Borderlines (11 page)

Somehow he me out of it-out of depending on the booze.” “Must have had its moments, especially seeing him drink like a She looked straight at me, her face fresh and open. “That was one of the amazing things about it, though. He got me to focus enough on me that it didn’t matter that he drank. He did that for his reasons, and they had nothing to do with me. At least that’s how I ended up seeing it. I guess at first that bothered me some. But he’s a wonderful man. Not everyone seems to know that.” A small pause grew. I was worried it might present a pretense for ending the conversation.

“So you have family here.” “Oh, sure. I’m a local girl, well, kind of-from East Haven. My husband’s family is from here, though.” “Was that who picked you up this morning?” “Yeah. Tommy.” Her tone was not endearing. “Problems?” It was none of my business, but professional habits are hard to break.

“Well… I don’t know. He’s a nice man. It’s just… Maybe I’m not cut out for marriage. Buster makes it sound good when he talks about his wife… or when he talks about yours, too.” That came as a shock.

Ellen, my wife, had been dead almost twenty years, after a long, painful fight with cancer at an unfairly young age.

To have this sudden reference to her from someone I barely knew, especially in the context of marital relations, was a little disconcerting.

I guess it showed. Laura quickly put her hand on my arm. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” I put my hand on hers. “No, that’s all right. I forgot you know all about me. You shouldn’t give too much credit to the ramblings of old widowers, you know. No one can compete with the dead, and there’s usually no saint quite as holy as a departed mate. It’s probably compensation for all the fights you had when she was alive. I don’t know… the older I get, the more I question the sanity of any marriage.” She smiled wanly. “I can believe that. I might as well live alone. I hardly even get laid anymore.” I burst out laughing at her bluntness. “God, now that I don’t understand.” She stared up at me then, and I felt my face turn crimson. “You’re blushing.” I laughed again, feeling thoroughly embarrassed now. “I mean, you’re very attractive.” I felt suddenly hot. I also felt like a total jerk.

She reached up and put her cool palm against my cheek. “It’s sweet. Thank you.” She folded her arms across her chest and sighed.

“It’s my own fault. I could do something about it. We don’t have any kids. It’s just… I don’t know. I’m stuck; have been for years.”

“What does your husband do?” I asked, happy to change the ubject.

“He works nights in St. J. at a lumber company. When he gets ome, I’m getting ready to go to work; when I get home, it’s his turn to head out. We could probably share a twin bed and never bump into ach other.”

“I could see where that wouldn’t do much for a relationship.” “I guess.”

She paused. “Do you have a girlfriend?” I smiled but kept quiet.

“I didn’t embarrass you again, did I? I’m sorry. “No, no, not at all. Yes, I have a girlfriend; I just never thought f her in that light. I’m surprised you didn’t already know about her. he scrapbook must get thin at the end.” “What’s her name?” “Gail.” It felt awkward saying her name here. With all the recent xcitement, I hadn’t paused to think about the primary reason I was p here-to ponder just where Gail and I were headed.

“And?” “She’s a realtor in Brattleboro.” “Is she pretty?” “I think so.” I was distracted, suddenly wondering just what it was that had caused things to cool between Gail and me. “Skinny?” “Pretty thin, yeah. Why do you ask?” “I just thought she would be. Skinnier than me, I bet.” She slid off the car and opened her coat. I looked at her, again startled by her spontaneity. She was, in fact, remarkably attractive in a close-fitting sweater and the perennialjeans”full-bodied,” as the ads say, but with a flat stomach and nicely rounded hips. I found myself thinking old Tommy must be out of his mind.

“Very nice.” She looked down at herself. “That’s it?” I could feel my cheeks flushing again. “You like doing this to me.” She grinned and swiveled her hips.

I leaned over, took her hands and brought them together, closing her coat. “You know damn well what I think.” Like a burst bubble, her mood darkened. She hugged the coat about her and stared at the ground.

The suddenness threw me off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” She shook her head. “You didn’t. Just the opposite.

