enjoy the experience.”
“I expect you will, big brother.”
Ten hours later Harvey ladles a plateful of pot roast out of the pressure cooker but doesn’t really want any of it. He has had no appetite for a good while now, can’t remember the last time he paid enough attention to a meal to actually enjoy it.
Before lifting the lid off the pressure cooker he barely glances at the note Jennilee left on his plate, Taking Mom to the mall. See you around 9. Love you. Now he sits in his chair in the living room, faces the TV, the plate balanced on his knees. He stares at his reflection for a while in the blackened screen.
Jennilee coming into the kitchen wakes Harvey out of a dream of hunting, a dream in which he has gotten separated from his father and brothers in the oak woods. He is awakened by a click that, in his dream, is the snapping of a twig, something crashing toward him from behind. He awakes with a start, looks around, momentarily disoriented. Then he sees the kitchen light on, hears Jennilee tearing off a strip of cellophane to stretch over the leftover pot roast, sliding the bowl into the refrigerator. He closes his eyes again before she comes into the living room; he doesn’t want to talk just yet, wants the smell of the woods a while longer.
Jennilee stands there looking down at him. Before she goes upstairs she lays an afghan across him, a knitted blanket of a dozen bright colors, one of many her mother made for them. It is an act of tenderness that almost brings his eyes open, almost causes him to look up at her and smile, except that he thinks she smells different now, the odors of food from another house, wine on her breath, and a vague, fleeting fragrance he can identify only as neither his nor her own.
Upstairs, she showers and brushes her teeth, changes into the satiny panties and matching teddy she likes, turns on the ceiling fan, climbs into bed, turns on the TV. He follows her through the sounds she makes, envisions her careful movements, always so feminine and precise. He feels something like hunger in his belly, but maybe it is the nausea again, that strange and hollow hunger.
At ten-forty he mounts the stairs as quietly as he can, wincing with each creaking step. He peeks around the doorjamb, sees her asleep, curled on her side, her back to the flickering images on the screen. The ceiling fan makes a barely audible thumping sound as it spins. By the time he turns away from her he has goose bumps on his arms.
Downstairs he leaves a note on the kitchen table: Went over to Will’s for a beer or two. Love you. He knows she will not call to check up on him. She never questions his whereabouts.
Harvey walks at a pace he recognizes as too slow to get him to the bar on time. The stifling darkness weighs him down, pulses in the ache of his bones. Here and there a window dully glows with the pale light from a flickering screen. He thinks to himself that when he was a boy, on a night like this the streets would be full of people. Kids chasing fireflies or playing kick the can. Adults scraping back and forth on their porch swings and gliders. Old folks rocking. These days everybody stays inside breathing air blown out of a box while they stare at another box until narcotized enough to sleep.
He ducks into the alley half expecting to find it deserted. They aren’t really going to do this thing anyway. They aren’t really going to hurt anybody. But then he sees the two silhouettes, odd shapes of gray against the darker gray of the dumpster. Will has unscrewed the 200-watt bulb over the bar’s side door, but Harvey can see well enough to distinguish the silhouettes as two men on lawn chairs, and that is when he thinks, We are really going to do it. Breaking and entering and who knows what else. And he pushes his sudden heave of disappointment away.
Will and Stevie sit side by side in front of the dumpster. Between them is a duffel bag with a Steelers logo on the side.
“You’re ten minutes late,” Stevie says, his voice too loud to Harvey’s ears, startling in the darkness.
Harvey asks, “What’s in the bag?”
Will shines a small flashlight on the duffel bag as Stevie zippers it open and lays out the contents on the pavement. Two cans of neon orange spray paint, a long-handled screwdriver, a loop of new nylon rope still in its plastic bag, three pairs of brown cotton work gloves, five magazines. Stevie spreads the magazines out in a fan and Will plays the beam over them long enough for Harvey to see the glossy photo of a half-naked child on each cover.
Then Will flicks off the flashlight. Stevie repacks the bag. “Let’s get in the truck,” Will says.
A minute later they crowd into the front seat, Will in the middle with the duffel bag on his lap. Nobody speaks as Stevie starts the engine and heads toward the school at the southern end of town. Then Harvey asks, “Child pornography?”
Stevie snickers. “I had to drive almost fifty miles to get those. Clear to that adult bookstore out by the truck stop on exit forty-one. I was so nervous I thought I was going to piss my pants before I could get back outside.”
Harvey looks at Will’s face, relaxed and smiling.
