Reprisal

by Mitchell Smith

  "Officer Spruel?"

  "Yes."

  "This is Mrs. Reed--"

  "Right. You okay?"

  "I'm fine. I'm just calling to let you know that ... that a neighbor has come over. He's fixing the window for me, and I wanted to let you know you don't have to send Jerry--Jerry Peterson--to do it."

  "Okay, Mrs. Reed, I'll cancel that."

  "But I do appreciate your help."

  "No problem. One of our people will be up pretty soon to take a look at the scene. I'd leave that blood alone up there--blood on your door?"

  "I will. I haven't touched it."

  Joanna hung up and walked back into the kitchen. Bobby Moffit was down on the floor again, sitting cross-legged on the linoleum, muttering over another join

  ... squeezing out wood glue.

  "A police officer is going to be coming up," Joanna said. Bobby paid no attention. He got his angle to fit--difficult, with the steady tremor in his hands--then fixed the join to cure with a small red-handled spring clamp.

  "I brought this clamp with me. ... I didn' take nothing out of your kitchen."

  "That's all right."

  "Everything I need, I brought right up here myself. Clamp's Charlie's, out of his shop. ... Real lucky, window wasn' double-hung. Just fixed in the frame."

  "Bobby, would you ... would you tell the police, the chief constable, what you told me?"

  He looked up at her. "Well ... if I did, could you help me with some money? I hate to ask, I really do, but even ten bucks would take the pressure off. An'

  if you could go for twenty dollars, you'd have made an unfortunate and weak person very happy. I admit the weakness there."

  "Mr. Moffit--"

  "Bobby's okay."

  "Bobby, if you will just tell the police what you told me, I'll ... tell you what: I'll pay your rent. I'll help you any way I can. I promise that. I promise you!"

  "... You know, even ten dollars cash would really help me out. The cash thing is important, an' I promise I won't use it for alcohol. But just ten dollars would really help me out--an' it's a rotten thing to ask a lady lost her husband. I'm well aware what a rotten thing it is."

  "Stay right here, Bobby. You stay right here. I'll get my purse." Joanna hurried out of the kitchen ... walked faster and faster to the staircase, then went up the stairs two and three risers at a time.

  "I'll be right here," Moffit said to the kitchen, the noise of the lady running through the house. "I'm fixin' it. ..."

  Joanna came back into the kitchen, relieved to see him still there.

  "--Fifty-three dollars. It's all I have. Or I can give you a check."

  Bobby reached up from his work, took the money, then examined it ... shifted the bills in his palm with a forefinger as if it were a currency he hadn't seen before. "That's a lot of money."

  "And you'll stay here, and tell the police? There was somebody with my husband; someone sailed with him that morning."

  "Oh, I'll tell 'em.--I saw that kid for sure. Skinny kid way out there in a baseball cap. Red baseball cap. Kid was out there just sittin'. Your man was the one doing the work sailin' that boat. Needed to ease her off. You got a broad boat, you need to trim it easy. ..." Mr. Moffit folded the bills, put the money in his shirt pocket, and bent to his work again. He began to murmur softly, what seemed instructions to himself about joining ... gluing ...

  clamping. "Sash an' busted muntins is the easy part, an' fittin' the glass is the hard part," he said.

  Joanna sat in the kitchen chair again, and tried to imagine Frank befriending some boy at the docks; she tried to see that picture ... see him taking a boy out sailing without checking with his parents. It was difficult to imagine Frank doing that. And if he had, what happened to the boy? "--It doesn't make any sense."

  "Huh?"

  "Mr. Moffit, it doesn't make any sense.--That a boy went out with him."

  "Can't help that. Saw the kid out there, and that's a fact. Your man had that blue beer cooler, an' he had that ... that zipper jacket on. Green jacket."

  "Yes. ... Yes, he was wearing that."

  Moffit murmured to himself, adjusted the small clamp. "I don't remember everythin'. I do forget some things because of my dependence on alcohol." The clamp was tested, left in place. "--But I remember a man drownin' out there. I remember that day pretty good."

  Silence seemed to thump in rhythm with Joanna's heartbeat. Soft beats sounding in a sunny kitchen ... with this sad oddity crouched at her feet. So strange a moment that she felt herself and her kitchen and Mr. Moffit become features of a dream that might last forever--she sitting waiting, the summer light unfailing, the broken window never quite repaired.

