The Bay of Love and Sorrows

by David Adams Richards

“Were you coming to see us?” Emmett said, and he smiled in the same ingratiating way he always had. Michael looked behind him. “I’m glad you’re coming to see us. There are things I want to tell you about Karrie — you know, she kept a diary of events — but we can’t find it.” Emmett said. “How she loved to talk at night about you — and how special you were to her. It would be good to have that in your book. But I have to tell you about our money — I have to tell you — you are the only one to confess this to — Dora doesn’t want me to confess — but I have to — Karrie is telling me to from her grave! Tom should not be in jail — I’m thinking — it has to be someone else. Help me find the real murderer!”

  “I killed your daughter,” Michael whispered, but the wind and darkness made it soundless.

  “How she loved you,” Emmett continued suddenly, and tears started in his eyes. “And how I loved her — she was my only love. So I don’t care — I have to confess about the pumps — that is what Karrie would want me to do. Don’t you think Karrie would want us to?”

  Michael didn’t understand him. He only noticed the tears on the old man’s face. The same kind of tears he had seen earlier in the afternoon on Mr. McNair’s tired face.

  Emmett wore a brand-new winter coat that looked out of place on his old body, a grey shirt and heavy woollen tie. He came down here almost every night while his wife flirted with younger, stronger, more virile men. What she did or did not do he did not know or ask.

  The night air moved his hair and in his ruined body was the personification of rudimentary country-business life. Small-mindedness, kindness to his daughter, the disrespect of those younger men towards him, and sickness and misery at the end. All the things Michael had thought he himself was above. All the things Michael had once felt contempt for. But now Emmett, because of his daughter, was determined to confess.

  “I have to go,” Michael said.

  “Come up to the house — please see Dora” Emmett said. “Please, for my sake, we have to straighten this out.” And he smiled once more.

  “No,” Michael said, “I can’t, tonight.”

  Emmett gave a stiff nod, as if to acknowledge that Michael’s business was far above his own, and far more valuable, and grabbed Michael’s elbow and shook it.

  Michael turned and moved up the bank — the very one Karrie had fallen down five months before.

  After a time he reached the dump. But he could not bring himself to do anything. It was now essential that he act. He stood with the bag of clothes in his hands looking at the smouldering perimeter of fires. A girl’s ancient bicycle rested against some old car parts on his left, and he decided that this is where he would hide the bag. He breathed the smoke of burning garbage, which was somehow pleasant as he looked at the stars.

  By now, the rat with the slick, black face had wandered back into the dump, where it hopped three feet behind him and, nestling under a mat, a cardboard box, and a burlap sack, again found itself in the company of dozens of other rats no more than a foot or two from Michael

  Michael heard them whenever he took a step but paid them no mind. He held on to the bag. Then he turned and started towards the farmhouse again, still with the bag under his new down coat, and the smell of remorse, tears, and Karrie on his hands.

  “I will turn them in, and myself as well.”

  All during this time Everette was trailing him at a distance of about a hundred yards. Everette did not know what Michael was doing, but his plan was ingenious. He would kill Michael, which he hoped would relieve him of his burden to Daryll. He would take the tickets, and send the tapes to the police. If they listened to them carefully they would see that Silver had planned everything, from selling bad mescaline to murder. And no one would come looking for him any more. He and Madonna would be quite free of everyone. Thinking of this, and pleased with it, he lost Michael near the farm.

  SEVEN

  The verandah was cold and blue, with the glint and shadow of ice on the window. One might think they had entered a world of constant blue. Michael thought of Spain, of the reservations made for December 29 to fly to Valencia, with its high apartamentos lingering under the Spanish sun. Was that still possible now?

  The door banged against the wall, and the sailboat chimes started to waver and tinkle.

  The snowdrifts were sculpted and high against this side of the house. The barn, where they had spent so much of their time capping mescaline, and hilariously outwitting the police, even once outwitting John Delano, lay solitary in one huge stagnant drift.

