On the Loose (20 page)

"What brought this on?" she asked in a sluggish
voice.

He was totally honest. "I need to unwind."

Noontime, still in her robe, Trish Becker sat at her
computer and proofed a manuscript about selfreliance and a healthy life through meditation. She
didn't trust the writer, any writer. Writers were
dreamers, and dreamers lived on air. Opening the
dictionary to check a spelling, she gave a start
when the phone rang. She knew without a doubt
that it was Gloria, though she hadn't heard from
her in weeks.

"He's gone, Trish." The voice was naked, raw.
"He died with Barry holding his hand."

"You knew it was coming."

"I think Barry hastened it. A drop of something.
I'm glad he did it. Stirling wasn't Stirling anymore. There was so little of him left. Barry won't get in
trouble. Officials-down-here are understanding."

"How's Barry doing?"

"He's running around, making arrangements,
doing everything to stay busy. He'll fall apart
when the funeral's over. Are you coming down for
it, Trish?"

"I can't."

There was a silence. "You mean you won't."

"Don't be mad at me, Gloria. Please understand."

There was another silence, though not as long.
"I do. I wish I didn't."

"When are you coming home?"

"No idea," Gloria said.

"He keeps asking for you. The chief. James. He's
like a sick puppy."

"That's another life," Gloria said. "I'm not even
sure it's mine."

She sat alone in a back pew in the empty church
and drew a hand over her forehead. Nearly fortytwo years old, she still didn't feel grown up. Sometimes in the morning, crunching cornflakes, she
felt like an adolescent. Depressing was when she
saw herself as an old broad. She turned at the
sound of footsteps.

"I didn't come in to pray," she said. "I came in to
think."

"I can't think of a better place," Reverend Stottle said. A look told him she didn't want him sitting beside her, so he stayed on his feet. "I often do
this myself. Sit in a pew and mull things over."

"I'm down in the dumps, Reverend. I don't
know which end is up."

"Fight the dark," he said. "Go for the light."

"I wish I had your faith."

"Mine occasionally falters. For an intelligent person, faith is a blind leap. Luck dictates where we
land." He shifted his weight. "May I call you Trish?"

"Sure. Why not," she said, speculating on
whether the two of them were more alike than different. "I'm a weak person."

"I have many weaknesses," he confessed needlessly, her shirt open enough to let him glimpse
what he couldn't touch. "It was," he said, "either
foolishness or cruelty that prompted God to make
us as he did. He gave me the sensibilities of a saint
and the balls of a billy goat. I have to live with it."

"Then how can you love him?"

"Loving God is like loving an idea. Except an
idea is intellectual. God is institutional."

Crossing her legs, she flashed the lavish underside of a thigh and felt no shame. Why shouldn't
she give a momentary thrill to a man in perpetual
need of one? "A week ago a man I knew died miserably. All because-" Her teeth came down on
what she was going to add.

"There'll always be misfortune. It's one of the
vectors of life."

"I worry about Harry lying in his grave. No one
to give him a drink."

"Our minds have a will of their own. When they
want to worry us to death, they will. When they
feel like misfiring, they'll do that too."

"Harry died because of what his kid did."

"No, Trish. Not at all." He leaned toward her in
his collar and brown suit, the lapels frayed at the
points. "He died because body and soul had had
enough. His teeth were probably going too."

"Why do I want to spit in your face?"

"No one wants to hear the truth. I dislike it myself. It's like water unsafe to drink."

She struggled to her feet and stood outside the
pew. He curved an arm around her waist to steady
her. "I'm fine now, thank you," she said.

He walked her to the double door and opened
the half that was never locked. "We all know
there's another world besides this one. What we
don't know is where it is, why it's there, and if
we'll ever see it. It may not be for us."

She kissed his cheek. "You've made me feel better, Reverend. But not much."

She had a manuscript she had to return to the publisher, but she didn't feel like going into Boston.
The morning was rainy, gloomy. She phoned Ben
Sawhill. "I need a favor," she said, and he agreed
to pick up the manuscript and drop it off for her.
He arrived within the half-hour, the front door left
ajar. She called to him from deep in the house,
from the kitchen. He appeared suddenly.

"Where is it?" he asked impatiently.

She was not dressed. She was bottled milk in a
gauzy gown. "Have some coffee first," she said.

"No time."

The boxed manuscript was behind her on the
table. "You look haggard, Ben."

"I haven't been sleeping well. Not myself lately."
He watched her pour coffee, a cup for herself and
a cup for him if he wanted it. "You're not decent,
Trish."

"You're seeing me as I am," she said and placed
the steaming cups on the table. Raising her elbows, she showed her underarms "Look, I haven't
even shaved."

"What are you doing, Trish?"

"It's all up to you, Ben. It always has been."

He followed her up the stairs, her feet bare, his
shod. They entered a room in which the bed was in
disarray. She raised a window so they could hear
the rain. Out of the gown, she was ample breasts
and blemished belly.

"This is Gloria's room," she said. "Since she's
been gone I've been sleeping in her bed."

She lay flat, the covers down near her feet, and
with the aid of a finger identified her scars, the
longest the result of her two children, both by caesarean. He undressed furtively and approached big.

"I'm not used to the daytime," he said.

"It's supposed to be more fun."

He sloped over her, their torsos pale white and
pink. "Do you mind being under? Or would you
prefer the top?"

"Christ, Ben. Anyway you want."

He stayed as he was, deepened the fit, and became a prisoner of her legs, her twining grip meant to hold him forever. When his breath began beating against her neck, she got into the swing of it
and egged him on. Her teeth scraping his shoulder,
she sought his mouth. Without warning he broke
away. Christ! He practiced coitus interruptus. No
damn need for it.