  Burdened gravel sounded outside her dream, a car rolling into the drive.

  Joanna saw the light bar, the cruiser's official white and green. A woman officer, small and slight, stood out of the car, slammed its door shut, and came trotting to the kitchen steps and up them. Her thick-soled polished black shoes seemed too large for her ... the broad black belt, its equipment pouches and heavy, holstered automatic seemed to weigh too much, as if she'd had to wear her husband's shoes and gear today.

  The policewoman knocked on the kitchen doorframe with a small hard fist, then stepped inside smiling, a neat, wiry woman in her forties, her narrow face slightly withered from smoking, hair a dyed dark red.

  "Mrs. Reed? I'm Officer Lilburn." The smile was a general encompassing smile; the pale-gray eyes were more direct, examined Joanna with little interest ...

  looked down at Moffit with no more. "Window busted in last night, right?"

  "Yes. About midnight, maybe a little later--"

  "But no entrance into the dwelling."

  "No, he cut himself ... I guess reaching in to unlock the door."

  "Homeowner's best friend," Officer Lilburn said, and squatted to look at dried drops of blood down the inside of the kitchen door. "Homeowner's best friend is untempered glass. Be surprised how many goblins get cut breaking glass."

  She leaned forward, looked closer, as if the spatter of blood might speak to her. "Bobby," she said, and didn't turn to look at him. "Bobby, what have you been up to? Been behaving yourself?"

  Silence from the floor.

  "--I asked you a question, Bobby." She stood and looked down at him.

  "Mr. Moffit saw my husband sail out," Joanna said, "--the day he died. He says there was definitely someone with him in the boat. Said it looked like a boy, a boy wearing a red baseball cap."

  "He did? Is that what he said? ... Did you say that, Bobby?"

  "Yes, I did, and it's true. Long way out, but I saw that kid."

  Officer Lilburn smiled and shook her head. "And what day was that, Bobby?"

  "Day that man drowned out there."

  "What day of the week was that, Bobby?"

  "Day of the week ...?"

  "That's right. Monday? ... Tuesday? ... Wednesday? What day of the week?"

  "Ummm ... Tuesday."

  "No, it wasn't. Bobby, was Mr. Reed lost last week, or the week before that?"

  Bobby Moffit sat silent on the floor, picked up his work, and rubbed his finger along the narrow wood to wipe excess glue away.

  "Bobby, what month is this?"

  Bobby put his work down. "I don't see what that has to do with any damn thing."

  "What month is it, Bobby?"

  "It's summer, goddammit! It's June ... or July. It's early in the damn summer." His hands were shaking; he folded them together.

  "Did he ask you for money, Mrs. Reed?" Officer Lilburn was smiling. "Bobby, did you ask this lady for money?"

  "None of your business, just because she was nice to me .... My people been on Asconsett when your people wasn't anywhere near here."

  "Did you give him money, Mrs. Reed?"

  "I did, but I don't think that has anything to do with it."

  "Oh, I bet it does.--Our Bobby, here, will do and say just about anything that gets him money for a drink.--Isn't that so, Bobby? You tell
the truth, now."

  "I never said I was better than anybody else. I have a weakness with alcohol, but that doesn't mean I'm a bad person. Lots of people around here do real bad stuff for money--an' you know that's true. You know what they're doin', an' I know what they're doin'."

  "If I were you," Officer Lilburn said, "I'd keep my mouth shut about what other people may or may not be doing.--So, you're saying you just came up to help this lady ... just came up to fix her door window here, and tell her you saw her husband sailing with somebody."

  Nod.

  "How did you know her window had been broken last night, Bobby?" Officer Lilburn squatted down beside him with a creak of burdened gun belt. She was still smiling, still looked pleasant. "--ally going to answer me? I don't think I need to take a sample of those blood drops dried on that door, do I?

  You going to show me your arms, Bobby? Going to let me look at your arms?--where I'll just bet you got cut last night."

  "I don't have to show you nothin'. It's not fair. ..."

  "Officer, he did break the window last night," Joanna said. "He told me so, and he apologized. He came up to fix it this morning."