  Michael came into the living room, shoving the bloodied clothes behind the couch.

  “Well, you bolted,” a voice said. “Dad said you wanted to see me?”

  He turned and caught Laura’s smile, a smile that evoked loneliness, hurt, and pain. She was two feet away from the bag of clothes. He didn’t know if he loved her but he knew he felt profound sorrow for and responsibility towards her, now, and towards her whole family. And he thought of her dead brother, and his simple unwitting act of heroism. And that heroism seemed to make Lyle an invisible observer over how Michael was treating his sister at this moment.

  “We had the party — your taking off didn’t spoil it,” Laura smiled, her bottom lip trembling. “Neither did Mr. Hutch, who came to be interviewed for a job.”

  “What job?” Michael said.

  “Oh — he said he was going to fuck me,” she smiled, her lips still trembling slightly in her hurt was a feeling of terrible betrayal.

  “I will see him,” he said.

  She waved her hand. “Where can he go?” she said. “They will get him today or tomorrow, and it will be over. Don’t worry about it — you might get hurt. John Delano won’t let me down.”

  Michael felt as if a dart had entered his body He turned and sat down, and looked for a cigarette. After a moment she sat beside him.

  “Any light bulbs?” she said, trying a lamp that didn’t work.

  “I’d rather sit in the dark,” he said. A minute or two passed in silence.

  Each family is angry in its own way. And the McNairs were distanced from the town and had found no comfort from it. Laura’s father had been hooted and howled at as a clumsy inept man. But her brother had brought them out of themselves and had made them part of the community with his dazzling ability to play sports, his high academic standing, and his friends constantly in the house. All of that was gone. As much as his death had caused sorrow, it had also caused Laura outrage.

  Her anger came from the lessons she had learned by her family misfortune and her father’s chronic failure.

  Now she had to pretend that everything was still going on. For her mother, who had small lines in her cheeks, like herring nets in the water, and for her father, who had left his job due to a breakdown after his son died.

  “Why is your leg shaking?” Laura said, and she held it, as if to comfort him. “I’ve just gone for the dress. I need someone to marry.” She laughed, and tears stood in her eyes. Then she turned to him, and, taking a breath, said very rapidly, as if she had it rehearsed: “I know why you came down here. It’s to be close to her memory I know I can’t be Karrie — I know — I can’t. I’ve seen her pictures. She was a beautiful young woman — a child bride. But I put her bastard killer in jail — I can say that to you, Michael — I put her bastard killer in jail. And I will never allow you to forget her as long as you live — neither of us will. I can allow a ghost in my house — I promise.” And she rested her head on his shoulder. She then took his hand, and put it on her right breast.

  They had not made love before — and she had had no relations with men before. That was her secret.

  She looked up at Michael, and tried to open her blouse clumsily.

  “Here,” she whispered. But her eyes were wide in fear that he would reject her body once he saw it, although she was far more beautiful than she herself suspected.

  He felt no emotion, only a grave feeling that he had profoundly tricked her, as he had tricked Karrie and hadn�
��t even known it. For his part he could only smell Karrie’s body — the splashes of blood.

  She fumbled with her hand against him and tried to arouse him. But it would be no use now. And perhaps never again, he thought.

  He stood suddenly and walked away. There was another long silence, then she said: “I want to tell you that John Delano is still trying to figure things out about last summer — about bad drugs — that made people sick — schoolkids — “

  “Bad drugs?” Michael said. “When?”

  “I’m not really sure — but he’s brought certain things to me — he’s never come right out with it. But he was at the house the other night after Hutch ran away.”

  It was as if she had decided the import of this knowledge was graver because Michael had not gone to the party.

  He turned.

  “Bad drugs — where? I never heard of any bad drugs anywhere.” He was angry. He had never given any bad drugs to anyone. And yet now, it all seemed logical Of course.

  He turned and looked directly at her mouth as she spoke, as if he were a deaf-mute. In fact, he heard her as one might hear a muffled shot in a drum or the voice of a companion on a descending airplane.

