by Wenke, John;
When he stopped, out of breath, woozy, he didn’t want to kill Joe Solomon anymore. Feeling his way up the steps, Hedge went to the kitchen and got a glass of water. It was time to get down to business. Rather than pressing license plates for three cents an hour, Hedge worked around the house. He washed dishes, scraped pots, and scoured pans. He dusted and vacuumed. As he pushed the beater-brush, lifting the nape of the plush cranberry carpet, Hedge carried the cordless phone with him. His probation officer, Ray Raymond, was liable to call at any time. If Hedge didn’t pick up the phone, it would be assumed he was out, at large, and in violation of parole. This wasn’t baseball. One strike and he was gone.
It helped that Hedge could take the cordless phone outside, where he could be especially useful. Over the last three weeks, he had painted the entire house—two coats of Bohemian Blue—and replaced all the rain gutters. He re-screened the side porch. All this work—it was a new fix.
Hedge spent three hours squatting on his haunches, his back nettled with stickers, knees mud-wet through his work pants. He was behind the shrubs and flower beds, patching cracks in the foundation. Tomorrow he would coat the entire surface with Thompson’s WaterSeal. Toward the end of his circuit, while Hedge was leaning way out, doing his best to keep from falling into the azaleas, the cordless phone trilled.
“Morgan residence.”
“What’re you doing today? Building a marble gazebo?”
It was Ray Raymond. Hedge always felt sorry for people with joke names—Joyce Joyce, Joe Citizen, anybody named Koch, Fuchs, Teeter, or Malarkey.
“I’m plugging cracks. When I’m done, I’ll work out.”
Ray Raymond sighed. “Hedge, just remember: you’re one of the good ones. I only call you up because I have to.” Ray Raymond was trying to sucker him. He would call later, maybe many times later. “I’m feeling all let down. One of my first offense rapists is back in the joint. He couldn’t resist. The lady was in her eighties. Now tell me, Hedge, what do you make of a guy like that?”
“The usual,” Hedge grunted. “It’s not supposed to make sense.”
He was impatient to get Ray Raymond off the line. Today was the day. After weeks of worrying, Hedge hoped he’d have the guts to make a run for it.
“It’s a terrible thing, Hedge, because you find yourself thinking if they’re gonna do it, why not go after something nice?”
“Ray, this cement I got on this here trowel is drying out.”
Ray Raymond sighed again, like his feelings were hurt. Hedge saw this as just another cop trick.
“Don’t go getting mad! I’m just one of the working stiffs. I wanted to catch you once today, just for the record. I probably won’t be catching you again for a whole friggin’ week.”
Hedge smiled: tomorrow he’d have another paintbrush all set. Ray Raymond was going to be dropping by.
Hedge had already done half an hour’s time on Sharon’s exercise bike and another half hour bouncing on his toes and pounding Herm’s punching bag. After five sets of fifty sit-ups, he was now facedown in the backyard, the cordless phone beside him on the grass, finishing his third and final set of pushups. Lifting himself slowly, his arms quavering, he imagined himself beating back the lactic acid armies swarming in his muscles.
Thirty-seven. “Ugh!” he grunted, sinking slowly, pausing, his arms toned and poised, his lower back straight—no cheating—nose snuffling the grass.
Thirty-eight. Hedged pushed himself up.
On the picnic table, a small portable boom box played Beethoven’s Pastorale. Hedge was not a classical music buff—in fact, it bored him—but he had discovered in rehab that the musing mix of strings, horns and winds blowing behind the tinkling piano, and even the rumbling drum relaxed him.
Thirty-nine. The sound filtered through him without stealing his thoughts. It settled and fixed them. Over the last two hours, Ludwig smoothed some wrinkles in Hedge’s soul and helped him make up his mind.
Forty.
Hedge collapsed on the grass, the blades prickling, a cool mat on his whiskered face. As soon as he caught his breath, he really would make a run for it. It would be foolish and risky, but he needed to find something out. He had cased the operation.
