No Way Home

by Andrew Coburn

  Meg O’Brien was gone. He told Bertha Skagg that he was going home and did not want to be bothered the rest of the night, even if the station caught fire. Bertha, who tended to take things personally, said, “I don’t smoke.” Morgan, who always tried to be nice to her, though she got on his nerves, asked about her ankles, and she stuck them out. “Now don’t you wish you didn’t ask?”

  He drove home with no sense of himself, only of Lydia. A sickle moon guided him. Stepping out of his car, he was amazed by the way stars used the night to defy time and space to make themselves known to someone as insignificant as himself. She met him at the door. He expected a kiss but did not fret when he failed to get one.

  They went into the living room. He sat at his desk as if he were back in his office. She made herself comfortable on the sofa with her stocking feet drawn beneath her. She was in her uniform, for she had been to work and left early. Leaning sideways, she extended an arm and switched off the floor lamp. The only light leaked in from another room. Sitting back, she let the gloom eat up half her face.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  He went way back, to the very beginning, to Eunice Rayball, whose death mask he would never forget, and to Papa Rayball, who piled up hate the way Silas Marner bagged money. He jumped the years to the day Junior Rayball hid in the high grass edging the girls’ softball field and Matt MacGregor grabbed him by the scruff. He moved to the tragedy of her parents and ended with Papa stomping his wife’s grave. He did not tell her everything about Matt MacGregor. Maybe in ten years he would and then risk being hated for having held back. He told her he believed Papa was dead. He did not tell her how he knew, and she did not ask. He said nothing about Clement Rayball. She did.

  “I saw him a few days ago at the hospital. I was looking at the son of the man who killed my mother and father. I’m glad I didn’t know.”

  He watched her suffer a small death and slowly come out of it with tears. He moved from his desk and sat with her on the sofa. A warm breeze billowed the thin curtain. She sat in silence, and he did not break it. The night gathered around them and became a collection of summer sounds, all intimate. Finally she spoke again.

  “Matt died with people thinking the worst about him.”

  He groped for a response but felt he would be absurd rendering any. She spoke of Matt’s poor mother and sister, the ordeal of a funeral. She asked whether Matt would be buried in his uniform, and he said, “His mother may not want that.”

  In the kitchen was a small grocery bag. She had brought it. She began scrambling some eggs and sizzling bacon. Getting in her way, he prepared the coffee. She was out of her uniform and wearing one of his old T-shirts over her briefs, which covered little. Stepping back, he said, “You have the loveliest bum in Bensington.”

  “You’ve seen them all?”

  “A few.”

  “You proud of that?”

  “No,” he said.

  They ate together at his table, which in his mind he marked as an occasion, a memory he might take to the grave with him. Again, through a window, the night delivered its sounds and spread them around. She said, “Do you have a picture of your wife?”

  “Many,” he said. “They’re packed away.”

  “You should bring them out, let them breathe. Then maybe you can.”

  The eggs were good, much better than his own efforts would have produced. The bacon was lean. She had given him the most. She lifted her coffee cup.

  “One thing you really ought to do, James. Forgive her for getting killed. It’s time.” She lowered her cup, and he nodded. She said, “I thought that would throw you.”

  “No,” he said, “there’s truth in what you say.”

  The sheets on his bed were fresh. She had been busy. Laundry left on the floor had been tossed into a corner. Insubstantial in the half-light, she waited for him with her head in the pillow and said something that did not carry. Shadows figured her face. He breathed in what he could see. This time, he was sure, she would stay the night.

  When he woke in the false dawn, she was gone.

  • • •

  Clement Rayball woke to a ring, compliments of the Ritz-Carlton. His room overlooked the Public Garden. Arlington Street throbbed with early traffic, the sidewalk with people hustling to jobs. One beautiful woman seemed to breed another. They were everywhere.

  In the dining room he had English muffins and coffee at a corner table, where he looked out at businessmen who had forsaken power lunches for power breakfasts. The businessmen bored him, and he turned to the newspaper. The front page told him that Crack Alexander was hanging up his spikes. His horoscope advised him not to hold grudges. From a pocket he withdrew a scrap of ratty paper on which was scribbled the name and address of another hotel.

