Sam McCain - 04 - Save the Last Dance for Me (18 page)

And then she was done. And I felt banished from celestial comfort. I was no longer elevated by my humanity but doomed to it. It was not in heaven I stood but in an old garage that smelled of car oil and filth.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Viola said.

“I’m here to see Ella.”

“Ella? What for?”

I was only halfway up the aisle. I

stood in place.

“The other day she said she had something to tell me. I’m curious what that was going to be.”

“I shouldn’t’ve said that, mister,” Ella said.

“That’s the most beautiful singing I’ve ever heard.”

“You should not praise the Lord’s music,”

Viola snapped. “Only the Devil wants worldly praise. Ella sings beautiful because her soul is beautiful. Ella is the purest of us all. She is God’s favored child.”

“Ella’s old enough to speak for herself,” I said.

“Please, mister, you’re gonna get me in an awful lot of trouble. And besides, all I was gonna say was that my daddy, he got sick even before he came to the altar that night.”

“You hush, girl!” Viola said. “We

don’t talk to this man.”

“Yes, Mama!”

“Now, you leave, McCain. Or I’ll have Bill Oates spend some more time with you.” She grinned. “He told me how he done you pretty mean the other night.”

“You don’t seem very interested in finding the man who killed your husband, Mrs. Muldaur.”

“All I’m interested in is you gettin’ out of my sight.”

Not much I could say to that.

Bill Oates lived on an acreage on the north side of the town. A hundred yards or so from his dirt driveway was the “City Limits”

sign. He’d planted half an acre of corn and some soybeans and there were a few head of cattle on a wide patch of grazing land. People who couldn’t make a living farming anymore often

lived on places like this. They worked in town but kept a hand in the farm life they’d grown up with.

The outbuildings—gd-size barn and a large wooden shed, maybe for chickens—were in decent shape and the John Deere tractor parked near the back of the house looked to be in fine repair, too.

The inevitable farm collie rushed at me in the inevitable way and made all the inevitable noises and threats until a tired-looking woman even more faded than her housedress shushed him and shooed him and then came out, screen door snapping shut behind her, to meet me. She’d apparently been baking. Her hands were white with flour.

“Help you?”

“My name’s McCain.”

“I know who you are.” Not at all friendly.

Wide face, smart but angry blue eyes, reddish hair just starting to go gray. And a very nice body if you liked them voluptuous, body that performed all the functions of eating, sleeping, working but that she probably never gave much thought to otherwise. Mid-thirties, most likely.

“The mister ain’t home.”

“Then I’d like to talk to you.”

She held up her hands for inspection. “I’m baking pies.”

I knew I had only a few seconds

left before she ordered me back to my car. “I was out at Muldaur’s church the night he died.”

“Yeah, I seen you. So did everybody else.”

“Muldaur asked me to be there.”

“Muldaur’s dead, like you say.”

“Your husband slapped you that night.”

“How’d you find that out?”

“I saw it.”

“Oh.”

“I’d like you to tell me why he slapped you.”

“That wouldn’t be any of your business, mister.

And anyways, I thought Sykes was the law in these parts.”

I grinned. “More or less.”

“You ain’t even half as cute as you think you are.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” I didn’t have anything to lose so I said, “Were you friendly with Muldaur?”

She spat into the dust. “You got a

lot of nerve askin’ a Christian woman a question like that.”

“Two men have been murdered. I need to know why.”

“Somebody tell you something about me?” More suspicious now than angry.

“No. But I’m learning things about Reverend Muldaur. And I just thought it was strange that your husband would hit you like that.”

“He hits me all the time like that. I need to be hit all the time like that.”

I thought of what Parnell had told me about how a good church should make you feel bad. My God is a wrathful God.

“Any particular reason?”

“There was a time in my life when I wandered.”

“Wandered?”

She looked over at the collie. The dog had a long, sweet face. She looked as if she sympathized with the woman’s wandering.

“I used to wander off with other men.”

“I see.”

“I had the Devil in me.”

“That’s why he slapped you?”

“Used to be why he slapped me. Then we moved up here from Georgia and the wandering stopped.”

“But he kept hitting you?”

She stared at me. “I’m a sinner, mister.

I done a lot of other terrible things. I mean, it wasn’t just the wanderin’. I don’t always keep the house clean the way God wants me to, I don’t always fix Bill the meals he wants the way God wants me to, I don’t always do the things in our marriage bed God said I should do even though it hurts me when I do them. I’m a coward about pain. I even hated my own children when they was bein’ born because I was in so much pain.

I’m not a good woman, mister. So Bill’s got every right in the world to hit me.”

“He found out about you and Muldaur?”