Harvey asks, “Who’s watching the bar for you?”
“Gi
ffy,” Will says, naming one of the regulars, a retired steelworker. “There’s nobody in tonight except him and that cousin of his from Butler, the one they call Eight-Ball. I told them I wasn’t feeling well and had to get some air for a while. Told them they could draw a couple of free pitchers if they promised not to disturb me.”
“What about Lacy?”
“Sleeping the sleep of the innocent.”
Harvey nods. “Jennilee, too.” His mouth tastes chalky; his throat is tight.
The plan, as Will explains it, is “so simple it’s brilliant.” They will gain entry through one of the skylights over the cafeteria, then lower themselves the twenty feet by sliding down the rope. They will decorate the walls with sophomoric graffiti and plant the magazines in Kenny’s desk. Later, when Harvey is safely at home and Will is behind his bar, Stevie will place an anonymous call to the police, reporting suspicious activity and lights at the school. Will will make certain that his wife does not sleep through the report on the scanner. During the subsequent investigation by the police and Lacy’s relentless photo-taking, somebody will be sure to spot the magazines. Within twenty-four hours everyone in town will know about Kenny’s secret stash of magazines, the danger he poses to their children. Rumors will fly like scattershot on the first day of turkey season. No wonder Kenny has never married. No wonder he still lives with his mother. The school board will have no option but to hold an inquiry. Kenny will be run out of town on a rail—if he isn’t drawn and quartered beforehand.
The plan might be a simple one, but Harvey’s head is spinning. “How do we get back out of the school?”
“Same way we got in,” Will says.
Harvey shakes his head. “I know for a fact that Stevie can’t climb twenty feet up a rope.”
“Speak for yourself, fat-ass.”
“Okay, me, too. I doubt like hell I can do it.”
“Then we’ll find some other way out,” Will says. “We’ll open a window. They open from the inside, you know. Every classroom’s got them.”
“What about janitors?”
Stevie tells him, “Last summer when I helped them tar and gravel the roof, everybody went home by six, didn’t show up again until six the next morning. The place is empty for twelve hours.”
“You sure we can get in through a skylight?”
“We replaced all the flashing for the roof job, had to take the skylights off to do it. All it takes is a Phillips screwdriver.”
“What about security cameras?”
“Only place not covered is the rear wall of the boys’ locker room. Cause there aren’t any windows there.”
“And how are we supposed to climb that wall?” Harvey asks.
Stevie flashes him a grin. “Can’t you hear the ladder rattling in the bed?”
Harvey can think of nothing more to say. He wishes he could.
“Satisfied?” Will asks.
Harvey winds down the window and leans toward the rush of air. He says, “I’m not sure I remember the meaning of the word.”
Will is the first man down the rope, sliding into the coolness, the cafeteria a cavern. At the bottom he stands motionless, catching his breath. He can see reasonably well in the large room, one long wall lined with tall windows overlooking the practice field where, for three years as a boy, he ran wind sprints every August until he thought his lungs would explode.
The familiar smell is unmistakable, Meatloaf Thursday, and for a moment he hears the clamor of a hundred hungry kids all jabbering at once, the scrape of chairs, clack of plastic trays, clink of forks attacking plates.
“Hey!” Harvey whispers from above.
Will aims his flashlight at the heavens, flashes an all-clear.
Harvey comes down an inch at a time, grunting. He loses his grip while still five feet above the tile floor, drops with another grunt and the smack of his tennis shoes. The duffel bag thuds against the floor.
“For chrissakes,” Will says.
Harvey blows on his hands. “I forgot to put my gloves on. I got a rope burn.”
Stevie surprises both of them by coming down quickly, sliding in full control with one leg wrapped around the rope. Harvey asks him, “When did you get so agile?”
“You should see me on the climbing wall at the Y.”
“What the hell are you doing at the YMCA?”
“Tae bo classes every Tuesday night. Lots of tits and asses in spandex.”
“Any chance we can get on with this?” Will asks. He picks up the duffel bag and heads for the cafeteria exit. Out the wide doorway and into the hall, turn right past the trophy case, up the four steps, administrative offices on the left, faculty lounge, boys’ and girls’ restrooms on the right. The hallways are dark but navigable. His eyes have adjusted to the dimness; his memory is flooded with details.
The door to Kenny’s office is locked. The glass panel in the door is opaque, rippled and thick. Will says, “We’re going to have to pry the hinges off.”
