by Olson, Toby
The man entering behind hardly budged him when he bumped into him, and I saw his head over Plummer’s shoulder, the cattail man, younger, as he reached out for the other’s arm and touched it, and they both glanced over at Carlos, whose palms now rested on the chest of the still, prone figure, just long enough, and I sent the arrow through Plummer’s thigh.
He looked down at it, the quivering feather end. Then he looked up at me. There were tears in his small eyes, saliva on his lips, and I knew that though he’d had no plan to kill me, just to come here and beat me, he had one now.
He lifted the axe up and staggered forward, and as he came at me and the cattail man reached out to stop him, I saw Carlos moving low over the carpet, then saw the cattail man falling, his legs in the air. His head hit the floor with a thud and Carlos was on him, his hands in his hair, and Plummer turned at the sound, and I stepped forward and grabbed the axe handle near the blade and swung the bow and hit him, hard across the cheek. Then I kicked out at his healthy leg and heard the patella crack, and once he’d fallen to the floor beside the cattail man I stood over him, the bow in one hand, the axe in the other. He looked up at me in wonder, then down at the feather. Then he stared at the ceiling, his eyes watering in pain and disgust.
I got handcuffs and duct tape and we secured them. Then I went to the phone and called the station and told the duty man we’d need an ambulance too. Then I called Warren at home. Carlos had a few glass cuts on his arms, and he went to the bathroom to tend them while I waited, and when Warren and the others arrived and we heard the ambulance in the distance, I went to the kitchen phone and called Erica Plummer.
“Can you leave in a few hours?” I said.
“Is he all right?”
“Yes,” I said. “He’ll be okay. And the others will too. But they’ll be locked up for a while. Is there anyone else?”
“I can’t say,” she said. “I don’t know. He has more friends like those. He may have called someone.”
“Just a minute,” I said, and put down the phone and went to talk with Warren, then came back again.
“An officer will come to the house,” I said. “You met him at the station in Provincetown. Then it’s the motel I told you about. You might have to sit tight until Monday, but I’ll call if I can get the lawyer there earlier.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice stronger now.
I called the lawyer in Providence then, but there was no answer, just the machine saying he’d return after the holiday weekend. Then I went back into the living room. The ambulance had arrived and they were loading the three men into it, Plummer and the one who had come through the window on stretchers, the other ambulatory. I could see the red taillights through the opening where the door had been, hear punches of static on the cruiser’s radio. It was a clear night, and starry, and a cool breeze came in and rustled the pages of magazines that had fallen from the coffee table. Warren was in the doorway. He waved his fingers and called me over.
“Who the hell is that?”
“You mean Carlos?”
“The little guy.”
“Right. Well he’s a friend now. He’s moved in here. We’re living together.”
“What for?”
“Well, to get some work done on the place. He’s a handyman, a carpenter. He used to work for Strickland.”
“Really?” Warren said. “Well he must be a tough little fucker, that’s for sure.”
“I just found that out,” I said. “And a good thing too.”
“So they’ll want you at the station, I suspect tomorrow.”
“Right,” I said. “And thanks for going after the Plummer woman.”
“Least I could do,” he said. “I put you onto her after all. Strickland, and now this. We’re batting a thousand.”
He gestured at the mess, then smiled at me and nodded to someone behind me, and then he turned and left. It was Carlos, and he was carrying his bag of tools and a few boards under his arm.
“I found them in the basement,” he said.
And before I could bring up our recent engagement, he had me holding the door as he spread the tarp. He removed the lock and knob, then got to work on the splintered panels, the door flat on the carpet, and while he was gluing and clamping I stood above him and counted my errors, considering the fiasco of my first real case as a private citizen detective.
Larry
The waning moon sat over Kelly’s house. It was early evening, no stars yet, and Gino could see the car in gravel near the porch and lights in a few windows, and then he saw a figure on the porch, carrying something and heading down the steps and toward the cliff, and he thought it must be Arthur. He looked over at the lighthouse. It was darkening in dusty shadows, and the structures and vehicles at its base were coming under shadow too, losing definition, and he could see the glowing string of night lights swelling up in the darkness at the perimeter. He heard the engine faintly in the sky then, one of the small Cessnas out of Provincetown. That’ll be the seven-o-five to Boston, he thought, connections to New York and Philadelphia. He knew all the schedules, and he knew it was a foolishness to know them, but it was something to do, though he was getting sick of it all, this doing something that was nothing.
“Yoo-hoo.”
It was that bugger Larry, farting around again, and Gino thought he wouldn’t turn, but then he did, his pipe between his teeth, and looked at the two of them. John was in his wheelchair, a blanket on his legs, and Larry was shuffling a pack of dog-eared cards over the small metal table he’d pulled up to his chair. He looked over at Gino.
“Back with us again?”
They heard a whisper of cloth slippers in the hall and they all glanced to the doorway. Then Frank shuffled in with the information and they were all there.
“Just the one now?” John said.
“That’s right,” said Frank. “I knew I heard that fucking ambulance. They think they’re keeping something from us? As if we were children? Those asshole doctors.”
