“Do you mind?”
He did not have a choice. The man, who had carried his drink with him — straight scotch, it looked like — had already seated himself. A tasteless necktie hung tristfully, pining for a tighter knot. The voice was big.
“My name’s John. What’s yours?”
He did not know this man. He did not want to know him. He said, “Calvin.”
The waitress appeared, and John said, “Give Calvin whatever he wants. It’s on me. And bring another Cutty.”
The waitress said, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“Six hours from now I might have enough. Now, no.” He laughed. He had a warm, full-blooded face, a manly nose, and a substantial mouth. “I’ve lost my job, Calvin. What d’you think of that? Twenty-two years with the same company, and I’m out on the street. I wasn’t the only one. They let a bunch of us go.”
Poole looked for a means to escape, but felt anchored. The leg that had lost all that tension now lay under the table like lead. The waitress was back and placing a scotch before him, which he did not remember ordering. She left nothing for John, who gazed up in wonder.
“Mama knows best,” she explained, and he smiled with glee.
“Isn’t she a cutie? We’ll share yours, that all right, Calvin?”
Nothing seemed right, and yet nothing seemed really wrong. The world was simply going one way and he another. “Be my guest,” he said.
“Everything’s catching up, Calvin. That’s the bitch of it. And I’m a little scared, I’m man enough to admit it. Some guys wouldn’t. They’d pretend.”
Somewhere in the bar, tuned pleasantly low, was music. Vera Lynn was in the midst of a medley that always stirred the heart. It brought back all those World War II movies and the bravery of the British.
“I wasn’t always scared, Calvin. Actually, I was adventurous. I left home when I was sixteen, slept in cars, washed up in public rest rooms, ate where I could, worked where I could. Happiest time of my life.” He appropriated the scotch. “I’m self-educated. I spent a lot of time in libraries beating the cold.”
A serious student, Poole had also spent much time in a library, where that faculty wife had helped out on Wednesdays and Fridays and sat negligently on a step stool. He wished now that, like the British, he had been brave and risen to the challenge.
“I had a lot of jobs, Calvin, but eventually I got into insurance, learned everything about it from a real nice fella. Some people, you know, won’t teach you anything, they hold back. They’re afraid you’ll take their job, but old Lapham wasn’t like that. He wasn’t so old either. Had a bad heart and retired before his time. Often wonder how he’s doing.”
The name meant something to him, but he couldn’t figure out what. He also couldn’t figure out why he was sipping scotch from a glass someone else had had his mouth on.
“My first wife, Calvin, she hung me out to dry in the divorce. My new wife, she’s a pretty lady, but she’s stepping out on me, not even hiding it. She says I can’t cut it anymore. There was a time I could cut it with the best. Believe me.”
He believed him. He even half liked him.
“She’s young. You must’ve guessed that.”
“Yes, I guessed that.”
John’s eyes were minnows swimming in one direction and then another. He tapped the table for another drink. “Calvin, my first wife was a peach. I betrayed her.”
“Yes, I guessed that too.” He had an extra sense, a third eye.
“The worst thing is not my marriages, not my job, but my cat. She died last night in the kitchen. I was in the living room and heard the death gurgles. Nothing I could do. Too late, Calvin, everything’s too late.”
The waitress brought two drinks, and John tasted his and said, “I told you she was cute.” Poole tasted his. It was ginger ale. “You got the world by the balls, don’t you, Calvin?”
“Not entirely,” he said.
He was bothered by the smoke when John lit a cigar, but it did not stay lit. He drew his leg up and found some spring in it now. John went to the men’s room. He could have left then, but he did not. He stayed for John, whom he felt he owed something.
The bar served light suppers, and they broke bread together. “My treat,” Poole said. There was a new waitress now, less caring. They lingered over coffee, and then it was truly time to leave. “Six hours,” John proclaimed. “I said six hours, didn’t I?”
Poole rose on steady legs. John’s, surprisingly, were even steadier, though he had managed to have another drink, a double. Outside, the day’s heat clung to the evening air. Street traffic had diminished, but exhaust smells hovered. John said, “You OK, Calvin?”
“I’m OK. And you, John?”
“I’m tiptop.”
“You’re not going to do anything foolish, are you?”
“I know what you’re thinking.” John smiled his big smile. “I don’t have the guts for that. And I’m not driving. I’m going home in style, a taxi.” They shook hands. “You’re a real gentleman, Calvin. See you around.”
“He’s dead,” Poole said.
“Who’s dead?”
“Lapham.”
“Poor old bugger,” John said and hailed a taxi.
Poole strode on, past the bank, which was closed, the regulators gone but sure to be back tomorrow. He must not forget to send flowers, tickets too. That faculty wife, he remembered, had done herself in on pills and top administrators had breathed sighs of relief. He breathed in the chill dank of a parking garage, his heels tapping a monotonous tune across a gruesome tier of concrete. He rode the elevator to his car.