The Morgans, as Ray Raymond knew, had call-waiting, so Hedge couldn’t simply leave the phone off the hook. There was another way. He would use Ray Raymond against himself. Ray did not like to make a fool of himself in the same way. Once, Ray had gotten all in a lather because the Morgan line had been busy. He came rushing over to find Hedge in the backyard, well within bounds, sitting at the picnic table and shooting the breeze with his sister. Sharon had been on her cell phone, stuck downtown in gridlock. Before she called out of boredom, Hedge had been listening to one of those recorded computer spiels. With Sharon rattling away, Hedge had forgotten to hang up the other line. Ray Raymond acted all embarrassed and apologetic. He figured Hedge jury-rigged the busy signal so he could make a little getaway, which was exactly what he now planned to do.
The cordless phone rang. Languidly, Hedge rolled over on his back, lifted the unit and touched the switch. “Morgan residence,” Hedge mumbled in his most gravelly voice.
“Hedge, what’s wrong? You having a heart attack?” It was Ray Raymond.
“No such luck. I was taking a nap. I just drifted off.”
“Didn’t mean to bother you, but I got an idea. A little reward, say. Because you’re such a good boy. I just stopped in to see one of my hookers and told her about you. She loves ex-Marines and would be happy to make a free house call. Only thing, Hedge, while you do it, she wants you to wear the top half of your dress regimentals and pay her cab fare.”
Hedge jabbed the button, choking off Ray Raymond’s horse laugh.
He sat up and stretched his leg muscles. He flicked on the phone and sprinted toward the back of the lot. Hedge leaped over the line. On his heels, he skidded down a crumbling hill, the pebbles rolling beneath his sneakers. He raced along a winding path cluttered with logs and dead leaves, ducking under outstretched limbs, twisting away from grappling vines. He bounced across the rocks of a small stream and stumbled up the embankment. Fifty yards ahead, there was sunlight. Soon, he skittered to the rutted shoulder of County Lane.
As he pounded toward the Exxon sign, skipping over shards of glass and peeled tires, the ground crackled and gave way. Sliding to a stop, he raked two quarters from the back pocket of his gray sweatpants. Hedge stepped beneath the public phone’s cracked plastic dome, lifted the receiver, dropped in the coins, and poked out the Morgan number. With the phone ringing, Hedge set the receiver on the torn, open pages of the phone book and then jogged the next hundred yards. He reserved the last thirty for his cool-down walk.
He wiped his face with the belly of his green tee-shirt. He finger-combed his short black hair. With his breathing only slightly rushed, he pulled the heavy iron door and stepped inside Roadside Roy’s cool afternoon night. The bartender—a bald, fat man with a gray paintbrush mustache—stood at the far end of the bar. He rested one foot on the ledge of the lower sink, his head tilted back, staring at a stock-car race playing on the overhead screen. A young man in blue work clothes sat at the middle of the bar, hunched over a sandwich and a glass of beer. He didn’t even look up. That Hedge had arrived was no big deal. Fighting bank-robber nervousness, Hedge stood behind one of those old-fashioned stools with the red vinyl seats, silver studded stitching and no backs. The bartender waddled Hedge’s way.
“What do ya say, pal?”
“I’ll have a Black Jack on the rocks. You still got a phone?” The bartender pointed with his chin. At the end of a short corridor, the Gents door on his left, the Gals door on his right, Hedge grabbed the receiver, fumbled out two quarters and punched in the numbers.
“It’s busy!” Hedge said, looking into the graffiti scrawl. The beep-beep-beep amazed him. Usually, his plans didn’t work.
With relief, Hedge went back to his place. Standing behind his stool, his fingers lifting the sweating glass, his heart twisting with dread, Hedge sipped the whiskey. It sloshed around his teeth and went down. He did not turn into a bat or sprout fangs. He took a longer pull, surprised, disturbed—no, pleased. The booze burned his throat and stomach. Again he sipped, relieved: he didn’t really want it. He had been right: throughout all the hours of counseling and confession, all the I’m-really-bad admissions, Hedge had never considered himself to be an alcoholic, a problem drinker, yes, but not an alcoholic. Even with his body twisting in the wrench of withdrawal, even during those days when he wet his lips and longed. Not that he could tell anybody.
