The clock stood at nine. My father would still be bowling.
* * * *
I had two beers while I sat in the cafe section of the bowling alley. I'd never taken to the game. I had too much cool-kid arrogance left over from my youth to ever wear one of those shirts, for one thing. And for another, there was something suffocating about watching adults take it all so seriously, a certain desperation, I guess. Amy always said that I was a snob and in many ways I suppose she was right.
My father came up a couple of times but I didn't mention the photographs. I wanted to be alone with him. The second time he stopped by I caught a look of concern in the blue eyes. He stared at me a bit too long but didn't say anything.
Outside in the parking lot, after all the interminable beery good nights among the two teams, my father started toward his car but I grabbed his arm. “I need to talk to you, Dad."
"Everything all right at home?"
"Fine."
He seemed confused. He had his pipe going. “Then it couldn't have waited till later?"
"I found the photographs, Dad. I was looking for a requisition form in your desk and I came across them."
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"Sure you do."
He not only knew what I was talking about, he gaped nervously around to make sure that we were the only ones in this section of the parking lot.
"Maybe it's not what you think."
"Then again, maybe it is."
He nodded to his car. “Get in. I don't want to talk out here."
He started the engine and turned on the heater. We sat next to each other but didn't talk for some time. His pipe smelled good. The wind was strong enough to rock the car. The lane shut off its lights. There was a prairie loneliness to the way it looked now, a pastel green icon alone on the fields.
"You followed him and then you killed him."
He angled himself so that he could face me. His yellow bowling shirt was gaudy inside his open brown suede jacket. “I'm going to tell you something and after I'm done you can decide what to do about it."
"I'm listening.” Then: “I don't enjoy this, Dad. I'm pretty sure you killed him. Murdered him. This isn't easy for me."
"I know it's not, Cam. But at least listen to me."
I listened.
"When your grandfather was sheriff he had three murders in the first few years after he took office. One of them was a tavern fight and two of them were husbands killing wives for being unfaithful. The women had both slept with the same man, a car salesman named Blount. Your grandfather didn't like that at all. Here were two women dead and two men in prison—one of them eventually got executed—and two entire families destroyed. And here was Blount still strutting around town looking for more women to land on. And he seemed to prefer married women, I suppose because there couldn't be any permanent attachments. Well, one day your grandfather saw this Blount coming on to the wife of your grandfather's best friend. The marriage was having some problems so he was afraid the woman might be vulnerable. He told me that after that day he wondered what life would be like here without Blount causing so much pain. But he didn't do anything about it until a woman who worked at the courthouse got into a shouting match with her husband over at Millie's. The story was that Blount had been sniffing around the lady and the husband was jealous. A couple of days later, Blount drowned. It was all accidental, of course."
"Grandfather killed him."
"Then another tomcat showed up a few years down the line. He was even worse than Blount. He was a rock musician. Nobody famous, mostly played little jobs up and down the lake here. But he flaunted it. He wanted people to know he was a lady-killer. Your grandfather watched him ruin the lives of three different families and then he just couldn't put up with it anymore. This Boehner kid electrocuted himself with his guitar equipment one night."
"Grandfather again."
"There was a woman once, too. Came back here when her Chicago sugar daddy dumped her because she'd had the gall to turn thirty-five. Sarah McBain was her name. Damned good-looking woman. And she cut a wide swath. Caused three divorces the first year she was here. Died in a tragic fire."
"And now you're carrying on the tradition. That was what Neely was all about."
"You have any idea how much pain that man caused the people in this town? You ever see the faces of the little kids when their folks are going through a divorce? And here was some drunken so-called artist not giving a damn about any of it. I was pretty damned patient. I even warned him. I was careful not to make it a threat—not anything he could sue the town for—but he got the message and all he did was laugh at me. Said I was just jealous. I would've been mad but I figured that was just par for the course with somebody like him."
"You committed first-degree murder."
He looked straight at me. “Yes, I did. And I don't regret it."
"You've just confessed a capital crime to me, Dad."
"Who the hell do you think you're talking to, Cam? I was sheriff while you were still riding a tricycle. I know damned good and well that I just confessed to a capital crime. But I'm not going to turn myself in for it. I'm going to leave that up to you."
He angled back so that he faced the steering wheel. “Now I need my sleep, Cam. I'm not as young as you, in case you hadn't noticed. I'll see you in the morning."
He put the car in gear and waited for me to get out. He didn't have to wait long.
* * * *
"Hey, you didn't eat any of that macho-man breakfast I fixed you."
Soy bacon. Egg Beaters and wheat toast with soy margarine. I guessed that was what passed for breakfast macho these days when I was trying to keep weight off and avoid a heart attack before fifty.
"It's good, Dad,” Cindy said. She pointed her fork at her empty plate. “I ate every bite."
The smile and the blue, blue family eyes made me reach across the table and take her small hand. “I'll do my best."
"Unfortunately, Cindy, you've got to get ready,” Amy said. “The bus'll be here in less than ten minutes. Scoot now. I'll help you with your backpack."