On Washington Street, a traffic light smoldered too long and he drove through it. The dashboard with its printout of cold blue lights was vaguely threatening, as if the automobile were programmed to explode under certain conditions. He rode the ramp onto the Central Artery and as he made the swing onto Interstate 93, he caught a last full look at the city. Ribbons of lights from the bigger buildings gave it a packaged look. It might have been a fabulous toy wrapped in gold and black, what a millionaire might give to his mistress. It was where his father had made his money and kept it, and where he had made his money and lost it.
He was tired, he hadn’t realized exactly how tired he was. He was glad to be going home.
• • •
Clement Rayball tracked him down, not in the woods, but, guided by inspiration, at Wenson’s ice-cream stand, where he saw him licking a cone at a secluded picnic bench inside the shade of a willow. He approached him with an easy stride, with a smile, with nothing to upset him. There was leaf shadow on his face and strawberry ice cream around his mouth. He sat across from him and said, “Use your napkin.”
“Just before you said, I was gonna.” Junior smudged his mouth.
“I heard you had a fit.”
“I did.” Junior spoke cheerfully. “The chief took care of me.”
“How’s your tongue?”
“The chief untucked it. I didn’t bite it. He’s a good fella, Clement.”
Clement propped his elbows and brought his hands together. Two girls were looking for a table. Junior stared at the peaks in their T-shirts. “Who am I, Junior?”
He smiled. “You’re Clement.”
“Who else am I?”
“You’re my brother.”
“Your blood brother. You know where Florida is?”
“That’s where you are.”
“When I go back, how would you like to go with me? You could live there.”
Junior looked happy, then uncertain. “I don’t know.”
“Tell me what you don’t know. We’ll talk about it.” Junior looked bewildered. “I don’t know what I don’t know.”
“Then just tell me what you think of the idea.”
“I’ve always lived with Papa, I don’t know any other place.” Anxiety made him fidget. “Would Papa come too?”
“I’ll tell you what, we’ll talk about it later. All right?” The two girls h
ad found a table in the dying sun, and now they were staring over ice cream, one with giggles. Clement scowled, and they turned their heads. “Do you know why I came home?”
“To see us.”
“To make sure nothing bad happens to you. But I can’t guarantee nothing will if I’m not here. Junior, don’t pay attention to those girls. Pay attention to me. Did you hear everything I said?”
“Yes.”
“Now I’m going to ask you something, and I want the truth. Did you shoot that lady?”
“No.”
“OK, just relax, everything’s fine. Now I’m going to ask you another question. Did Papa shoot her?”
Junior hesitated, but not long. “Yes.”
Clement tightened his hands under his chin. He felt an unsettling breeze on his neck. It felt like somebody’s hot hand.
“He did it for me, Clement. To pay people back.”
Clement stared up into the willow. “If he did it for anybody, he did it for himself.”
“Don’t tell him I told.”
“I won’t. I promise.” He pulled himself up and put on a smiling face. “You take care, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Junior bit into the cone. “Clement, am I a retard?”
“Who said you were?”
“Papa. Is it good or bad?”
“It’s neither. It’s something some people are and some aren’t.”
“So I am.”
Clement felt something pull at his head and hurt his heart. “What you are, Junior, is my brother.”
• • •
Lydia Lapham did not ask him in. He brought himself in with all his spiritual luggage and his overly good face and parked himself in the overstuffed chair that had been her father’s favorite. Wrapped in her robe, she returned to the sofa and, despite the heat, stretched out under a thin blanket. She had had a chill since morning.
“Matt needs you,” he said.
She closed her eyes. “Please, Reverend, some things aren’t your business.”
“The boy is eating himself up over you, I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
He was talking MacGregor and she was thinking Chief, whom she feared might be another mistake in her life. Another Matt. Another Frank. Another waste of precious years.
Reverend Stottle sat straight in his chair, like Abraham Lincoln in his. “Gauge your own grief, Lydia, and consider that his might be every bit as great as yours. You have lost your parents, and he has lost his mate.”
“We weren’t married.”
“Ah, but you were as mates, don’t pretend you weren’t.”
“Again, that’s not your business. I don’t even want you here, Reverend.”
“We’re all God’s creatures,” he said with utmost patience. “We must look after each other. Matt has a duty to look after you, but you won’t let him exercise it. You’ll end up driving him into the arms of whores.”
“Tell him to wear a rubber.”
“I didn’t hear that, Lydia. It passed right over my head. Your lips, as far as I’m concerned, remain sweet.” He shifted his feet. He started to rise and then stayed put. “God’s breath became the beauty of women. I’ve always believed that. That’s why no woman is born without charm.”
She opened her eyes. “That’s too fancy for me, Reverend. I’m sorry.” The room was dim. The sun had quit coming in. Her eyes closed again.
“We all have unworthy thoughts,” he said in a tone of concession, “men and women alike. When I was a boy I wanted to become a tailor so I could run a tape measure around a woman’s bust. My uncle, on my mother’s poor side, was a tailor and regaled my father with off-color stories. My father repeated the stories to my mother to remind her of her humble origins.”
“Your father must have been a winner,” Lydia said in a drowsy voice that left a taste in her mouth.
“My mother,” he went on, “was a wise woman. When I said dirty words she reminded me that God has big ears. When I threatened to run away she packed me a lunch and told me not to eat it all at once because it would have to last me forever.”