These days, everybody was schooled in the dynamics of denial. All Hedge could do was bide his time and prove it to himself, away. Of course, Sharon kept booze in the house, but he was sure she had every drop measured. So he forged his own plan. He went out and now he would go back. He would not take one for the road.
The cubes rattled. Hedge left a six-dollar tip. During his return run, his stomach feeling sick, he hung up the public phone like a good citizen. Behind the Morgan line, he slipped going up the hill, banging his knee on a boulder. But the pain tasted great. Knowing when it hurt was normal. He tripped crossing the property line and sprinted the final stretch. With a pronounced stroke, he turned off the cordless phone. Winded, he dropped down and rolled over. The white clouds humped and twisted into feathery horses leaping above the shifting trees.
Having sold a three bedroom for four hundred thousand, Sharon arrived home in a lilting mood. She smooched and tickled Herm. She rubbed Hedge’s face and poked him in the ribs. “It’s so wonderful to come home to two handsome men!”
The two handsome men smiled uncomfortably. Flirtation did not sit well on Sharon.
“Since I’m today’s big breadwinner, I’ll leave it to you guys to take over the kitchen.” The two guys almost always took over the kitchen. “I’m going to the club for a swim and a sauna.”
One of the things Hedge liked about Herm was his shrugging indifference to money. That Sharon had scored sixteen thousand in commission and fees was no big deal to him.
In the kitchen, while the men prepared dinner—veal Oscar, sweet potatoes, asparagus, Greek salad—Herm was far more interested in discussing his latest brainstorm, an All-Mall Weekday Walking Workout for Senior Citizens. That afternoon, he had gotten it organized, even down to the posters and newspaper and radio promotions.
“It’ll encourage the oldsters to get in shape. Registered oldsters will get an extra five percent off all non-sale items. In all stores. On Monday we’ll have a ribbon cutting and everything. The Mayor will be there. We’ll have balloons. I even dug up this senior citizen marching band. The merchants’ll love it.”
Throughout dinner, Sharon went out of her way to be nice.
“Al, I simply love the job you did covering those ugly cracks. You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”
“The way I see it—you move or die. Like Herm’s walk for the old bags.”
“Speaking of moving,” Herm piped up. “Sharon and I would like you to forget about moving out. When your time’s up, we want you to stay with us. You can save money and get back on your feet. You and me—we can even carpool.”
“Carpool” was Herm’s tactful way of addressing Hedge’s transportation woes. His license was suspended for another three months. Even then it wouldn’t matter. Hedge transcended the Assigned Risk category. In the car insurance world, he was to safe driving what junk bonds were to fiscal responsibility.
“I’ll find an apartment and walk to work. I’m in the way here.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sharon said. “Besides, you really do need to save your money.”
“It won’t matter,” Hedge moaned. “Whatever I make, they’re gonna take.”
Herm waved these mournful thoughts away. “That’s why there are lawyers in the world. She can’t get it all.” Herm and Sharon were also springing for Hedge’s divorce lawyer. “You’ll be surprised by what Marv Ziner will be able to salvage. He’s a magical man.”
Hedge nodded and got up. He didn’t even want to think about the figures in Pete Macavoy’s civil suit. After dinner, it was his habit to retreat to his room and stay there till eleven. Herm and Sharon needed their own life. Hedge needed to feed his latest addiction.
Herm owned all of John Le Carre’s books. During the day and in the evenings, Hedge had been consuming them in chronological order. Certain scenes, his favorite characters, had become like memory bytes of his own life. It shook him up when Alec Leamas got shot to pieces after vacillating atop the Berlin Wall and then climbing back down. All for Liz, who was already wasted. Smiley was down there, on the western side, calling for Hedge to jump. Now Smiley—there was a good guy with his own troubles. His wife slept around and it took him forever to catch Karla. They were all part of Hedge’s squad. Magnus Pym—another joke name—let his father swallow his life, and don’t forget poor Jerry Westerby, who called everybody “sport.” He, too, took it for Liz, a different Liz. Hedge detected a pattern. Maybe Le Carre—his real name was David something—got burned by someone named Liz.
