End of Story

by Peter Abrahams

  Ninety-nine had a long, easy stride that looked effortless but chewed up the yardage. No one got near him. Touchdown. Ninety-nine wheeled in the end zone to greet his teammates, charging into the picture. The tape froze; a grainy tape, the focus not always right, but ninety-nine’s grin was visible through his face mask.

  “You’re sure that’s Harrow?” Ivy said.

  “Huh?” said the coach.

  “Ninety-nine.”

  “Course I’m sure,” said the coach. “I look senile to you?”

  “Sorry,” Ivy said. “I just meant…” What did she mean?

  “What?” said the coach.

  “Did anything bad happen to him later on?” Ivy said.

  “Hell, yes. He got himself caught up in that goddamn robbery and ruint his life.”

  “I meant did he get injured?”

  The coach shook his head. “One of those shifty kids that’s hard to lay a clean hit on. Played every down for me right through senior year.”

  “What about after high school? Did he ever get hurt then?”

  “Not that I heard,” said the coach. “What are you driving at?”

  “I don’t know,” Ivy said, although by now she kind of did. Ski-mask Harrow was a duck-footed runner, slow and clumsy; this grinning Harrow frozen in the end zone was a beautiful athlete, born to run, his stride classic. And therefore?

  The coach switched off the machine.

  “Any of this help?” he said.

  Sixteen

  At six o’clock, the doors of the Wal-Mart near the bridge to Canada slid open. Some Wal-Mart workers came out, still wearing their smocks, and headed into the parking lot. One of them, a pretty woman with a wild cascade of blond hair, glanced around and saw the Saab. She came over, every step closer aging her a little more. The woman ended up looking about thirty-six or -seven, although Ivy knew she was a few years younger than that. The button on her smock read: Hi! I’m Claudette. How May I Help You?

  Ivy rolled down the window.

  “You who Ferdie Gagnon sent?” Claudette said. She had a husky, smoker’s voice.

  Ivy introduced herself.

  “You’re writing about Betty Ann?” Claudette said.

  “Not directly,” Ivy said. “But she’s part of my research.”

  Claudette ran her eyes over the Saab. “This yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice ride,” Claudette said.

  “Is there somewhere we could talk?” Ivy said. “Maybe I could buy you dinner.”

  “You like Chinese?” Claudette said.

  “I do.” There was a Northern Szechuan restaurant around the corner from Verlaine’s that she loved, and the Shanghai vegetarian place a few doors down from that was almost as good.

  “Me, too,” said Claudette. “Let’s stop by the Tiki Boat.”

  “Should I follow you?”

  “Nah,” said Claudette. “I’m not in driving mode at present.” She walked around the car, got in the passenger seat. “Hang a left out the lot.” Claudette yanked off her smock and tossed it in the back. “Mind if I smoke?”

  Ivy did mind, but that was no way to start. “Not if you don’t,” she said.

  Claudette, pack of generics already out, paused. “Hey,” she said, “that’s pretty funny.” She lit up, inhaled deeply, cracked open the window and tossed out her match. “Okay me stealing that?”

  “Stealing what?” Ivy said.

  “That not-if-you-don’t line,” Claudette said.

  “Fine with me,” Ivy said. She turned left, followed the highway along the river, back toward West Raquette. Nighttime now, the river blue black and oily, lights flickering on the far side. “It must be nice, living by the river,” she said.

  Claudette shrugged. “I don’t fish or nothin’. Take the second right.”

  They sat at the back of the Tiki Boat, under a dusty red lantern with a few fly carcasses stuck inside. Claudette took off her jacket. She had a body that was crossing the line from extreme voluptuousness to something else. The waitress came over.

  “Share a firebowl?” Claudette said.

  “Why not?” said Ivy, not sure what it was.

  The waitress returned with a large earthenware bowl and a male helper. He held a match to the mustard-colored liquid inside and intoned, “South Sea Firebowl.” It blazed up. Claudette tore the wrapper off her straw and, as the flames died down, started slurping away.