But Harvey points to their brother at work four feet away, leaning close to the door that opens into the front office. Stevie has stuck a small suction cup to the clear glass and is now dragging a glass cutter around it in a slow circle.
“He’s just one surprise after another,” Will whispers.
Stevie smiles but says nothing. Finally he pockets the glass cutter, taps his knuckle around the circle he has cut, wiggles the suction cup until the circle of glass snaps free. Then he inches a gloved hand through the circle, feels for the door lock on the other side, gives it a twist. He swings the door open wide and says to Harvey, “Now will you ask around for me over at Jimmy Dean?”
And Harvey says, “I guess maybe I will.”
Just inside the front office he sets the duffel bag on the floor, zips it open, reaches inside for the spray paint. He hands one can to Will, extends the other toward Stevie.
“Gimme the magazines,” Stevie says. “I’m the one drove to Ohio to buy them, I’m the one should get to plant them.”
Harvey considers this for a few moments, then thinks, What the hell, and places the stack of magazines in his brother’s hands. “Not that it matters,” he says, “but why do you really want to go in there?”
Stevie grins. “That was Big-Ass Bole’s desk before it was Kenny’s, and I’ve been drinking water and saving up for this all day.” Harvey remembers Conrad Bole, too, the pear-shaped guidance counselor who told each of the brothers in turn to forget about college, don’t even consider it. He had recommended the army for Harvey, a two-year business school for Will. And he had recommended that Stevie, then in his junior year and a gifted portrait artist, a boy who had covered his bedroom walls with pen-and-ink likenesses of movie stars and famous singers but was too shy to show his work to anyone outside the family, Conrad Bole had recommended that Stevie drop out of school and fill the school’s new vacancy for a janitor.
“Have fun,” Harvey tells him. He and Will watch as Stevie crosses behind the front desk and makes his way toward the door in the rear of the room. There Stevie pauses, puts a hand on the doorknob, gives it a slow turn. The latch clicks. He swings the door open, turns back to his brothers, gives them a thumbs-up, and swaggers into Kenny’s office.
“Piece of cake,” Will says.
With their cans of paint he and Harvey scrawl neon orange epithets in three-foot letters on the corridor walls. Will writes Death To Teachers! and School Sucks! Harvey writes Fulton sucks dick! Both men giggle as they wield the cans in looping flourishes. Will paints in an evenhanded script, Harvey in thick, angry letters.
Harvey has finished his first composition and is contemplating his second, trying to envision Fulton is a pervert! emblazoned across the tile floor, when he hears Stevie’s hoarse whisper. “Hey, Harve! Harvey! You might want to come have a look at this!”
Harvey looks over his shoulder and sees Stevie leaning out the door to Kenny’s office. Will asks, “What’s wrong?”
And Stevie says, “You’re not gonna believe this.”
But Stevie, standing behind Kenny’s desk, unsure of what to do, looks from the glowing computer monitor to Harvey, and Harvey knows in an instant that he cannot let Will keep him out, and he shoves his brother hard, pushes past him, all but lunges toward the desk.
“I was just going through the drawers,” Stevie tells him, his words spilling out in a nervous torrent of self-acquittal, “when I came across one that was locked, and I figured if it was locked there must be something good in there, so I jimmied it open and I noticed this CD stuck clear in the back and I was just curious, you know? I swear I had no idea what was on it till I booted it up.”
Harvey grips the back of Kenny’s leather chair. All the air has gone out of his lungs. He is aware of nothing Stevie tells him, aware of no natural sounds whatsoever. The air is dead but for a buzzing growing louder and louder in his ears, burrowing deeper, a drill inside his brain.
Tiled across the monitor are the photo files Stevie found on the CD, pictures he opened one by one and arranged neatly, working in a kind of stunned amazement until horror set in, four photos on top and four underneath, all of Harvey’s wife, Jennilee, gorgeous but appalling.
It is Will’s hand on Harvey’s shoulder that starts the fulmination in Harvey’s brain. Harvey jerks away and shoves the chair with such force that Kenny’s heavy desk is jarred several inches across the thick carpet. The monitor wobbles on its pedestal but doesn’t fall, so Harvey seizes it in both hands and rips it into the air, only to have the cable jerk it out of his hands again. It falls onto the edge of the desk, then capsizes to the floor, the glass and plastic housing shattering. The screen crackles and goes black.
Then Harvey seizes the desk itself and, driving hard, he shoves it across the floor, slides it crashing into a wall. Will grabs him by the arm, but again Harvey jerks away, lunges for the door, arms swinging blindly at everything in his way.