Leaving me alone with a breakfast I had to force myself to eat.
Cindy always went out the front door. She ducked into the kitchen, gave me a tiny wet kiss on the cheek, and then charged through the house, Amy right behind her.
I managed to eat one piece of bacon and half the toast by the time Amy reappeared.
"If I had time I'd find out what's bothering you, honey. But that's always a long, involved process so I'll have to wait until tonight. I counted you getting up three times in the middle of the night and you were sitting down here staring into space when I came down for breakfast. I worry about you. But you know that."
This kiss was on my mouth. And it lingered. But as I was kissing her I had a thought that made me hate myself. Neely had certainly gotten around with married women. . . . Amy had her nights out. I'd always taken her word that she was out with her female friends, usually shopping at the outlet malls and then getting a pizza afterward.
I brought her to me. Kissed her tenderly, ashamed of what I'd been thinking. Then, like Cindy, she was gone.
All the way to the shop I prepared myself for an awkward morning. I wondered if I'd even be able to look at my father. He murdered a man. And basically he was daring me to turn him in.
This morning was his turn to put in a court appearance, so he didn't come through the front door until after eleven o'clock. I was at my desk on the phone, enduring my monthly call from an auxiliary deputy who had a library full of ideas on how to turn our sheriff's department into the same kind of brave and fearless crime-fighting he saw on cop shows every night.
My father remained in the doorway, watching me as I watched him. After I hung up, he said, “Mason want us to start carrying grenades?"
"Ground-to-air missiles."
"Sounds good to me."
He came in and poured himself some coffee and went over and sat down at his de
sk. His in front of mine. He swiveled his chair around. “It wasn't easy to tell you what I did last night."
"It wasn't easy for me to hear it."
We didn't have to worry about being overheard. Daytime we had two officers in the field—three when I had the time—and so we were left alone frequently. The dispatcher and the jail cells were in a small adjoining building.
Long, lean fingers drew his pipe from his suit-jacket pocket. “You ever think Amy might step out on you?"
The terrible thought I'd had at the breakfast table came back to me. “That's a hell of a thing to ask."
"Think of what would happen to little Cindy if you and Amy split up. If she'd stepped out."
"Well, she hasn't stepped out and she won't step out. Any more than I'd ever step out on her. We're not programmed that way."
"That's what your grandfather used to think. And I used to think it, too. But there's always somebody who comes to this town—usually a man but sometimes a woman—and they destroy people. I'm not naive. They don't force people to sleep with them. Unfortunately, the people want it. Want excitement, want something strange and new. But if that person hadn't come to town, hadn't offered them the opportunity—"
"You murdered a man."
"I'd murder him again. He was going to cause at least two families to come apart. Good people, by and large. Friends of mine. People who belong in a town like this, where they don't have Neelys prowling around like some rabid animal."
"You murdered a man."
He stuck the pipe in his mouth. “Then turn me in, Cam. Pick up that phone and turn me in."
He swiveled back to his desk and went to work.
* * * *
I enjoyed a hearty meal at the Quick-Pick's microwave. Nothing more refreshing than standing in a convenience store that smells of disinfectant and gulping down a hamburger of questionable origin. But I didn't want to face my father at Millie's.
The manilla folder was on my desk when I got back. I sat down at my desk and opened it up. Inside were copies of three divorce notices from the local weekly. I knew two of the families very well. I'd gone to high school with the man and woman from one divorce and with the woman from the second divorce. The third couple were younger than me.
My father came in just as I was closing the folder. “They missed you at Millie's."
"And the point of this is?” I said, jabbing my finger at the folder.
"The point of it is that when you count up all the children involved, the number comes to nine. One of the fathers is now a useless drunk. One of the women is living on food stamps and can't get much medical care for her kids. And one of the kids who was a very bright student has now turned into a monster who may get kicked out of ninth grade. And Neely was involved in all of it."
"And you murdered him."
"And I murdered him because this is my town and I care about the people here, and because I owe it to them to help them through life as well as I can. And given all the things you did when you were younger—and given the way the town forgave you—I'd say you owe it to them, too. And another thing—” The blue eyes blazed; the voice was furious. “You're so damned smug about this. Like I said last night, you're lucky Amy's never been unfaithful. I half wished I could have told you that she was one of Neely's conquests. She wasn't, but I know damned well how you would have reacted. So don't be so quick about judging me. Now give me that folder back and get it over with."
I was so caught up in his rage that I wasn't quite sure what he meant.
He cleared it up by reaching over to my phone and picking up the receiver. “You know the number of the county attorney. Tell him what I told you. Tell him that he knows where he can find me and that I won't be any trouble at all."
He shoved the receiver at me and then went to his desk and sat down, facing the door.
I don't how long I sat there with it in my hand. Long enough for the dial tone to change into a beeping sound. I wasn't even aware of hanging it up or going to the back near the four empty cells. In the bathroom I washed my face and stared into the mirror. He'd murdered a man. And my grandfather had murdered even more. And now he wanted me to carry on the tradition if I started to see the same pattern happening again.