His voice was an irritant. “Reverend, I’m so tired. Would you please go?”
“I understand. Go to sleep. I’ll tiptoe out.”
She pulled the blanket closer and nodded off almost at once, though for no more than a few minutes. Now, instead of fighting chills, she was sweating and tossed the blanket off. Opening her eyes, she saw shadows and her father’s empty chair. The stillness of the house was too intense to accommodate even his ghost.
Switching on a light, scattering any ghosts that may have tried to intrude, she mounted the stairs and used the bathroom. On her way out her shoulder banged the wall. She used the light from the passageway to enter the bedroom. Reverend Stottle’s clothes were on the floor, and Reverend Stottle was in the bed, the covers pulled to his chin.
“I’ve been waiting,” he said, his face fervent with a calling.
She turned, descended the stairs, and reached for the telephone. After misdialing once, she rang up the station. Bertha Skagg took the call. The chief came on the line moments later.
“James, you’d better get over here.”
• • •
Chief Morgan escorted him out of the house, guided him down the path, and walked him to the car with a firm grip on his arm. Reverend Stottle shivered. Abjectly he said, “Are you taking me to jail, Chief?”
“I’m taking you home. Get in.”
The reverend slipped into the passenger side of the chief’s car and gave a start when the radio crackled. Head bowed, he placed his hands between his knees. The chief settled in beside him and tried to start the motor, which took awhile.
“God damn you.”
“Don’t curse me, Chief.”
“The motor, not you.”
“I’ve been under stress.”
“Obviously.”
The motor roared. The car fled forward, and the chief clicked on the headlights, which shot out and froze a cat and caught the gold of its eyes. He sped around it.
“You won’t … you won’t tell, will you, Chief? I’m on shaky ground at the church.”
The chief said, “I won’t tell.”
“My car’s back there. People will know.”
The chief took a corner. “I’ll have it returned to you,” he said and slowed down a little. So far, for the most part, he had avoided looking at his passenger.
“You’re disappointed in me, aren’t you?”
“That was my girl you were bothering, Reverend.”
“Not your girl, Chief. Matt MacGregor’s.”
“My girl.”
“Yours? Really? Chief, congratulations. When the time comes, the church is yours free, even the organist, and I’ll do the marrying. A deal?”
Morgan looked at him. “Reverend, shut up.” He ran the car around the green, swerved into the drive beside the church, and pulled up near the white house, where the Stottles lived. “Good night, Reverend.”
Reverend Stottle slipped out, stopped short, and looked back in horror. “I think I may have left something there.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“My underdrawers.”
“That happened to me once.”
Reverend Stottle’s smile came out nervous and conspiratorial. “We’re no angels, are we, Chief?”
• • •
Christine Poole may not have found a suitable dress at Roberta’s, but she did come upon running togs that caught her eye in Donna’s Sportswear. They were crimson with white reflective bands, and she bought them immediately, though the price was outrageous. She had them on that evening, when the sun was nearing its low, and jogged three miles along the byways of Oakcrest Heights. She would have done more had the air not been so sultry. Her late supper was cottage cheese on a leaf of lettuce.
She was not surprised that her husband was not yet home, for she knew that the regulators had been expected that day and were probably still there with their treacherous little calculators. She i
magined they even wore eyeshades. Poor Calvin.
Later, the stereo providing the haunting theme music from Once Upon a Time in America, she stretched out with a magazine and read women’s secrets of weight loss. At ten o’clock she became concerned and called the bank, but heard only a recording. At eleven the front bell rang. She opened the door and saw a broad-shouldered state trooper, whose summer hat was in his hands. Her mind raced. Poised in her crimson sweats, she felt like something said too loud.
“My husband?”
“Yes, ma’am. He was in an accident on Eye-Ninety-three.”
“He’s hurt.”
“It was a bad one, ma’am.”
“He’s dead.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
11
With Chief Morgan watching from the shore, two scuba divers from the Lawrence Fire Department spent the morning searching Paget’s Pond and came up with nothing of interest. They promised to return after lunch for another try. Hopes still high, Morgan returned to the station. Meg O’Brien, eating at her desk, said, “Any luck?”
“Not yet.”
She was eating homemade potato salad laced with onion and herbs. “Want some?”
Dropping into a chair near her desk, he took some. Sergeant Avery was at the Blue Bonnet, and they had the station to themselves. Morgan had briefed her on all pertinencies, which neatened his mind but did not soothe it. He took a swig from her can of root beer.
“I want him, Meg.”
“I know you do.” She passed a napkin over her mouth. “Are you sure he threw it in Paget’s?”
“Of course I’m not sure! He could have buried it. There are miles of woods. When I was at his place yesterday I could’ve been walking over it.”
His tone was sharp, and he regretted it. Meg rose from her desk to retrieve something of no significance from a table, her way of giving him time to pull in his horns. She was wearing no stockings, which revealed the veiny luster of her legs. She was no spring chicken. Christ, neither was he. She had to be fifty, at least, and what was he? Forty-fucking-six.
“Meg, I’m sorry.”
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