  "That so? Apologized. ..."

  "I wouldn't want to press charges."

  No more smiles for Joanna. "Well, that's up to you. Our Bobby's been in trouble before, drinking."

  "I'm not a bad person," Bobby Moffit said from the floor, and put his face in his hands like an upset child.

  Officer Lilburn sighed and stood. "He's a very sick alcoholic. Been in treatment ... been out of treatment."

  "But I think he knows what he saw."

  "Maybe ... and maybe not. Trouble is, who's going to know? He said a boy went out with your husband--is that what he said?"

  "Yes. A boy ... wearing a red baseball cap."

  "Right. But you know, we have no report of a missing young person, or a missing child. We have no report like that anytime the past three months, near-mainland or the islands."

  "Maybe that young person isn't missing."

  "You saying some youngster could be involved in your husband's death? What boy? Why would he be in your husband's boat at all?--Do you know any such person? Did your husband?"

  "... No."

  "--And I have to tell you, Bobby is not a credible witness, even if he wanted to be. Even if money wasn't involved."

  "Not fair," Bobby Moffit said from the floor.

  "Bobby," said Officer Lilburn, "I think you've said enough--and you darn sure have done enough, breaking this lady's window and then coming up here for money to fix it. That's real cute, and it's an offense, a criminal offense."

  "Isn't."

  "Yes, it is. And even if this lady won't sign a complaint, I can take you in for an examination of your health and competence. And you'll go right to the hospital in Post Port."

  "Will not."

  "Yes, you will."

  Bobby Moffit just shook his head no. He picked up one of the squares of glass, but his hands were trembling so he couldn't hold it. He put it back down, and tucked his hands in his lap.

  "What a shame," Officer Lilburn said. "Isn't this a shame?"

  "He can fix the window," Joanna said. "And he can keep the money, too. He won't bother me again."

  "You hope.--Let me give you some advice. Don't adopt Bobby; don't try to help him. It's been tried before."

  "Has not," Bobby said. "That's not true."

  "Hell it isn't," Officer Lilburn said. "Bobby, didn't Mrs. Johnston let you stay free in her side-porch room?"

  "No."

  "Yes, she let you stay there. And you sold her floor lamp for money to drink with."

  "No, I didn't."

  "Yes, you did."

  "Officer," Joanna said, "--thank you for coming up. And I would like it if you'd mention what Mr. Moffit said about somebody--a boy in a red baseball cap--sailing out with my husband."

  Officer Lilburn sighed and stepped to the kitchen doorway. "I'll report that.

  I'll report it, but you don't have ... you really don't have much of a witness here." She went out and down the steps, then called over her shoulder.

  "--Bobby, you finish up that window and then be on your way. Don't you be bothering Mrs. Reed anymore. Did you know she just lost her dad, too? That her father was killed in a fire the other day?--And you come up here giving her this trouble."

  Bobby Moffit sat unmoving, head bowed, for the few moments until the police car's door slammed, its engine started. Then he reached out for a square of cut glass again, and after two attempts, was able to fit it to the frame.

  "Glue's got to dry," he said. "Then the glass is goin' to fit in there, put in new points an' glazin' compound. ... Sorry about your daddy."

  Joanna stooped, to be more on Bobby's level. He smelled like a baby who hadn't been changed. "... Bobby, the police asked them, and none of the fishermen saw anybody in Bo-Peep with my husband. One of them saw the boat way out that day.

  ..."

  "That's a laugh."

  "What do you mean?"

  ""Fishermen." That's pretend fishin', is all that is. I know what I saw." He turned, tilted the glued window frame against the kitchen wall ... then dropped his glue bottle into the shopping bag and stood up with a grunt of effort, staggered a half-step. "--I'm goin' now. Glue dries, I'll come back an' putty tomorrow."

  "Okay. And thank you for coming up to fix the window, Mr. Moffit."

  "Hell, I was the one busted it. I busted it under the influence. ... But don't be scared; I'll be up here sober in the mornin'. I don't have to drink. People think I can't control myself, but I can. I just don't want to."

  "I understand--and Mr. Moffit, I believe you did see someone out with my husband that morning. I believe you."

