Forty Martyrs

by Philip F. Deaver

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “I have a license to carry a concealed weapon,” he said.

  “Would you mind putting it back in the boot? It’s disturbing.”

  He did. Then he took off his jeans, revealing pure white boxers, and joined her in the bed. “Do you mind if I ask a question?” he said.

  “What,” she responded, rolling toward him. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear this question. It was quiet a moment.

  “Never mind.”

  Veronica noticed that he lost his nerve. Maybe he wouldn’t go through with it. She realized she could. With the news of Carol and Lowell, she damn sure would—she might have done it anyway. Over the years she’d passed on a number of opportunities, and she was not in the mood to pass again. Sex in some ways was consolation for her. It was a power she contained, an option she was proud she still had.

  She found Howie’s terrible scars, a small entrance wound at his right shoulder blade, a blast hole out his right pectoral. She traced the scar with her fingers, front and back. Vietnam was not theory, not some Nick Bellinger war story, not merely ancient history. Vietnam still lived; the scars were still deep in people. People were shooting and killing each other back then, and they still were. She rolled Howie onto his back, climbed on top, and kissed his scars.

  •

  Howie painted all the rooms, including all the woodwork a crisp glossy white. It took him one week, it was such a modest little house, and he worked with steadiness and ease. He said it gave him the idea to paint his own place, far more ramshackle but about the same size. Veronica told him he could use whatever paint was left over. He was a clean, neat painter. Veronica imagined he’d have coffee with her from time to time, take a break to discuss colors or see what furniture needed to be moved to clear the way for him, but Howie solved all those problems himself, brought his own coffee, which he kept on his own ladder. He spackled over the wall cracks and sanded them smooth. He was good with color. He suggested ceiling fans in the master bedroom and Monique’s room, and Veronica was fine with that. In a single morning, the big dark wood fans were up. She enjoyed having someone else in the house over that third week without Lowell. She would wander down the hall—with his headphones on and Creedence Clearwater Revival rocking, he didn’t know she was standing in the doorway watching him work. It was turning into a good summer.

  When the work was done, Veronica paid him two thousand dollars out of savings and lavishly thanked him. Lowell would love the changes and would know what Veronica was up to: a new beginning.

  Veronica had high hopes that it would all work out, and from time to time she got reports from Vasco via email. “He’s embraced this journey, and he’s doing great here,” Vasco would write. “He likes his counselor, Father Cavanaugh. By the way, it is now certain Lowell will be gone four weeks.”

  After Howie finished, the house was quiet. It smelled new, but the drying paint gave Veronica a headache, so the new fans were on high, the air conditioner was working to clear the air, and Veronica set up camp in the carport at a picnic table. She didn’t know why she hadn’t done it before. If it rained, the car could sit in the driveway and form a sort of privacy barrier, and the whole carport, breezy and dry, sheltered her. She began to imagine getting Howie back to pave the carport’s gravel floor. It was wide enough for two cars, but in such a small town Lowell was fine with walking to the college and payments on a second car would have buried them. Because Howie didn’t have a phone, she drove around town watching for him steaming down the sidewalk at an almost obsessive clip, heading to the shelter.

  On the Monday of the fourth and last week of Lowell’s absence, around ten thirty in the morning, Veronica found Howie in the park on the north side of town, stretched out in the sun on a concrete bench in the park’s amphitheater. She drove across the grass, as close to him as she could get. A freight train was going by on the nearby Illinois Central tracks, and with that and his headphones, he didn’t hear her pull up. She honked, one light beep, and swung the passenger side door open. He raised his head, saw her, sat up, and walked to her car.

  “What’s up?” he said to her, smiling his warm smile. He reached in and touched her hand.

  “I’ve got another job for you if you have time.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “Hop in and let’s go talk about it.”

  He did.

  “You got a couple of hours?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you eat yet?”

  “Nah.”

  He swung the door closed, and they were on their way to Champaign on Route 45. They caught up to the freight train that passed while they were in the park. There was almost no one in the Kopi, as it was still too early for the lunch crowd and too late for those who came in for a bagel before work. In the back, there were the usual four or five students on their laptops, alone at their own tables. It was fascinating for Veronica to watch Nora and the college girls who deaver helped out as they moved around the room in the most cordial, happy moods. Nora took joy in the Kopi. It was a going concern. She didn’t know Veronica, even as often as Veronica came in. Veronica could see that Nora preferred to let it be a place where people could meet, anonymously if they wished.

  Howie carried their coffee to the back of the room and found a table. Veronica followed him. Students were close around them so they talked quietly.

  “Have you ever poured concrete?” she said, as they pulled out their chairs and sat down.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “What would it cost me if we paved the driveway and the carport?”

  “Maybe twenty five hundred, including the concrete, sand, gravel. Maybe three. I forget how big the carport is.”

  Veronica gave him the measurements. “I got word Lowell will be gone another week. That’s a week from today. Can the job be done by then, concrete dry and all that?”