  “It was all laced with chemical dust, dirt, insecticide and manure — from a barn floor — that’s what they used to give their caps the volume. John Delano is still on the case — he has samples taken from someplace in November, but he won’t get the lab results back until after Christmas. Things are slow. Delano is not very respected right now. But I’m almost certain we will sooner or later come to lay charges. He said it must have been Everette and Daryll Hutch.”

  Laura moved her hands, in the dark, so he could see her thin fingers and the diamond whisk by. She stared at him very strangely. Suddenly he realized she was telling him this to make him excited about the possibilities of doing another investigative work, with her. When he stared at her naive smile he realized this. She had no knowledge at all that it was he that John Delano was now most likely investigating. And this made it even more horrible than if she had.

  “Cowards,” Laura said offhandedly. The voice didn’t sound at all like hers. “And my brother dies — that’s God for you!”

  “Oh,” he said. He could say nothing else. So she grabbed his arm.

  “You and I could solve it,” she said. “That would be our investigative book. I could research the legal side —” Again she made a plea, like an adolescent girl: “Oh look, my blouse is still unbuttoned. Look, I’m all exposed.”

  He stared at her. She wanted so badly to belong to him — to who she thought he was. Perhaps this came because of fear as well. She moved and exposed her breast completely. She smiled tenderly. What was so poignant was that she believed she had no idea how to make love.

  He turned and walked across the living room. He tightened the bulb in the lamp and turned it on. Across in the corner sat the bag of clothes. The chimes began to tinkle.

  “Now we can see,” she said, leaving her blouse open. “The light is like the light you sometimes see in pictures by Rembrandt — in Rembrandt the light means hidden depth of feeling and character.”

  He took out a cigarette, lit it, blew the smoke up in the air quickly.

  “Everyone goes to the wrong people,” Laura blurted suddenly “I have spent my life going to the wrong people. It took me a long time to figure it out. First that boy at law school — who turned out to be gay — and then I too quickly cast away John Delano, who was nice to me after Lyle died — so that now — “

  He could still see her left breast. She left her blouse unbuttoned a moment longer, and then, with terrible justice and certainty, buttoned it again, watching him as she did so. “You’re white as a ghost,” she said, shivering in her mauve pantsuit.

  He wanted to speak, to ask forgiveness, but suddenly her eyes turned directly towards him — and these eyes seemed to say, in one small pulse-beat: For my mother’s sake! It’s her last year.

  “I’m so sorry,” Michael said. “I betrayed you.” He did not mean with other women, but the expression in her eyes made him realize this is what she thought.

  “Aah,” she said, waving her hand in the air. “I don’t expect men to be completely faithful anyway — wild oats or something before marriage at any rate — what does any of it mean? There are shadows and mystery on your face too.” She smiled.

  Her own face was strikingly pale. She seemed to stare right at the bag of clothes, her eyes startled and bright, but did not notice them.

  “I don’t know what will happen — if in any way — Why is your nose bleeding?”

  Michael lifted his finger quickly and rubbed his nose. Some bright, fresh blood streaked his hand.

  “Ahh,” he said, “this used to happen to me in school.” He looked at her. “When I first went there — my nerves — I’ve not had a nosebleed for eleven years — “

  “You must have hated them all,” she said. “The principal, all those other boys, the drama teacher — “

  “No — never hated them,” he answered.

  “But you hurt them when it all came out — “

  “But I — didn’t — mean to —” He whispered. “I just wanted to tell the story — but I can’t take it back.”

  “And Mr. Love is facing charges — I don’t blame you — a pedophile tried to hang himself”

  “But really he wasn’t — not really. He was just a sorry old man — I — don’t know — “

  “Oh, but you got them all — “

  He now waved his hand feebly, as if to plead with her to stop. So she stopped speaking. It scalded him when he remembered how vindictive her prosecutorial skills were against Tom. For one second he felt an urge to grab the bag of clothes and toss it to her, and smile and laugh in the cynical fashion that was so a part of him, that once had so frightened Karrie. But he felt his hands grow numb at that moment, and he couldn’t do this. He felt too sorry for her.