Hedge closed the bedroom door. It clicked behind him. On the nightstand pile was The Russia House. He started right in, curious to see what old Dave was going to do after they took the Cold War away. But he couldn’t leap the divide. Instead, he was floating above the abyss, looking for a soft place to land. He was wondering about making another run. But first he would reconnoiter.
Against everyone’s advice, against the law, in violation of parole, Hedge picked up the phone and punched in the number. His daughter, Cindy, answered.
“Hello.” Heavy metal music clanked in the background.
In a graveled, grating voice, Hedge asked for an old friend.
“May I talk to Sergeant Al Hedge?”
She paused, suspicious, and then blurted, “Daddy doesn’t live here anymore. Who are you?”
A good question! Hedge’s mind reeled. Instinctively, he plucked a joke name.
“I’m Joe. Joe Joseph. An army pal. One of the guys your father saved.”
“Mom says, ‘That’s the only decent thing he ever did, but stick around awhile, it’ll turn out he saved a serial killer.’ We all hate Daddy.”
“I’m not a killer, Cindy.”
“How’d you know my name?”
Hedge wavered in the vertigo of improvisation.
“I remember when you were born. Your father sent me a card. Since then I turned over a new leaf. I’ve become a priest. Now I’m Father Joseph Joseph.”
Cindy laughed. “That’s a funny name.”
“My parents were in love with St. Joseph.”
“Who’s he?”
“A very trusting husband.”
“Cool. How was he trusting?”
Hedge was running out of ideas, and Cindy was bored.
“It’s a long story. Ask your Daddy. While you’re at it, tell him Joe Joseph called.”
“I’ll get Mommy to tell the lawyer. We never talk to Daddy. There’s a court order. Mom says he’s criminally insane and should be breaking rocks in the hot sun. He got off the hook for trying to kill everybody. He’s at his sister’s house. Mom says they’re all over there laughing at the court.”
“I’m sure nobody’s laughing. Well, Cindy, don’t forget to tell your mother I called.” Hedge took a flyer. “Or maybe I could say a word to her myself.”
With a little prayer to St. Joseph, Hedge decided to reveal himself. He’d tell Re Re he had changed. He’d say, “That guy who floored you—it wasn’t me.”
“She ain’t here now. She’s out with Norm. He’s awesome. He bought me the new Play Station and he gets me any game I want. Norm lives here now. As soon as Mommy’s divorce goes through, they’re gonna get married. Then I’l
l be rich. Hey, you’re a priest! Maybe you can marry them.”
Hedge cleared his throat. “That’s nice of you to ask, but I simply won’t be able to. You see, I’m calling long distance.” Hedge thought of faraway places. The Pitcairn Islands. Madagascar. The melting Antarctic shelf. “Right now I’m in Tacoma. In seven days, I leave for Tibet. I’m going to work on converting Buddhist monks. Back in the war, they used to light themselves on fire.”
“Whatever. Well, have fun. I’ll tell Mom you called.”
“Please do and tell her I’ll say a prayer for your father.”
“The hell with him! The bastard chipped my tooth.”
Reading was out. Hedge opened the window and stepped out to the slanting roof, careful to keep his footing on the slippery shingles. He settled slowly into place, resting his back on the freshly painted shakes. With his hands cupped around his knees, his head touching the wall, he looked beyond the stunted evergreens to the evening lights of nearby houses. Normal adults were watching TV, helping kids with homework, getting ready to call it a day. Sitting on the roof, alone in the chill of his private Tibet, Hedge imagined sliding to the garage roof and jumping to the grass. He wondered what it would be like to slip slowly off, to go outside like any other person who needed to walk off the woes of the day, move or die, then come back, not to a halfway house, but to a home.
The shingles scratched Hedge’s behind. He shifted his weight. He wasn’t going anywhere. Soon he would crawl back in, give old Le Carre another go, figure out what was happening at the Moscow book fair and try to get lost on the trails of international intrigue. There he might forget he had a daughter, a son, a wife, and that they all hated him. When he found his way out, maybe he could remember that today he had proven himself normal, that he only had seven more days on the inside, that he could then travel at-large, carry the weight of his balance, and try to find his way past the invisible moving wall.