On the Loose (14 page)

"You guarantee it?"

"Not in writing."

Somehow his voice always cut through her anxieties and lessened them. During the trauma of divorce proceedings her children turning against her,
his scoldings had sustained her. She laughed. "I do
love you, Ben."

"That's something we'll have to discuss in another life."

Gently she pressed the receiver button down.
When she blew a kiss to the jay, it flew away.

Someone was at the front door. With a glance at
her watch, she wondered who in hell would be
calling unexpectedly, no one coming to mind until
the second before she opened the door. Reverend
Stottle said, "I felt I should call on you."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"The last time we saw each other, I didn't mean
to offend you."

"You didn't." She was amused it still bothered
him. "I was facing a crisis and needed strength. I
don't think you were the one to provide it-my
mistake, not yours."

"I thought this time I might talk with both of
you. I've never made a call to the Heights before.
May I come in?"

After a hesitation, she let him in with a smile
and led him over marble and then hardwood to the
kitchen, where Harry was sipping coffee from a
pottery mug at the table. Harry was in bathrobe
and slippers, showered but not shaved. To the reverend's eye, he looked tubercular.

"What's the honor?" Harry said, blinking twice.

"I thought it appropriate." Reverend Stottle
seated himself, and nodded gratefully as Trish
served him coffee in a mug matching Harry's. His
eyes admired the airy length of the kitchen and the
hanging plants in the bow window. Then he concentrated on Harry. "You don't look well."

"They say I have a heart condition."

"Do you not take care of yourself?"

"If he doesn't, he'll die," Trish said, joining
them. "He knows that."

Harry reached into his robe and scratched his
chest. "I die, what's it going to be like, Austin? Angels to comfort me? Harps to play my favorite
tunes?"

The reverend looked at him sternly. "You'll be
deaf and in the dark. And nothing will matter."

"That's not what you told me," Trish said.

"My views shift. Sometimes I think the child we
were waits for us." He tasted his coffee. "But I
wouldn't count on it."

Harry cracked his knuckles, the sound like a
mallet striking a croquet ball. "Tell me, Austin, do
we suffer fora purpose? Or is it all for naught?"

"I've been having a problem with that question.
I used to think it pleased God to see us endure our
tragedies. Now I think it pleases him too much."

Harry did not look amused. Trish, who clearly
was, said, "I'm starting to wonder who has the bigger problem. Harry or you?"

"I think God should be held responsible for defective minds and bodies and held accountable
for his acts. For what he did to Job and Job's family, he should be drawn and quartered. And for
what he did to you, Harry, he should at least be
reprimanded."

Harry said, "You don't sound like a minister."

"But I am. A real one. God gave us light but for
the most part left us in the dark. Though with
some creatures he was forthcoming. I think a cow
is born with the knowledge that man will milk her
and one day butcher her."

"I don't think you're cheering Harry up," Trish
said.

"Nor do I. I'm sorry, Harry. Tell me about your
son. Do you see him?"

"He's written me off," Harry said aggressively and
grated a hand over his stubble. His eyes were bright
from an antidepressant. "I don't know anything
about Bobby anymore. I don't even know who he is."

"Would you like me to visit him? Perhaps I can
find out."

Trish spoke up fast. "I don't think that would be
wonderful."

Reverend Stottle nodded with a sense of frustration. In other people's dramas he was accustomed
to a bit role but was in no way reconciled to it. He
wanted stardom but would settle for a solid part,
his name somewhere on the marquee.

Harry's hands were trembling, which did not escape Trish's notice. A decision had to be made.
"Do you need a drink, Harry?"

"Yes," he said.

Feeling the reverend's eyes, she said, "This won't
be wonderful either, but I can't refuse him."

The reverend knew a cue when he heard one.
"I'll see you another time," he said.

In June she drove to Connecticut to spend two
weeks with her friend Gloria Eisner, who lived in a
tony neighborhood that rimmed a bird sanctuary.
During the first week they wandered twice
through the sanctuary with binoculars, played tennis one afternoon, dined every other evening at the
country club, and watched the latest video releases, delivery and pick-up provided. Gloria had
seen at least twice every Jack Nicholson movie.

"He reminds me of one of my husbands, a real
bastard."

"I don't like his looks," Trish said.

"They grow on you."

"I don't like my own." A bodysuit with yellow
filigree gave her the look of a goldenrod in bloom.
"It'd be great if we could choose our looks. Big
catalog with lots of pictures. I'd pick better bones
and be a legitimate blonde."

"What's the real problem, Trish?"

"My age."

"It's more than that."

"Then it's everything."

Gloria used the remote to lower the volume of
the video, the softer sound giving Jack Nicholson a
kinder presence as he caressed Shirley MacLaine.
"Sad movie. I always cry, don't you?"

"No."

"You're going back early, aren't you?"

"I've been thinking about it," Trish said.

The next morning they were up by nine. Trish
wanted a last stroll through the sanctuary. Focusing the binoculars, she confused a cardinal with a
tanager until Gloria corrected her. Gloria pointed
out a nuthatch, a sapsucker.

"Harry's brother knows birds. Harry knows
droppings. Can you imagine?"

"Strange as it may sound, Trish, I can."

The sun swirled light through the trees. The relentless sound of birds and insects shook the air.
The heavy beat of the morning took a toll on Trish.

"I didn't think I'd miss him, but I do."

Gloria gave her a sidelong glance. "How about
his brother, do you miss him too?"

"That's an impossible situation. I no longer
think about it." She fell behind Gloria as the
ground rose and the path narrowed enough to
have been made by goats. The woodland began to
thin. "How did you do it, Gloria? You've been
through three men, three divorces."

"They get easier."

"But a divorce is like a death."

"Then I'll have had plenty of practice when my
time comes."