  “Sure. I’ll have to do some prep of the ground. I could pour concrete on Wednesday. Might get one of the guys from the shelter to help me, if it’s all right. It’ll go quicker that way.” He looked at her.

  She said, “That’s fine, whatever you need. It’s crazy that this isn’t already done. I don’t think I ever thought about it before. To me the place simply is how it is.” She laughed to herself. “I’d just like things to be different when Lowell gets back.”

  “Makes sense,” Howie said.

  As they talked, they sipped coffee. It was a beautiful day. Nora, moving table to table, came and poured them more. When Nora moved to the next table and her back was turned, Veronica reached across and placed her hands on Howie’s. His hands were cool; hers were clammy. She held his gaze, her eyes watering. It was one o’clock on a summer afternoon. “Truth is, I didn’t bring you here because of the carport.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I didn’t think so.”

  She shifted in her chair. “Is that so bad?” She was clearly nervous. She could see herself sitting there. This wasn’t who she was. “But I still want you to do the job, and of course I’ll pay you and your friend when you’re done, split it however you want me to.” Still looking into his eyes, she said, “I’d like this all to work out well for you.”

  He pulled his hands away. “I appreciate it,” he said. “Even though I don’t know how to take this, I appreciate all of it.” He brought out his pencil and did some math on a napkin. “I’ll need some cash up front to purchase materials. Five hundred maybe.”

  “I’ll go with you to buy all that. We’ll use a charge card like we did with the paint.” She leaned back in her chair. “We could do it all tomorrow, couldn’t we?”

  “Tomorrow’s good.”

  She smiled at him. It had been inevitable. Veronica knew this is where it would go since that first day she’d flagged Howie down on Main Street.

  Howie backtracked a little about Lowell and Carol. He whispered his regret. Maybe he didn’t know as much as he thought. This made Veronica dark again. She was wondering who was feeding Howi
e these specifics. Somebody out there knew a lot.

  Without a word about it, they paid Nora and walked down the street to the Inman. They booked a room on the top floor, paying cash. The room was great though the hotel was on to hard times. The carpet in the halls on the top floors was all rolled up, as though it was being replaced, but that wasn’t it. The rolling up of the carpet was the beginning of the end. The curtains in the room were pure white and let the indirect afternoon light through. It was an old-style city hotel room, with the dresser, desk, and side chairs directly out of a Hopper painting, 1941. The headboard of the bed, too, was right out of Hopper. There was a mirror on the closet door. They showered and went to bed with their hair wet. Veronica paid attention this time, noting Howie’s body, his Marine tattoo, and how gentle he was being, which seemed opposite of his soldier psychology. Their love-making was carefree. Afterwards, they lingered there for hours and talked. They made more coffee in the pot the hotel provided and guzzled water. They brushed deaver their teeth. They looked at themselves in the bathroom mirror, the closet mirror. The room’s window looked north and they could see the charcoal gray awning of the Kopi and Veronica’s spanking new Camry parked across the street.

  In bed, she asked, “What about Rachel Crowley? Did she tell you?”

  “Nah,” Howie said. “I don’t know her. I really don’t know a lot of people around town.”

  “Who told you? Tell me the truth.”

  “Sorry, I don’t think it would be good if I told you.”

  They stared at the ceiling as they talked.

  “Vasco Whirly.”

  “Fuck no.”

  “What—you don’t like Vasco?”

  “He’s okay, I just don’t know him. Please stop guessing. I can’t tell you.”

  “Who else knows about all this? Who have you been talking to?”

  “I really can’t say. How do we ever know who else knows?”

  “Tell me how you know.”

  “Sorry,” he said. Everybody in that town knew stuff and talked. This was especially true out at the college. She saw that Howie didn’t want to make a worse mess, so she left it at that.

  The sun was setting when they left. Veronica liked this room, 601, made a mental note as if they’d ever be back. She heard the latch click as they left. She’d never be back. Arm in arm they walked up the street to the car. Rachel Crowley, probably in town to score some weed, happened to see them as she passed by in her car, because that’s how things work sometimes.

  They were quiet on the drive home. At one point, Howie told her Lowell was a really good guy. “Sometimes people just slip into what comes natural.”

  This did not affect Veronica, who had slipped for the second time only a few hours before. She smiled at Howie. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  “Just saying, I’m pretty sure it’s over now.”

  “Ha. Well. I’m sure we’ll see,” she said.

  “Of course, after once, who knows if it keeps on. Look at you and me. People know how to sneak around.”

  Veronica volunteered that if they continued to talk about it she might have to pull over and throw up.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  In Tuscola, she dropped him at his house. They touched hands, but no kisses in the car. It wasn’t dark yet. “Thanks,” he said, as he climbed out. She drove home short of breath. What had she done?

  •

  A week before Lowell got back, Veronica sat down with Rachel at the Cafe Kopi.

  “How’s the summer going?” Rachel asked. She may already have known what this chat was going to be about.

  Veronica rolled her eyes. “I’ve had better.”