  “Gonna let me drink this all by myself?” Claudette said. “You’ll be sorry.”

  Ivy unwrapped her straw.

  “Good, huh?” said Claudette a minute or two later.

  “What’s in it?” Ivy said. Despite her bartending experience, she really couldn’t tell.

  “You name it,” Claudette said.

  Ivy scanned the menu.

  “Don’t bother with that,” Claudette said. “Piggy platter’s the specialty of the house.” They ordered a piggy platter, with a side of the Mongolian fries for Claudette.

  “Mmm,” Claudette said, licking her fingers. “So what do you wanna know?”

  Ivy, her head already buzzing a little from the South Sea Firebowl, tried to organize all the information. The question that rose to the top was one she actually hadn’t formulated till that moment, although it had almost come up in her talk with Tony B. “Do you think Harrow knows where Betty Ann is,” she said, “and is still protecting her?”

  Claudette chewed thoughtfully. “If he is,” she said, “it just proves how dumb men can be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t tell me you think men are smart?”

  “Some of them, yes,” Ivy said.

  “Then maybe we’re not going round in the same circles,” Claudette said. She pointed a rib bone at Ivy. “What I’ve had fucking up my life is men that think they’re smart. Catch the difference?”

  “I do,” Ivy said. She took another sip from the South Sea Firebowl; not as bad as she’d thought—maybe one of those drinks that got better as you went along. “Speaking of smart men,” she said, “everyone keeps saying how brainy Frank Mandrell was.” Claudette, reaching for another rib, paused. “Did you know him?”

  “Everybody knows everybody in a place like this,” Claudette said.

  “But Frank Mandrell wasn’t from here, was he?” Ivy said.

  Claudette glanced at her over the firebowl. “True,” she said. “He came from Montreal originally.”

  “Via the prison where he met Marv Lusk.”

  “We got to talk about that shithole while I’m eating?”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Course. Went to kindergarten together, for Christ sake.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Marv? You know.” Claudette sucked up a little more from the firebowl. “A loser.”

  “And he met Mandrell in prison.”

  “Something of that nature.”

  “What prison?”

  “Over in Canada somewheres,” Claudette said. “The joints are better up there. More humane, like.”

  Had Claudette done time? Ivy was wondering whether to go into that, and if so, how, when Claudette added, “So they say.”

  “How did Lusk end up in a Canadian prison?” Ivy said.

  “Marv? Easy.” Claudette lit a cigarette, had a little smoke break.

  “Are there any Lusks still around?” Ivy said.

  “Nah.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They got what they deserved, one way or t’other.”

  “Such as?”

  “You name it.”

  Ivy, without really thinking, took another strawful from the firebowl. Possibly a mistake. Everything shifted a little bit. For example, all of a sudden she felt like she’d known Claudette for years and that Claudette wasn’t so bad.

  “I’m trying to organize all these events,” she said, “put them in a time line.”

  Claudette exhaled a smoke plume. “Why bother?”

  That struck Ivy as hilar
ious. She laughed and laughed. Claudette joined in. Ivy started crying a bit, and got a grip. She went to take another sip; so did Claudette, and their heads touched for a moment over the bowl. The next thing Ivy knew, Claudette was looking at her in a new way.

  “I misjudged you,” she said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “You must be one of those types that make a bad first impression.”

  “Like how?” Ivy said.

  “Tight-ass bitch,” said Claudette. “But you’re not. Not a hundred percent, anyway.”

  Ivy laughed again, a normal laugh this time. At that moment, she understood deep down something she took to be fundamental about life; the first realization of that type she’d ever had. To get from people you had to give a piece of yourself, a real piece that mattered. Just being nice was not enough. She glimpsed a distant future where her writing had a theme, actually said something important.

  “Thinkin’ deep thoughts?” said Claudette.

  “Not really,” Ivy said. “Do you miss Betty Ann a lot?”

  Claudette winced, a tiny movement, mostly in the eyes. She stubbed out her cigarette, more forcefully than she had to. “Where did that come from?”

  “It just popped out.”