  He found it without trouble and, though he did not know it, parked the rental in the space where his brother had spent some of the last hours of his life. In the hotel he described Junior to the fat man, who said, “No kiddin’, that’s your brother? Yeah, he came in, but he didn’t have enough money, so he left. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “He might’ve found a way back,” Clement said and, snapping a crisp new bill, slipped the man a hundred. “Let me talk to the women.”

  “No trouble, is there?”

  “No trouble at all.”

  “I got three early birds, that’s all, only two today. Nice girls.” He told Clement the room numbers, both on the same floor. “You might wanna try one. One puts on a show, good single act.”

  Clement, though unaware of it, retraced his brother’s steps. The smell of disinfectant followed him up the stairs and invoked memories he swiftly purged from his mind. A white woman with sleep in her eyes remembered Junior, but little else. She blocked a yawn, tightened her robe, and said, “I had to look twice, I thought he was a kid.”

  A black woman said, “Yeah, my guy hit him. Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine,” Clement said, with another note in his hand, as crisp as the first one. “Who was the guy?”

  “His name’s Sal. He makes book out of a convenience store around the corner. You won’t miss him. He’s got holes in his face.” She tucked the money away. “Don’t tell him I told.”

  “I won’t,” he said and started to walk away.

  “It wasn’t the kid’s fault,” she called out. “We get animals in here.”

  The store was no more than a hole in the wall, with a sign outside that said corner variety and with an unaired smell inside. Girlie and macho magazines consumed a wall. Bread and milk appeared to be the major grocery items. The man behind the counter did indeed have holes in his face, as if he had survived debris from a shotgun. Clement said, “Hi, Sal, how you doing?”

  Sal scrutinized him. “You a cop?”

  “No, but yesterday you slammed my brother over the head. What the hell did you use?”

  “That little turd was your brother?” Sal laughed. “Yeah, I hit him. I was pay in’ to watch somethin’, he was grabbin’ a peek. Simple as that.” Sal laid a plumbing pipe on the counter, the length of a baton. “He’s a pervert. You got an argument about it?”

  “No,” Clement said. “Sounds like he deserved it.”

  14

  It was a Saturday in September, a rather pleasant one after such an uncomfortable summer, which had ended with a drought. Autumn colors haunted the trees. Fleets of birds were already sailing south. The lilies that had exalted the paved path to the Congregational church had vanished, leaving behind forlorn stalks with empty prongs. Mrs. Stottle’s garden, which had grown so riotously, was subsiding, withdrawing, which did not displease Reverend Stottle.

  He was sitting in the garden with a notebook in his lap. He was mulling over what might perhaps be his last sermon, for it was clear that the board, Randolph Jackson in particular, wanted his resignation, which if not rendered soon would be forced from him. By his elbow was a glass of milk and a half-depleted dish of Oreo cookies. Earlier he had jotted down ideas on his napkin
but later absently wiped his mouth on them, expunging them forever. He heard the sound of a car. Mrs. Stottle was home. He hoped she would not disturb him.

  His fine-tip felt marker was poised over his open notebook. If this was to be his last sermon, it must sing in the voice of the ages. It must resound. It must reach a bellow. It must — Mrs. Stottle came upon him.

  “Austin.”

  “Yes, my dear.”

  She was excited, her smile inordinately bright. “I went to plead your case to Mr. Jackson, but I didn’t have to.”

  “I specifically told you not to,” he said, reaching for a cookie. “Let God’s will prevail.”

  “Mrs. Dugdale’s is better. They finally found it. Her old lawyer didn’t even know he had it. Excuse my French, Austin, but Mrs. Dugdale has saved your ass.”

  He bit into the cookie. “Please, Sarah.”

  “She left the church a bundle and named you sole authority over the funds until — and I’m quoting now — ’until such time as Reverend Mister Stottle voluntarily retires.’ Those were her words fifteen years ago, valid then, valid now.”