“Maybe they planned for pillows under the sheets,” Larry said. “You know, to fool us?”
“Right, and a pumpkin for a head.”
“Anything about the other one?” John asked, lifting his chin to where the screen had been. There was nothing there at all now. They’d rolled out the bed and the IV pole, and he could see a horizontal gouge in the wall under the window where that bed and others had scraped it.
“I was here when Kelly came in,” Gino said. “Just stood there and looked, and then left.”
“Kelly’s upset, I think,” Frank said. “I don’t know. But the guy came around is how I hear it, and now he’s gone.”
“Who says?” said Larry.
“Kelly.”
“And we were watching the frigging Congress on the cable,” said Gino. “Wasting our time as usual.”
Frank was pulling an IV stand and mop string had caught in the wheels, and he jerked it up beside his chair as he sat down and the metal fitting on the bag clicked against the pole. He got the tube arranged and glanced up at the drip, and Larry put the cards down and Gino lit his pipe and John fished a cigarette out of a crumpled pack, straightened it with his fingers, then tapped it on the edge of his coffee can.
“What is it?” he said.
“Fucked if I know. Something about my electrolytes,” said Frank.
“It’s glucose. And probably a little potassium,” said Gino.
“How in the fuck would you know?”
“A little respect,” Gino said, as he tamped the tobacco down and lit the pipe again.
“Carolyn was surely pissed when we got back,” Larry said.
“Right. She was. But she was faking it some too, like an indulgent daughter.”
It was John, and his cigarette was in his tracheotomy tube again, sticking out of his throat, ash falling down to the blanket.
“Some daughter!” Gino said.
“I had a son once,” said Frank.
“You told us about that.”
; “Not Frank Junior. He died in the war. I mean another one, still alive I think.”
“You said ‘had,’” Larry said.
“That’s the way it is. He was a plumber. Then he became a contractor. Too fancy for me I guess. He married some chippy, ten years ago or more. I haven’t seen him since then, haven’t heard from him either.”
“The right name for it,” Gino said. “Plummer.”
“That’s an old joke,” said Frank.
“Where is he?” asked Larry.
“He was over in Taunton, last I heard. Only a few lousy miles from here. But that was ten years ago, and I don’t know about now.”
“Children can be nasty fuckers,” Gino said. “My daughter for one.”
“Where is she?” said John.
“I told you. I have absolutely no idea at all.”
“Carolyn, on the other hand,” said Larry, winking.
“Well, now,” Gino said. “That’s another kettle of fish entirely.”
They settled into Frank’s revelation, yet another marker for each of them, even Larry, who had traveled in circles devoid of children, and John too, who had managed to miss family without ever trying. It was a marker of abandonment, the real thing and not the one romantically named as such, all those who had left them to go into death, quite naturally. There was nothing at all to be said about it, but to rail against it, and none had a taste for that because it was useless and undignified and seemed a childish thing even to consider. They weren’t thinking these things, though Gino took his pipe from his mouth once, then demurred, tapping the stem against his teeth, and Larry shuffled the cards absently. Frank held some papers in his lap, the tip of his pencil moving like a pointer over then, and John took the cigarette from his throat, coughed, then spoke.
“Whaddaya think about the structure? I thought the footings looked fine.”
“Depends upon geology,” Frank said. “Sand’s good, but they say there’s shifting they hadn’t counted on. And who knows what else they’ll find down under there.”
“The beams looked okay,” Gino said. “The jacks.”
“How do you think they get a level?” Larry said. “As simple as I imagine?”
“You got it,” Gino said. “A plumb line. Nothing more than that.”
“Well a few instruments, I’d think,” said Frank.
“Of course, of course, but it comes down to that. A plumb line.”
“I’ve been thinking about a job when I was just a kid,” Larry said. “It was on a farm one summer, when I was toughening up. To become a man I guess.”
“When was that?” said John.
“Nineteen twenty-one. I was just fifteen.”
“I was down in Kentucky then,” said Frank. “Not long before I left.”
“What ever happened to that kid?” Gino said. “The one in the chicken house?”
“Adam? I told you that. He left. He wasn’t part of the story at all, not my part.”
“Well, I would have thought, your mother and all.”
“Look,” Frank said. “The guy left. That’s it!”
“There’s a guy in my story too,” Larry said.
“Let’s consider the erosion, then,” John said. “There’s been a good many storms in the last month.”
“There’s erosion in my story,” said Larry.
“Well, the local rag says it’s still safe. To have the equipment behind the thing I mean. But it looked pretty fucking close to me,” Frank said. “Didn’t you think?”
“About fifty yards or so,” said Gino. “But what’s the soil quality under the cliff face? That’s the question.”
“I’m sure they’ve looked into that,” John said.
“They drilled test holes as well,” said Frank. “But they didn’t find that river. Not until now.”
“I’ll give you that.”
“What about this guy got whacked in the head down there?” Gino said, glancing to where the screen had been.
“What about him?” said Frank.