  “Well, pop it right back in,” Claudette said, loud enough for the bartender to glance over. “Fuckin’ right, I miss her. We were like twins.” She corrected herself in a much quieter voice. “We are.”

  Ivy spoke quietly, too. “Does that mean she’s been in touch?”

  Claudette sat back in her chair. “Whoa,” she said. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

  “A natural one,” Ivy said.

  “Cop question, if you ask me,” Claudette said. “Think I’d tell you if she would’ve?”

  “Probably not,” Ivy said.

  “Fuckin’ right,” Claudette said. The bartender looked over again. “My lips are like this.” She zipped them shut. But, a moment or two later, unzipped them enough to fit her straw in and down a little more from the firebowl. She saw Ivy watching her and talked around the straw. “But since you’re so nosy, not a word from Betty Ann in seven years. No phone calls, no letters, nada.”

  “Where do you think she went?”

  “No clue,” said Claudette. Her straw made that reaching-the-bottom-of-the-well sound and she looked up. “But why do you care? It’s just a story—you can put Betty Ann anywheres you want.”

  “Not really,” Ivy said. “Where she ends up has to fit with the character.”

  “Hey,” Claudette said. “That’s pretty interesting. How about another one of these?”

  “Another firebowl?”

  “I’m not on till four tomorrow,” Claudette said. “This is practically my Saturday night.”

  “I’m driving,” Ivy said.

  “Don’t priss out on me,” said Claudette, raising her hand. The waitress came over. “Hit us again,” she said, took another look at Ivy and added, “the little one.”

  The little one turned out to be a slightly smaller bowl that still required the male helper. “South Sea Junior Firebowl,” he said, and lit it up.

  “I’m havin’ some fun for fuckin’ once,” Claudette said. “You?”

  “Yes,” Ivy said. “Where were we?”

  “End has to fit the character?”

  “Before that.”

  “Frank?”

  “Yes,” Ivy said. “Tell me about Frank.”

  “Like what?”

  “How well you knew him for starters,” Ivy said.

  Claudette’s eyes crossed slightly. “I knew him.”

  “And?”

  “And so did lots of people,” Claudette said. “Frank got around.”

  “How so?”

  “If you knew him you wouldn’t have to ask,” Claudette said, trying the junior firebowl. “This one’s even better.”

  “But I didn’t,” Ivy said.

  “Huh?”

  “Know him.”

  “Frank?”

  Ivy nodded.

  “Then we’re on the same page,” Claudette said.

  “Same page?” Ivy said. “But you just said you knew him.”

  “I guess it’s all relevant,” Claudette said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Relative, maybe?”

  Relative, relevant: the distinction started to elude Ivy. She was feeling a bit dizzy. “Meaning you thought you knew him but found out you were wrong?” she said.

  “Something like that,” Claudette said.

  “Wrong in what way?” Ivy said.

  “Want this one?” said Claudette.

  “You have it,” said Ivy.

  “Merci.” Claudette took the last pork ball, and with her mouth full said something like, “Ladies’ men fool the hell out of me. Is that a sin?”

  “Frank was a ladies’ man?” Ivy said.

  “Also ambitious,” said Claudette.

  “What was his ambition?” Ivy said.

  “He wanted to open a chain of strip clubs, but I always thought he should shoot for the really big time.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Hollywood,” Claudette said. “Frank looked like that movie star, plus he’d been around, you know—spoke French, I kid you not. And don’t leave out the Beamer.”

  “What movie star?” Ivy said.

  “Oh, what’s his name? Dark, a real looker, big smile, soulful eyes. Help me here.”

  “Denzel Washington?”

  Claudette laughed, spewing firebowl spray across the table. “You’re a hoot,” she said. “I actually got a picture of Frank at home, case you wanna see.”

  “I’ll drive you,” Ivy said.

  “Only way I’ll get there,” said Claudette.

  Ivy followed Claudette’s directions: into West Raquette, along Main, a right turn past the high school, soon another turn on a dark street, the houses growing farther apart.

  “Hang another right,” Claudette said.

  Ivy turned right, the headlights glancing over a street sign: RANSOM ROAD.