He was gone when I came up front. I spent the afternoon working on several things, enjoying the luxury of temporary amnesia. He came back later. The temperature had dropped to the low thirties, so his gaunt cheeks were red and the green woolen scarf he wore looked almost festive.
He stood at my desk once again. “You need to turn me in, Cam. For your own sake. I had no right to drag you into this thing, and I don't have any right to ask you to act the way your grandfather and I did. Just give me a little advance notice before you make the call. I'll need to prepare your mother.” Then came the real surprise. He leaned over and put his hand on my shoulder and said: “I love you, son. You've turned into a hell of a good man. A lot better man than I've ever been."
My father never played on my sympathies. He was straightforward. Nobody had ever called him a coward, and he wasn't being a coward now.
"I told your mother I'd pick up a pot roast for her over at Shop-Rite. I should be home in half an hour if you want to talk to me.” He nodded goodbye and left.
* * * *
Given all that had happened I'd almost forgotten about picking up Amy at school.
Alveron High came into existence ten years ago when three different small high schools consolidated into one. Better for the budget and for attracting more qualified teachers and expanding the curriculum. Amy had been there six years. She'd spent Cindy's first year at home, but given my salary she had to go back to teaching.
The building was two stories and red brick. The windows were on fire with the dying sun. I pulled up out front. Twisted brown leaves scraped across the grounds, collecting around the silver flagpole. The students were long gone. Teachers began drifting out in twos and threes, talking and laughing. Not that I paid much attention. I was thinking about my father and the copies of the divorce proceedings he'd shown me. And what he'd said about me being so smug. I hadn't suffered any of it, but now as I thought about it, I remembered some of the domestic disturbances I'd covered. The rage and the pain. There is no equivalent to a domestic, seeing people at their rawest. The children are the heartbreakers, crouched in the corner, sobbing and pleading with their parents, or so stunned and afraid that they are frozen in the moment, scalded in their misery, lucky even to have a heartbeat. And the Neelys of the world—some of them married, some not—are often at the center of it all.
And what my father had done was try to relieve some of his people of some of their pain. I saw that now even though I still could not forget that in protecting his town—and I had no doubt he thought that was exactly what he was doing—he'd had to take a life.
And then Amy was coming out of the front door. Sight of her comforted me. I wanted to be home, sitting with Amy and Cindy on the couch. Being goofy the way we got so much of the time. A good dinner finished and a lazy night of watching some good TV shows.
Then he came out right behind her. He put a hand on her shoulder to slow her down. He was laughing and she was smiling. I had no doubt who I was seeing. The new English teacher. The one even Amy's married friend had a crush on.
He was tall and tanned, with dark curly hair. In his white shirt and blue V-neck sweater and chinos he had a young preppy look about him. He was very handsome.
Amy stopped and he came up to her and slipped a piece of paper from one of his books and handed it to her. It was the way she stood hugging her books and staring up at him. A familiar sight from our own high-school days. Except instead of him, it had been me.
Then she said something and started walking toward my car.
I thought of my father and how he said I'd been spared the pain that had ripped apart so many other families.
I was going to have to keep a very close eye on Mr. Bruce Peters. And not only for myself, but for all the good true people of our l
ittle town.
Copyright © 2010 Ed Gorman
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Fiction: INTENT by Phil Lovesey
Stories written entirely in dialogue are extremely rare in our genre, and it takes a writer with a keen ear to pull it off. Phil Lovesey's one such writer and this is one such story. The British author is a frequent contributor to EQMM. He has several highly acclaimed books in print (all dark psychological novels), but seems to particularly enjoy the short form. In his short stories, he can often be found in a lighter mood!
"It's me!"
"I'm in the lounge."
"Good day?"
"Very. Exceptionally good. Brilliantly good. Yours?"
"Same as every other weekday. A morning spent on the phone punting for business leads; an afternoon chasing invoices from last month. I think I may have finally got a sniff of something more promising, though. But it's such hard work."
"Your choice to quit a well-paid job and start up your own business, Steve."
"Our choice, Zoe. Not just mine. You wanted this as much as me."
"True. But I think at the time I was a little naive about the full financial implications of a respected lawyer chucking it all in to start selling Japanese camping equipment."
"We'll get there, Zoe. It's just going to take time, that's all. Give it another year, eighteen months. We'll pull through. And it's not camping equipment. It's the material they make their tents with, really light and weather resistant. Honest, Zoe, I'm close to cracking a good deal for this stuff."
"You'd better be. You want a drink? You look bushed."
"Beer'd be good."
"We're out of bottles. Just cheap cans now."
"Anything, Zoe. Doesn't matter."
"Sit down. Put your feet up. May as well use the sofa while we can. We're already three months behind on the payments. They'll be knocking on the door to repossess it any day now."
"I just love Friday nights with you, Zoe. It's all fun, fun, fun, isn't it? And just to think, I've got a whole weekend of your financial pessimism to look forward to before I go back to selling tent fabric on Monday."
EQMM, July 2010 Page 10