"You should have told me," he said.

They lay apart with the covers half pulled up.
She listened to the rain gain strength, take on
power, and pound the roof. Some was coming in
the window. "You're not romantic, Ben. Harry at
least tried to be."

"I'm sorry.
"

"This was a mistake."

"Then you should have left it alone," he said.

"Yes, I should have."

He was out of bed, avoiding her eye, dressing as
quickly as he could. He lowered the window. She
reached down and pulled the covers to her chin.
"May I?" he asked and used the telephone. Looking away, he called his office and told his secretary
he'd been delayed and would be in soon.

"Some delay," Trish murmured when he put the
phone down. "Will I see you again?"

"We've done it once. What'll stop us from doing
it again?"

She watched him move toward the door. "If
you're ashamed, Ben, we can forget the sex. We
can just hold hands."

"We'll see," he said.

"Don't forget the manuscript."

Zipping up, Bobby Sawhill stepped away from the
urinals and strode to the sinks. He washed his
hands, splashed his face, smoothed his hair, and
spoke to the mirror. Jason, occupying a stall, called
out, "I know who you're talking to."

"It's none of your business," Bobby said.

Jason came out off the stall tucking a comic
book inside his sweats. He wore Bobby's Seiko.
Bobby wore a Rolex. Looking up at the ceiling, he
said, "That's where that Dibs did it, right? Fuckin'
hanged himself."

"Wash your hands. Use soap."

"I was gonna. You didn't give me time."

Bobby walked away from the sinks and pointed
up. "Right there, that's where he did it. He's in
oblivion. That's where you got no memory of yourself. You don't know you exist, so you don't."

"If he's there, how can he be here, you talkin'
to him?"

"It's what used to be him that's here. And we
don't say much. We don't have to."

Jason used an excess of paper toweling in drying
his hands. "Where's that other kid? Duck?"

"They're together, but they don't know it. That's
the way it works. Don't you have something to do?"

Jason was kitchen help, pots and pans twice a
week, general clean-up the rest of the time. He
said, "You want me to bring you back somethin'?"

"Cookies," Bobby said. "Chocolate chip if they
got 'em."

They parted in the corridor. In the TV room he
watched a show in which women abused by their boyfriends gave reasons for putting up with it.
One of the women, light leaping into the lenses of
her glasses, stirred a memory.

Sitting beside him was a Jamaican named Boy,
from Dorm C. Boy said, "I like your watch. How
much product you want for it?"

"I don't do drugs," Bobby said. "You're lucky I
don't report you."

"You wouldn't do that, would you, Sawhill?"
Boy's voice was mocking. He had an extra hole in
his nose from the overuse of cocaine. "Besides,
Grissom wouldn't wanna hear it. He wants happy
news. That's what Dibs gave him."

The woman with the glasses failed to keep her
voice steady and began to sob. The camera closed
in on her and caught all the tears. The scene triggered more memories.

"Threatening me like that," Boy said, "I oughta
whip your ass."

Bobby rose. He was bigger than Boy. "You want
to try?"

Boy said, "Sit down."

Later Jason arrived with cookies, six or so on a
plastic plate. He was wearing a borrowed jacket of
baker's white over his sweats and had a big smile.
"Chocolate chip like you wanted," he said.
"They're still warm."

Bobby said, "Give Boy one."

It was treat time, but Sharon wasn't among the
women, which confused him and deeply disappointed him. He inquired of Virginia and then of the other women. Mr. Grissom drew him aside. "I
should've told you before, Bobby. She won't be
back."

His face fell. "Why not?"

"She met a guy. She moved to New York with
him."

"I won't see her again?"

"Probably not."

Bobby turned sharply and strode away, leaving
Mr. Grissom to handle the women and their assignments. Virginia, who had changed her hair
color from quince yellow to fuchsia, said, "You
knew he'd take it bad."

"What I don't do for these boys," Mr. Grissom
said with a sigh and tracked Bobby down in the
laundry room. Bobby sat on one of the dryers, his
big feet dangling, the laces loose on his sneakers.
Mr. Grissom leaned against a washer. "She has a
life of her own, Bobby, nothing we can do about it.
I'm going to miss her too."

"She lied. She said she'd always come back."

"She told you what you wanted to hear, to protect you. You were her pet."

"She should've said good-bye."

"Something good comes along for a gal like
Sharon, she's got to grab it. Think about it, Bobby,
you'll understand." Mr. Grissom moved closer to
him. "I've been putting this off, but there's something else we have to talk about. A few months
you'll be eligible for a halfway house. We'll try to
get you one near your hometown if that's what
you'd like."

Bobby shook his head. "I like it here."

"It's not in my hands. It's up to the Department
of Youth Services. They call the shots."

"But you got some say." Bobby slipped off the
dryer and stood warily, as if people were trying to
corner him. "Can't you help me?"

"Well, I admit you're an asset to me. And there's
still the matter of counseling." Mr. Grissom gave
him a wink. "Maybe I can work something out, but
in return I want a solemn promise from you. When
you leave Sherwood for good, you don't go the
way Dibble did."

"I'm my own man," Bobby said.

On Bobby's nineteenth birthday, Mr. Grissom said,
"You got a visitor. It's your uncle."

"Do I have to see him?"

"I think you should. He's been good to you. He's
been good to Sherwood."

When Bobby entered the visiting room he saw a
partial stranger whose tentative smile evoked
memories of a caged canary, of baby girls with two
women to care for them, of sweets eaten on the
sly. Ben Sawhill saw a boy's face and a man's
physique outlined in a T-shirt and jeans.

"You look great, Bobby."

Bobby said, "Is that for me?"

His uncle handed over a small wrapped gift.
"Happy birthday."