  He was impressed, but not all that much, and told himself he would not have another cookie. He knitted his brow the way he used to in Bible college when resolving never again to play with himself.

  Mrs. Stottle laughed. “Sweet adorable bumblehead, I’m talking six figures.”

  He caught on. God, full of eternal goodness, had looked down upon him. God, who might mercifully grant a full house to a prayerful poker player accustomed to two pairs, had given him a royal flush. With this new hand, he said, “The question is whether I want to stay here or go to another parish.”

  “No other parish will take you, dingdong. You know that.”

  “I might simply retire.”

  “Your pension will be a pittance. Play that game with Mr. Jackson when he comes, not with me.”

  “He’s coming here?”

  “Yes. To ask you to stay.” She leaned over and kissed him on the head. Then she was gone.

  With a hint of rapture, his eyes smarted with happy tears. Breaking his resolution as easily as he had at Bible college, he snatched up another Oreo and poised the felt marker over the virgin notepaper. Inspired, he wrote, “Some of you may wonder what happened to the heads during the days of the guillotine. The answer is simple: God put them back.”

  Arlene Bowman played an hour of hard tennis with another woman from the Heights, who was a little younger and a little better than she, which gave the play more meaning. She felt vital. “We must do this again,” she said to her partner, who had to hurry off to retrieve her small children from a lawn party at Pike School in Andover.

  Strolling back to the clubhouse, tapping her racquet against her knee, she noticed a crowd on the links. The draw was Crack Alexander, who had a mighty drive. Some said he looked as good with a club as he had with a bat. Shading her eyes, she glimpsed Sissy Alexander, who was among his fawning admirers, and wondered what he wanted his wife there for.

  Conspicuously leggy in her dazzling tennis whites, she entered the lounge and looked for a place at the crowded bar. She hoisted herself onto a high chair next to a man named Dick, who smiled at his good luck and greeted her by name. He had an overabundance of pampered silver-toned hair that could have been a crown of fur from a fine animal. His eyes were an uncertain blue. Perhaps they were gray, like the chief’s.

  “You look terrific,” he said. His voice was enthusiastic, her response was not. A knee resting against hers, he told an off-color story, which did not amuse her. The man was an asshole. A past tennis partner, he had been trying to make her for months. “How’s that husband of yours?” he asked.

  “How’s that wife of yours?” she replied, letting him pay for her drink. She enjoyed watching him get nothing for his money.

  “I read in the paper he’s in a bit of trouble.”

  “Nothing he can’t get out of.”

  “This looks serious.”

  “If you look real deep into anything, anything at all, what you find is a joke. Have you ever looked deep into anything, Dick?”

  “Yes,” he said, his knee pressing. “Your eyes.”

  She finished her drink and left. She drove with the windows open, enjoyed the carnival colors of autumn, and let her hair blow. Oakcrest Heights looked especially beautiful. The roadside flamed with sumac and fire bush.

  She stepped from her car and headed for the door. She was home early. She would be a surprise, welcome or unwelcome. Gerald had not been himself for a long while, a bear one day and a lamb the next. She left her racquet on the foyer table, where she sorted mail and saw nothing of interest. Stepping away, her eye caught a flash of color. She moved toward the sitting room, looked in, and froze. Her husband was wearing one of her dresses, one of Roberta’s best.

  Caught flagrante delicto, no moves to make, he smiled while attempting to conceal a ruptured seam. “How do I look?”

  “Charming,” she said and turned on her heel.

  She sped back to the country club. She left her car in a space reserved for the handicapped and, walking fast, ran both hands through her hair. The lounge was still crowded, but Dick was no longer at the bar. He was sitting at a table with someone she knew vaguely, a dowdy woman from the Heights who was breaking out of her shell and trying to look pretty.

  “Tell her to screw.”

  “Screw,” Dick said, and the woman nearly fell over her chair in leaving.

  Arlene sat down hard. “I need a drink.”

  Dick grinned. “Your turn to pay.”