  “Oh, have you?” Rachel smiled. “I know Lowell’s been gone, and you’ve been doing some work on the house. Is that going well?”

  Veronica, something else on her mind, nodded yes.

  “How’s Misty?”

  Veronica said, “We’re instructed to call her Monique.”

  “Ah. Sorry.” Rachel smiled. “Hell will freeze over when Hattie asks to be called Harriet.”

  “Tell me about it.” Veronica stared into Rachel’s eyes. “I’ve been a bit worried, if you must know. About Lowell and Carol.”

  “Carol Brown?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What are you worried about?”

  “Maybe that they’ve been fucking.”

  “Hmmm. I don’t think so. She’s been fucking somebody, but not Lowell.”

  “Who?”

  “Nobody I can actually mention to you.” Without taking a moment to secure assurances, Rachel, like the gossip Veronica knew she was, proceeded to dump the bucket. “Nick Bellinger—you know? The Vietnam vet who moved away a couple of years ago? He used to work at the college and suddenly left? Got a job in Athens, Ohio. They take little trips together. Don’t say anything about it. I think it’s over since Wally went off the deep end.” Rachel smiled at her. “Look, I don’t blame you for being worried. She’s slutty and she’s been going to Lowell even longer than I have. But I don’t think Lowell would cross that particular line.”

  “I think he has.”

  “Where did you get this information?” Rachel asked her.

  “It’s grapevine shit, but it’s haunting me. When I heard it, it seemed to make sense. It’s hard to believe she’s keeping to herself while Wally’s down in Marion.”

  “Well, you know, he’s not just locked up. That marriage is toast.” Rachel sipped the coffee. “Still, it’s hard to believe she’d continue to sneak around after getting knifed because of her infidelities.” Rachel and Veronica sat quietly for a moment. “It’s a hard habit to break, maybe.”

  “God, I don’t want to hear this.” Veronica covered her ears, looked toward the front of the Kopi. The summer sun made all things flash and shine.

  “When is Lowell due back?”

  “Next week,” Veronica whispered. “I’ve got to find out about this before he’s home.”

  “Do you really?” Rachel sipped more coffee, buttered a bagel, looked out the window. “Why not let it go? He’s got a rough road ahead, and going after him about this will just make it tougher for him and then worse for you.”

  “Could you let it go?”

  “Probably not.” They laughed. “So call Carol. She’s a liar, be ready for that. She’s really good at it. She’s hidden a second life for years.”

  “In a lot of ways, I don’t really want to know, I guess. I know if I do know, it will affect things.”

  “Of course you don’t want to know. When he gets back you want to resume your good life. You’ll never be able to get it out of your head if you know.”

  “It’s true. But I can be fairly strong if I have to be.”

  “I know that.”

  “I mean, I could confront her.” Veronica was staring into her cold coffee. “There’s no turn off like this. It’s the most awful thing ever. It threatens everything.”

  “Oh yeah, I know it. Do it then. Carol really needs a confrontation, face to face.” Rachel stared into her coffee. “Goodness me, to be a fly on the wall.”

  That night Veronica contacted Carol and asked if they could meet out at Squeak’s. At eight o’clock Carol came flying into Squeak’s and spotted Veronica in a back booth.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, about being late, but Veronica wasn’t worried about it at all. She was far more worried about the conversation they were about to have. Carol sat down, and Veronica realized they’d never really sat across from one another before. Carol was beautiful, a nice level look in her eye, her hair dark and long, her skin near perfect, a light blue bow in her hair. Her fingers were thin and long, the nails hard and red. She was a pianist, very good, and often did recitals in the studios in the Music Department. Classically trained, in New York City, so the rumor went, upper-class attractive and very nicely pulled together. Somewhere under those clothes were the knife scars from Wally’s attack, one in the chest and one in the forearm. It was one of the most fam
ous scenes in the history of Tuscola. She wasn’t dead, she was just pissed off about her multiple stab wounds and all this blood in front of her kids. She’d survived. She made it to the front door and dropped the knife through a crack in the decking of the front porch, then collapsed naked down the steps onto the sidewalk. Then the local shaman, Vasco Whirly, out for a run, happened along to save deaver her life. He was a medic in Vietnam. This was a mere two years ago.

  “How’s your summer been going?” Veronica asked.

  “It’s been kind of blah,” Carol replied. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Are you lonely?”

  “I get lonely,” she said. “Our awful house torments me, but the kids keep me busy.”

  “Of course,” Veronica replied.

  “How is Lowell doing?” Carol asked.

  “He’ll be home before long. I assume you know what’s going on with him.”

  “Not really. Is he off somewhere drying out?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. How did you know?”

  “If Vasco’s involved, that’s probably it,” Carol said.

  It was a quiet evening at Squeak’s, so the wait staff wasn’t there and the bartender brought the drinks.

  “I took the liberty of ordering you a Stella. You probably drink wine,” Veronica said.

  “Beer’s fine.”