Trish felt a twinge in her back, a weariness in
her legs. "All I know is that in my first marriage I
wanted nothing more than to be a good wife and
mother. I didn't do too well, did I?"

Gloria laughed over her shoulder. "I'm one to
judge?"

"Let's turn back," Trish said, stopping in her
tracks and consulting her watch.

"Don't you want to go to the top of the hill? You
can see the whole town."

"I don't, Gloria. I really don't. I want to leave by
noon and be home by three. I want to surprise him."

Holly Pride, the librarian, thought he was asleep.
He was slouched in an imitation-leather chair in
the reading room, with his head tilted to one side
and a copy of Smithsonian in his lap. That was at
two-thirty. When she looked in at four he was still
there, the only occupant.

At the police station Meg O'Brien took Holly's
call. "Slow down," Meg said. "What's the matter
with him?"

"I can't wake him. And he smells. I think he had
an accident."

"I'll get the ambulance over there. Don't panic,
Holly."

Meg summoned the ambulance and then got
hold of Chief Morgan, who was eating a slice of
hot mince pie at the Blue Bonnet. When Morgan
put the phone down, the waitress said, "I'll keep
the pie warm for you." He reached the library before the ambulance did.

Holly Pride, alarm stamped into her face, directed him to the reading room and waited well
away, near the copy machine, which wasn't working. When he emerged two minutes later, she said,
"What's the matter with him?"

"The worst," Morgan said.

He picked up his car behind the town hall and
drove to the Heights, to Ben Sawhill's house. No
one answered the bell. Then he remembered that
Ben and his family were spending a week in Montreal. Which left him no choice. He drove deeper
into the Heights, to Trish Becker's house.

She answered the bell at once, giving him no
chance to rearrange his face and prepare his
words. He said, "I'm Police Chief Morgan."

"I know who you are. Where's Harry?"

"May I come in?"

She didn't move. She blocked the doorway. "If
he's dead, don't tell me."

Mr. Grissom had a loose-leaf binder open on his
desk, his personal notes on the boys. Dibble was in
his office, also the woman Sharon, whose black
mini with a lacy hem looked liked underwear. The
subject was Bobby Sawhill. Sharon said, "He likes
mama talk."

"That's not unusual," Mr. Grissom said. "Most
of the younger boys do, and not a few of the older
ones."

"All he wants is tit. I don't fuck, I nurse. Leaves
me sore. I think I should get paid extra. It's like
I'm doing double duty."

"Does he tell you anything?"

"Not much, nothing you'd be interested in."

Mr. Grissom scribbled in the notebook. The
notebook was his third in seven years. In retirement he planned to write a book. So far Dibble
was his prize pupil, but Bobby was becoming his
most intriguing one. Inside the childishness he discerned the hint of cold intelligence. Turning to
Dibble, he said, "How's he doing? Any progress?"

"He's taking Duck's death hard," Dibble said.
"When I bring it up he gets funnylike. Doesn't
want to talk about it."

"How about his father's death?"

"Didn't seem to bother him."

"I'd say not," Mr. Grissom said, seesawing a silver ballpoint between two fingers. "I could've
arranged for him to attend his father's funeral. He
refused. He give you any reason?"

"He doesn't like flowers."

"What?"

"That's what he said, he doesn't like flowers."

Sharon glanced at her watch. "I'm on my own
time now. You still need me?"

Mr. Grissom smiled warmly, appreciatively. He
had tried out all the women in his employ to judge
their suitability with the boys. Sharon was his
longtime favorite, deserving of more money, but he
paid them all the same fee. The fudge in his budget
had to be reasonable. "No," he said.

Dibble remained, his manner cool.

"All right," Mr. Grissom said, "what's on your
mind?"

"Still goes back to Duck. We all know Ernest
did it."

"Ernest is gone. He's ancient history."

"You got him out of here fast."

"It was his time. Believe me, I don't think he's
happy where he is. Duck's death was an accident.
Let's leave it at that."

Dibble turned his eyes toward a blank wall. His
T-shirt commemorated Martin Luther King. His
sneakers were top of the line, a recent gift from
Mr. Grissom.

Mr. Grissom sighed. "You say it was Ernest.
Could we have proved it?"

"We could've tried."

"We'd have accomplished nothing except a
scandal. That I don't need." Mr. Grissom got a grip
on the silver pen and jotted something in the notebook. "You're my number one boy, Dibble. Don't
let me down."

Dibble looked at him directly. "Something you
should understand. I'm nobody's boy."

"Of course. You're your own man. Something
I've been meaning to ask. Do you think Sawhill is
ready for the dormitory?"

"No."

"I thought you'd say that. Sawhill still needs
you, huh?" Mr. Grissom smiled slyly. "Or do you
need him?"

"You sure we won't get in trouble, Dibs?"

"I got more privileges than you know."

They were sitting in the warm night on brick
steps outside the building's main door. Beyond the
fences peepers were shrill. Misted over, the moon
looked like a wafer of metal covering a hole high
up. Bobby Sawhill's eyes were on the stars.

"Do you think he's up there, Dibs?"

"God?"

"Duck."

"Why not? Good a place as any." Dibble gave
him an elbow. "You're making me into a liar. I told
Grissom you don't talk about him."

"But I think about him. That time I was sick I
wanted to give him my watch, but he wouldn't
take it. He said he wanted hands to tell him the
time."

"You want to give it away, give it to me."

"You want it?"

"I'm kidding you. Keep it."

Bobby's eyes were still lifted. Slowly he lowered
them. "Is Ernest going to pay?"

"Grissom says he's paying now, in the joint."

Bobby clenched his knees. Earlier he'd been
sick, couldn't keep his dinner down, but he was
feeling better now. He was about to speak when
the big door behind them swung open and an attendant looked down at them.