You’re one of the nicest men I’ve met.” Her voice lifted, regaining an artificial brightness. “So, do you love Gail a lot?” Her frailty was infectious, and her ability to turn the tables uncanny. I found myself suddenly quite at a loss for words.

She gave me a sidelong glance and a sad smile. “You, too, huh?”

“No. It’s different. Well, for one, we’re not married. We don’t even live together.” “Oh.” A silence grew between us. I looked up at the stars. What a surprising conversation to be having, especially with a woman I’d only known for a day. Not to mention the fact that she was half my age. But I felt I owed her as much honesty as she’d shared with me. “Gail and I are a little like seesaw riders trying to stay level with each other.

It only works if we’re both at the same emotional height, and at opposite ends of the board.” “I never would have thought of a relationship that way. I thought about it for a bit. “It’s accurate, though. And right now we’re off balance.” “Seriously?” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I think that’s one of the reasons I’m up here.” “So what’re you going to do?” “Damned if I know. Try to work it out when I get back to Brattleboro.” Another pause. “And what do I do?” I didn’t answer at first, confused by the way she’d phrased the question. “I don’t know that I’m the one to ask.” I thought for a moment. “Talk to him, maybe change your schedules, look in the mirror and decide what you want from each other. It’s very hard. I can only tell you the answers don’t get any easier the older you get.” She nodded and slowly straightened up, her hands in her pockets. “Thanks, Joe.” She reached up and kissed me on the cheek. Then she walked down the sidewalk to her car, got in, and drove away with a small wave of her hand. I waved back and watched her taillights. Maybe it was the empty feeling she’d left behind, or the uncomfortable yearnings she’d aroused in me, but in that moment of Laura’s departure, I don’t think I’d ever missed Gail more.

I paused in front of the burned house, still contained by the thin, ging yellow Police Line, anemically reflecting the rising sun. This worked the start of the hunt, the point where seemingly random vioce yields to the search for an explanation. I wanted to begin that rch with the real owner of this house, Edward Sarris, and I wanted begin it early, before a scheduled morning meeting between Potter the State Police investigators.

It was a warm morning, or at least warm for November in Vernt. The earth, just twenty-four hours ago crystalized with ice, was w softened and muddy. The tracks of dozens of heavy trucks had lost ir definition as if, slowly, they too were melting. I walked north up Atlantic Boulevard. There still wasn’t much ivity; sunrise had been but twenty minutes before. I’d been told all houses at this end belonged to the Order, something I could easily ve guessed. For one thing, there were no electrical wires running to y of them. They were all peculiarly blotchy in appearance, as if, after aping, they’d been repainted with a wash. None of the lawns were wed. Indeed, seen from a low enough angle, especially from the dirt d, the houses looked like museum-quality prairie homes, originally les apart, which had been gathered together in one overgrown field anthropological preservation.

There was something else that struck me, but it took a while to k in: There were no cars. In fact, there were no trucks, or motorcys, or even tricycles anywhere to be seen. This entire end of town ked transported from the previous century. The paint, upon closer utiny, was indeed whitewash-what Tom Sawyer had applied to his nt’s fence. The clothes lines, the piled split wood, the occasional ss-saw seen leaning against a wall-all harked back to preindustrial es. Aside from a glimpse or two of a woman or child in the ubiquicotton Mao suits, all of it could have served well at Williamsburg Sturbridge Village. Except that all this looked real, including the odd ap of antique garbage.

I saw a woman hanging laundry by the side of a house partway the street. “Hi. Excuse me.

She turned and looked at me, her initial smile fading. She didn’t swer.

“I’m looking for Edward Sarris’s house.” Without a sound, she pointed across the street at the narrow side road where the Wingates had waited for their daughter the night before last, the one that led off into the wooded hills east of town. “Up that street?” She nodded, now looking quite grave.

“Thank you very much.” I followed her direction, looking back just as the tall grass and the corner of the opposite house were about to hide me from view. She was still looking at me. I waved, still to no effect.

From Atlantic Boulevard the road looked more like a driveway than a road, but once on it, past the houses and across the wooden bridge spanning the Passumpsic, I felt myself suddenly in the country, surrounded by nothing but tall frostbitten grass, underbrush, and a growing number of gray, bare trees.