  "Well, that makes two of us--you an' me. People say I'm just a lyin' drunk, when it's them that's doin' the big-time lyin' around here."

  He went out the door, carefully down the kitchen steps, and walked away along the drive, swinging his shopping bag. He had an odd walk, a walk drifting at an angle, so he was facing slightly to the right as he went along. ... Joanna supposed that was due to damage from drinking.

  Late in the evening, she sat at the kitchen table, eating a second slice of a small delivered pizza. A gentle sea breeze was drifting in through the broken window.--A more collected repairman would likely have left the window boarded up.

  She'd asked the pizza delivery girl if she knew an island boy who went around wearing a red baseball cap.

  "Baseball caps, sure," the girl had said. She hadn't seemed to think it was an odd question. Thin, dark, and very tall, so she already stooped slightly, she'd stood on the front steps, considering the question. "Baseball caps ...

  but not red, particularly."

  A boy in a red baseball cap. ... But seen by a sick man and from a distance, so perhaps not a boy. Perhaps a slight, slender man. A wiry, friendly person met down at the dock. An amiable, amusing man who talked sailing, who talked boats--and wanted one.

  The pizza was very good ... good crust. But if ghosts might be fed, her father wouldn't be pleased with pizza.--Frank would; she'd ordered extra cheese and ripe olives. His favorite, not hers. So he could come into the kitchen out of the dining room's shadows--and come not as ashes; ashes had no appetite. ...

  He could come in as she'd dreamed him, soaked, wetting the kitchen linoleum.

  Come sauntering in, smelling of the sea, and sit down beside her.--All that would be allowed. Everything would be allowed except looking into his eyes.

  Their color would have changed to a color never seen, a fourth primary color.

  Frank might come in for dinner, if she called him correctly. And her father drifting in behind him, gusting into the yellow kitchen light as swirling ash, as turning smoke that wanted no pizza ... that disdained his drowned son-in-law, eating pizza though dead.

  "An amiable young man--is there anything more?" That question of her father's, after he met Frank.

  "Love, and the strength
of love," she should have answered. But she hadn't.

  She had stood on the porch of the old Chaumette house with her father smiling down at her, and she'd been slightly embarrassed by Frank's revealed simplicity and sweetness.

  "He's very kind," she'd said, knowing that was not enough, betraying Frank in complicity with her father on her father's porch. And that little treachery, that small betrayal, had lingered years afterward in Louis's courteous contempt for a man who only coached soccer--who had no fierce temper, no hard and adamant withholding in him, who suffered no considerable loss.

  What else might she have said on the Chaumette house's porch? It had been evening, and warm, a summer evening like this summer evening. ... She might have said, "He's strong enough to take care of me. He's strong enough to take care of me without letting me become a tyrant and sicken. There's no poetry in him, and that's a great relief, and will help me not to kill myself if I discover too frightening a truth in poetry."

  What if she'd said that to Louis Bernard?

  The embarrassment then would have been his, and would have cost her his smile as he turned cold. ... It was that smile she'd paid for by betraying Frank while Frank was in the side yard, playing hardball catch with the neighbor's tomboy girl. What had that wild girl's name been? An unhappy child, nail-bitten, scabbed, and odd. ... Gloria. Absolutely the wrong name for her.

  Gloria Dittmer. Gone, now, killed by a car. But she'd been, of course, one of the oyster seeds of the last poems. ... Odd to realize that so late, and prompted by the vision of Frank's ghost sitting down, soaked, to eat from the pizza's other side. He'd take the extra slice. Why did men eat so much more?

  Was it only their size--or appetite unashamed?

  ... But no ghost came, actual enough for dinner. So when Joanna was finished, there were slices of pizza left to be plastic-wrapped and put in the refrigerator. And only one plate to wash.

  That done, she turned out the kitchen light, walked down the hall and climbed the stairs. The bedroom, yellow in the bedside lamp's mild glow, was as empty as if no man had ever seen it, ever slept there, or ever would--as if it had been built for her to be alone in.

  ... But deep into night--interrupting drifting conversations with her mother--was a commencement of dreamed lovemaking so sudden, so specific, she heard their liquid noises, felt soaking at her sex --and so real she underwent the heave and buck, the oily delicious ache of penetration as she was fucked.