  “You live on Ransom Road?” Ivy said.

  “Careful. It’s steep.”

  Ivy drove down a steep hill. “This would be pretty tricky in an ice storm,” she said.

  “Ice storm?” said Claudette.

  Ivy remembered that the ice storm, in the reality outside Harrow’s story, had happened in Canada, not on Ransom Road.

  “Pull in here,” Claudette said.

  Ivy parked in a driveway, her lights shining on a screened-in porch.

  “It’s not a trailer,” she said.

  “Huh?” said Claudette, her voice sharpening. “You thought I lived in a trailer?”

  “No, I—”

  “A fuckin’ trailer? Like I’m some kinda—”

  “No, no, Claudette. Please. I got mixed up. It’s the firewater.”

  “Firewater? You mean the firebowl?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” Ivy said. “Firebowl, senior and junior, the whole wobbly family.”

  Claudette gazed at her for a moment, then laughed. “Are all writers funny like you?” She gave Ivy’s knee a squeeze, a little too hard.

  They got out of the car, went into the house. Claudette flipped on the lights. Ivy was prepared for almost everything, except how tidy it was.

  “Home sweet home,” Claudette said.

  “It’s very nice.”

  “Thanks. The only place I ever lived. Me, my parents, and Betty Ann.” She hung her Wal-Mart smock on a hook. “Now just me.”

  “Are your parents still…?”

  “Lots of cancer in these parts,” Claudette said.

  “Sorry.”

  “What can you do?” Claudette said. She crossed the small living room, stood before the mantel. “Come see Frank Mandrell.”

  Ivy went over, looked at a framed black-and-white photo, about eight by ten. There were four people in the picture, sitting on a deck railing, drinks in hand, open water in the background. Ivy recognized three of
them, although Harrow looked so happy she almost missed him. He was on the far left, his hair longer but without the goatee he’d worn in his arrest photo. He had one arm around Betty Ann. The two sisters sat together in the middle, the sun glinting on their blond heads. Claudette had been thinner then and much better looking, but she wasn’t in the same class as her sister. Everything about Betty Ann was a little finer, as though Claudette was the preliminary sketch; and all those little refinements added up. Claudette had her arm around a man at the end.

  “Frank Mandrell,” she said.

  Yes, a very good-looking man, especially if you liked the type that knew he was good-looking. Mandrell was about ten years older than the others, deeply tanned, with nicely cut swept-back dark hair and a flashing smile. He was the only one looking directly at the camera: Claudette’s eyes were on him; Harrow’s on Betty Ann; and Betty Ann’s eyes had an inward cast.

  “Were you a couple?” Ivy said, getting the idea a little late.

  “That summer was my turn,” said Claudette.

  “Meaning he had lots of girlfriends?”

  “Anything that moved.” Claudette caught some expression on Ivy’s face. “Some men know how to drive women wild. Word gets around.”

  “That sounds like something from the back of a men’s magazine,” Ivy said.

  Claudette gave her a quick glare. “That just means you never ran into one,” she said.

  That hit Ivy hard, a perfect and unforeseen bull’s-eye.

  “I like the funny you better,” Claudette said.

  “My liver wouldn’t hold up,” Ivy said, and Claudette laughed, her mood changing again almost instantly. Ivy picked up the photo, studied Harrow’s face: it deconstructed itself into black dots and white dots. “Were your sister and Harrow married when this was taken?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Claudette said. “They’d been married almost a year by then. This was only a few months before the robbery.”

  “Did they have any children?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “No curly-haired little daughter?”

  “Huh?” said Claudette. “Where’s that coming from?”

  “My mistake,” said Ivy. “How was their marriage?”

  “He loved her,” Claudette said.

  Ivy took another look at the picture. “I think I can see that.”

  “I mean really loved her,” Claudette said. “Like adored, you know? Getting driven wild I got once or twice—and thank God for that—but adored, never.” She took the photo from Ivy, gazed at Harrow. “The way he grew up, with the Lusks and all, there hadn’t been much, you know…”