  There was a long silence. The sky was black over the bay, and the stars had started to come out, webbed together in many ways.

  The chimes started to tinkle slightly, for no apparent reason,

  Finally Laura said, hesitantly and then with more boldness: “Look — listen to me — we could make love now instead of next week — what’s a week? I could get pregnant besides,” she said, with an insightful if not clinical attitude. “When we got to Valencia, it wouldn’t hurt — I’d be used to it — have me whenever you wanted.” And she smiled suddenly and wantonly at him. He looked at her, again with deep sorrow, at her innocent shame-lessness, so she blushed and felt humiliated.

  “No,” he said. “I can’t — now — I do love you — I only want you to forgive me.”

  “Ha,” she laughed at this impossible moment. “That’s exactly what I said to John — after he invited me out for the fourth time!” She paused, cleared her throat. “But you don’t love me. You bought two tickets to go to British Columbia,” she said urgently Her eyes darted towards him and then fastened upon the wall behind him. There was a dreadful blue stillness, and her face looked composed by her profound knowledge of his deceit.

  Then her thoughts drifted off, and she became muted by a sense of injured merit, and jabbed with her finger at some ice on the window ledge beside the couch.

  She waited a moment for Michael to look at her. But he didn’t. He only stared into the corner with his head down, his lips half-open, as if frozen in mid-sentence.

  “Fine,” she said, the dignity of her life coming from her throat, and a strange desperate grin appeared on her face. “I had some access to some of those pictures you took of Madonna — we had them as part of the investigation. Oh, she was going to get a spread in a magazine — fuckin tramp. Oh, that was pleasant stuff — just like your investigative report, let me tell you. Is that who you’re going to B.C. with, a woman who lies in the sun with her legs opened?”

  Then she grinned selfishly, which is always painful to see in a person you admire. It was the way she said, “Oh,
that was pleasant stuff — just like your investigative report,” that grilled him with a kind of small-town fury, and showed she was able to change her views about him, and join everyone else in a second. And once she did, he would be truly alone.

  It was in her grin where all the hurt of her family, the sad and pitiless death of her younger brother, took form. And he understood why she was so brilliant and aggressive in court. Took form in the shadows, like Rembrandt, on her face. Of course they never used the word brilliant here. Cute or clever or some sharp he had heard about her often enough — even from Everette Hutch.

  Then, not knowing what else to do, and Michael hearing only the rustle of her coat, she ran from the house. He couldn’t move. He could see her running away, felt the embarrassment of her parents, her sad father, the silence and innuendo of others. The suspicion others would have about her. He wanted to stop her from going. But he couldn’t.

  Laura drove and drove and found herself on the back road. Here she took her diamond off. With tears streaming down her face she flung it out the window, over the old bridge, at Arron Brook. It took some time for it to land, bounce slightly into a small crevice, and settle hidden between a dark boulder and a fallen log, near Vincent Donnerel’s pipe.

  If Laura McNair had not visited him when she had, Michael Skid would have been killed. During her visit Everette Hutch had moved towards the farm, conscious that he would not leave Michael Skid alive.

  It wasn’t Laura who stopped his plan, of course. It was Constable John Delano, who had followed her and was sitting in a squad car a hundred yards from the barn. It gave Hutch pause, and he turned and slunk away.

  EIGHT

  Michael sat in the room in the dark clutching the bag of clothes, and rocking back and forth as if he had terrible pains in the stomach,

  “Karrie,” he whispered, once, twice, thrice.

  He put the bag back under the couch and left the house. He felt himself running towards the church. He came out on the road near the graveyard and waited, almost exactly at the spot where he had waited to see Tom Donnerel all those months before. Perhaps he did not realize that he was five feet from Karrie’s grave.