  • • •

  Christine Poole spent the morning at the Total Beauty Spa in Andover, where fabulous-looking women who did not look their age steamed and bathed her body, pampered her skin with oils, teased her muscles with infallible moves, unraveled her tensions, and reinforced her worth. Later she wriggled into her jeans. She had not dared to wear jeans in years. Then she slipped on her silk shirt and put repairing hands to her hair, which was a different color now, a shade she had always wanted to try. The manager, Leona, said, “You look fabulous, Mrs. Poole.”

  Before leaving, she gave a last look at herself in the wall mirror. Light lay furtively in her hair as if at any moment it might be shooed away. Her breasts were pronounced. She had lost weight everywhere but there, which she decided was not so bad. Swiveling sideways, she smiled at herself over the curve of her shoulder.

  Back in Bensington, she stopped at Tuck’s and bought a small container of salad at the deli section, which was a recent addition. The quaintness of the store was little more than a memory now. Returning to her car, she saw Chief Morgan ambling across the green and waited for him.

  “How are you, James?”

  He blinked and smiled. “Christine?”

  “Didn’t recognize me, did you?”

  “You look wonderful,” he said. Briefly he took her hand. “I’m sorry about your husband.”

  “I got your flowers. Thank you.” For a moment her face was her former one. “They say it was an accident, but I know what it was. No one will ever convince me otherwise. But I’m not letting it get to me.” She smiled. “Tell me about you. Is there anyone special in your life?”

  “I guess you could say that. Problem is, she’s not always there. She’s in and out.”

  “Another one of those things, huh, James?”

  “It would be easier if it were,” he said.

  “It’s serious, then.”

  “On my part.”

  Her face hardened at the mouth. “What did you ever see in me?”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said.

  “What did I see in you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think I know,” she said. “And you probably do too. It was my first husband. I talked about him enough.”

  “I gathered he was a terrific guy.”

  “He was terrific, but I made him out to be more than he was.”

  “Yes,” he said, “we tend to do things l
ike that, don’t we?”

  She went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Do you care who saw that?”

  “No,” he said. “It adds to my reputation.”

  “Good-bye, James.”

  “Good-bye,” he said.

  • • •

  For his birthday, the tenth of September, Meg O’Brien had given him a handgun, a 9mm semiautomatic pistol, to replace his worthless revolver, which he had fired only once in the line of duty, at a dog frothing at the mouth. Sitting at his desk, he slid the massive pistol in and out of its shiny black holster and could not imagine aiming it at another human being. You needed both hands to steady it and a certain kind of brain to fire it. He slid it into a bottom drawer.

  His birthday had been two weeks before. Lydia Lapham, vacationing in Bermuda with her aunt, had sent him a card with love and kisses, which was less than it sounded. Her handwriting was hurried, and she had neglected to include the zip in the address, which delayed the arrival. She was back now and had her house up for sale in a soft market.

  Before that, in the midst of the August drought, he had attended a police conference in Chicago, where he sneaked off each day to watch the Bulls in preseason practice. He watched Michael Jordan and could not believe his eyes. Not once but several times he saw Jordan leap into space, defy gravity, and with absolute grace dislocate himself to make an impossible shot. Like a kid, he later stood in line for an autograph. When Jordan looked down at him from the heights, he said, “It’s for my son.”

  Back in July, when people thought the heat would hold the summer in place forever, Papa Rayball’s body was fished free of the Merrimack in Newburyport, near the mouth of the river. It was on its way to the sea when it washed up on a shoal and was discovered by a boater. Morgan tried to reach Clement Rayball in Florida but could not locate him. He used the money left over from Junior’s funeral to pay for Papa’s and tucked the receipts away in the event Clement ever wanted to see them.

  He did not have Clement’s address, but he had his statement, which he made public the day he received it. It satisfied a lot of people in town because it meant that now Flo and Earl Lapham were laid to rest and others could go to bed at night without fear. Some felt shame for their insinuations about Matt MacGregor, whose sister established a thousand-dollar scholarship at the high school in his memory. Lydia attended the ceremony, but Morgan did not, for which some people faulted him. Most, however, agreed that he was not such a bad police chief after all and began joking again about his love life.