“Do you think it had something to do with the site, some earth shift? It could have.”
“Christ knows.”
“I doubt we ever will,” said John.
“Somebody passed out in my story,” Larry said, and they all turned to him. Then Gino turned to John and spoke again.
“Did you hear about the Ivory soap? I heard it from Carolyn. They grease the rails with it.”
“Not too surprising,” John said. “You should have seen what they used on oil rigs, when they ran out of grease? Chicken fat once, and even rancid tarpon. Smelled to high heaven.”
“I thought I was there once, in Tampico,” Gino said, lighting his pipe again.
They heard the squeak of tennis shoes in the hallway, a click of metal. Then Carolyn stepped in through the solarium doors, a vision of loveliness, early to work this evening, in her starched A-line, white cotton stockings, and cute little hat. Her hair touched her ears in blond ringlets, and she was carrying a tray, a plate piled high with sugar cookies, and her keys jingled against each other at her hip.
“Hi there!” Gino said, his pipe in his hand now and his shoulders squaring up.
She moved to Larry’s small table, bent over and set the tray down, then rose and turned to each of them, smiling in anticipation and concern.
“Everything’s just fine,” John said.
“The cookies. That’s good!” said Gino.
“It’s all in order,” said Frank, and Carolyn nodded, then turned and headed for the doorway, her steps light and the A-line twitching from side to side, and they listened for the hushed whisper of her stockings as she headed down the ward.
“That little hat,” Gino said. “I like that!”
“In your dreams,” Frank said.
“Like a nun’s hat,” said Larry.
“Oh, my!” said Gino.
“Let’s not get blasphemous, now.” It was John, and he was laughing lightly, tapping another cigarette on the can.
“There’s one in my story,” Larry said, and they all turned to him, then Frank spoke.
“She’s two hours early. At least that.”
“Do you think it’s Kelly?”
“Kelly was upset about something.”
“Maybe it’s the dead guy,” Gino said. “Something about that. I mean, to get things in order you know?”
“What’s to order?” Frank said.
“One less to be sucking,” said John, “to be cleaning. Just the one guy out there now.”
“For the time being,” said Gino, then Larry began.
It was Salt Lake City and the Mormons still dressed in the last century. But it was the start of the Roaring Twenties, and there were those coming out from the East in fine clothing and roadsters, stylish, and the women revealing themselves and the Mormon men with their heads down under their hats. And to be a Catholic child then in that oppressive city, but in view of the actuality of alternatives, was the burden that got him away from home and into the country, one summer, to a Catholic farm near Oakley.
There was another boy his age on the farm, from another school, and there was a nun on the farm, daughter of the owner, who had arranged for the boys to be there, to learn the ways of hard work and to toughen into Catholic men who could stand up in the face of the Latter-day Saints for the true religion of Jesus. She was young and beautiful and passionate, and though she had no idea of boys or even of the finer tenets of her religion and was a fool for Christ, she was an immaculate vision in black and white on the farmhouse porch. She’d look out over the dusty yard, hands on her hips, to where the boys worked at the greasy undercarriage of a tractor, rancid in the ooze of their adolescence.
She came, and then she went back to the city, then she came out on the porch again, and the boys abused themselves in the night thinking of her, unsuccessfully, then turned to a search for other visions. And when she came back for a whole week of summer vacation and followed out behind them, lifting her black skirts, the beads of her lo
ng rosary clacking, to watch them at work, they stiffened up as if they were men and focused to handle their tools with complete ease and sophistication.
“His name was Matthew, a beautiful boy as I remember, lean and articulate in his bony structure, smooth-chested, a mop of blond curls like a city flapper. He had a delicate nose, a sweet disposition, and the voice of an angel in the singing of comic nursery rhymes in our nights.”
The work was to dig up stumps in a meadow where trees had been cut, and the farmer had brought out the tractor and chain the night before and had left them there. The boys carried the axe and the shovels, and Theresa the nun followed them with the wicker basket, water and sandwiches, oranges and a few bananas.
They had to climb a rocky rise in the dawn light, and when they looked back to the nun struggling up behind them in her habit they imagined they were enacting the passion, she Mary Magdalene following the soldiers carrying the tools of crucifixion. She wore a half moon of immaculate white over her breast, sweat fell from her brow to stain it, and her hat was an archway over her beautiful girl’s face, her veil a silken banner on the breeze.
The meadow opened into a broad field of wildflowers under the hill, its horizon defined by a low cliff at the edge of a river that in flood rose up to the meadow’s edge. But the river was in recession now, though swollen and carrying pieces of quick-moving flotsam in morning mist and licking at the clay bank.
The tractor was there and the chain, and the stump was a massive old oak, a tree fed by the coursing river through more than a century, the flat surface left by the cutting the size of a dining room table, or a circle drawn in the dust for mibs. The stump rose up to the boys’ shoulders, and they could imagine Theresa kneeling upon it, hands clasped over her full breast, Our Lady of the River. She sat down on the tractor’s step, her hem dragged up to her black ankles, and watched them work.