The road led upward for only a third of a mile, but became increasingly steep, so I soon found myself stripping off my coat and dangling it over my shoulder, despite the dabbled shade the now dense trees were supplying. I wasn’t hot, just pleasantly warm, and with the absence of any bugs this late in the year, I discovered I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

The house first appeared as more of a suspicion-something dark and solid amid the dark and distant tree trunks. Its substance grew quickly, however, along with its obvious size. It was built of logs, was no more than a few years old, and was truly gigantic, not quite the Rocky River’s three stories, but almost. This sense of size was reinforced by the fact that it was built out from the hillside, its front supported by a small forest of pillars, making it look much like a dock approached at low tide in a small boat.

The road, which turned out to have been a driveway after all, ran past the house, circled around, and ended in a large parking area that had been cut out of the hill to the rear. Several cars and vans were parked there, only one of which-a new Jeep Cherokee-was obviously used with any frequency. The others were all aligned at the back of the lot, and covered with dust and leaves. There were about twelve of them. The license plate of the Jeep spelled “ORDER,” a word I’d always found had ominous undertones.

I walked up to what was obviously a handmade cherry door quite beautiful in its detailing-and knocked. Edward Sarris opened up almost instantly. “Hello, Lieutenant. I thought you might be next.” He was immaculately attired, as when I’d last seen him, making his cotton garb look like custom-tailored silk. I hoped to find him at a disadvantage, dripping wet from the shower aps, but he either kept ungodly hours, or had already locked into ychological war plan. “State Police beat me to it?” “Yes. Yesterday afternoon.” “Well, I can’t promise I’ll be the last.” “I’m familiar with the system.” His tone reflected the thrill of it I tilted my chin at the building. “This is quite the eagle’s nest.”

He smiled and ushered me in. “It suits us.” What I entered was one huge room, easily one hundred by fifty ,and extending two floors up to a web of heavy wooden supports, ss braces, and rafters. The downhill wall, leading out to an equally e deck, was a mosaic of windows-squares, rectangles, rounds, and f-rounds, which salted the room with multi-fractured light. There a church-like stillness to it all, enhanced by a view that encomsed the slope I’d climbed, all of Gannet, the hills opposite, and far ond.

“This is beautiful.” “Thank you. We built it ourselves.

I walked to the middle of the room, which had little furniture, and mostly benches lining the walls, and looked around. My footsteps oed majestically on the uncarpeted hardwood floor. “How long did ake you?”

“Not long. We’re a very dedicated clan, and we work hard at what love.”

“Well, I tip my hat. You did an amazing job.” He walked by me and threw open a set of French doors to the deck. ome outside.” I followed him and felt I was stepping aboard an aircraft carrier.

e deck was in fact longer than the room, extending a good twenty more to the right, and revealing there was more to the building than one room. It was surrounded by a simple rail, thin enough to be almost invisible from a distance, giving me the impression of being held it, above the trees, as on a huge magic carpet. If the intent was to inspirational, it was a sure-fire success. “You guys don’t fool around with tight quarters.” “Our goal is to be as one with Nature, Lieutenant.

Depending on ur viewpoint, that is either a practical or a romantic ambition, but either case, we have tried to capture the poetry of that mission here our place of worship.” Again, I was struck by his diction and vocabulary. He spoke with precision like a highbrow radio announcer, and had a nice baritone voice to boot. He must have been hell on the pulpit-or whatever he used.

“So this is your church?” “We choose not to use that term. This is simply our place of worship.” “And what do you worship?” “Nature.” “It’s my understanding that for the average cause to work it has to have not only an appealing goal, but something to unite against as well.

What is it you’re against?” He looked at me in silence for a moment before smiling. “Have you always been a Brattleboro policeman?” “Over thirty years.” “But you went to college.” I smiled back. “Why?” Now he chuckled, rubbed his chin, and wandered toward the outside rail. I followed him. “Because you display more intelligence than I have come to expect from the local constabulary.” “That’s pretty faint praise.