She spat in the dust. “Git. And git now.”

“I’ll find out eventually, Mrs. Oates.

If not from you, somebody you know. Things like this get around.”

Hard-eyed, hard-voiced, she said, “You must think you’re pretty big stuff. Goin’ around and judgin’ people like this.”

“I’m not judging you, Mrs. Oates. I’m a sinner just like you. No better, no worse.”

That seemed to affect her. She touched

a flour-white hand to her hair, as if for the first time she was concerned about her appearance. As if for the first time, she saw me as human and thus somebody to look presentable for.

She shrugged. “He found out a week before John died. He had his suspicions and he just kept workin’ on me.”

“What did he do?”

“He sent the girls to stay down to his in-laws and then he tied me up in our bedroom.

Tied me up naked and then he beat me with his razor strop. Beat me on my body so

nobody could see it. He didn’t want nobody to know what I’d done and I didn’t blame him. I’d wandered again and I had promised him on God’s holy head that I wouldn’t. I’d even been able to handle the snakes a few times without them biting me. Now, after what I done with John, they’d kill me sure. They’re

demons, you know.”

Then: “So he let me go after a few days.

He carried on, though, even after he let me g.”

“Carried on?”

“Cried and pounded his fists against the walls and got so drunk he kept falling down. I could see what I done to this man and I wanted to take my life and that’s God’s truth, mister. I wanted to take my life. But I’d be damned to hell if I did and I knew it, what with my two young ones and all. Who’d take care of them?

That’s the first thing God would ask me. Who’s gonna take care of your girls now, Pam?”

I heard the panel truck before I saw it.

It rattled like a wagonload of pots and pans.

It came up the driveway about forty miles an hour, lost in its own dust.

We both watched as he jumped out of the car.

Oates. He had a shotgun in his arm. Pointed at me.

He said nothing. Just charged at me.

“Bill!” Pam Oates cried.

But it was too late. He swung the rifle barrel toward the side of my head, the same thing he’d done to me in the empty church.

But for reasons of manliness I suppose-I’d seen an awful lot of Roy Rogers movies growing up—I decided I was too pissed to care at this point. He had pushed me, shoved me, pounded me long enough.

I ducked under the barrel of his weapon. My foot caught him directly in the crotch.

I jumped to his left, while he was still trying to absorb his pain, and slammed a fist into the side of his head. The crotch kick had forced him to stoop so reaching his face was no longer a problem. I doubled up and put a fist against his nose, too.

Blood sprayed out of his left nostril. I can’t speak for him but I was having a hell of a good time.

Pam took the opportunity to yank the rifle from his hands.

“Now, get in the house, Bill. And I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now, McCain. And I don’t want to see you back anytime soon. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Because the next time, I’m callin’ Sykes.”

Her husband, in pain and shame, had already reached the back door and was going inside.

The violence had disoriented the collie and I felt sorry for her. She was running around in frantic circles, obviously not comprehending the exact nature of what was going on here but very affected—.mayed, startled—”the air of violence.

A hot, sleepy day on the acreage was not supposed to be like this.

Pam Oates followed me back to the car.

“He’s a good man.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“He’s never wandered off on me.”

I wondered about his wandering and why he’d been at Muldaur’s trailer with Viola so early.

Maybe he wasn’t quite as innocent as Pam thought. He was likely the man who’d fired at Muldaur. Sleeping with a man’s wife can get you in that sort of trouble sometimes. But this wasn’t exactly the time to raise the question.

She touched my car with an almost shocking tenderness. Her touch had a sexual quality to it.

“Boy from Macon used to drive up and see me —th was before I knew John—and he had a nice convertible, too. We had some fun in that car.”

Her face and voice lost twenty years. “We sure did have some fun.”

I ate a late lunch at the Rexall

counter. Lunch-dinner, I guess. I

probably wouldn’t be eating much more today. Between the heat and my frustration with the case, I was

ready to lie on the floor in front of the fan and the Tv and be entertained.

Rexall was pretty busy. Bug spray,

suntan lotion, charcoal starter, charcoal briquettes, cigarettes, and beer seemed to be the most popular items at the cash register. The air-conditioning was freezing but that was all right after the baking sun.

I looked over the men’s adventure

magazines. I never bought them but I sure had a good time looking at the covers of he-men fighting off Nazis, Nazi alligators, Nazi

snakes, Nazi bats (rabid, of course).

The cover quotes were what I enjoyed most of all. And this month’s batch had some honeys.

“Sexual Psychopaths … Oversexed

Women!” “Nympho Outlaw and Her Legion of Outcasts!” “Nazis Dive-Bombed My Body!” “Confessions of a Nazi Call

Girl!” My favorite was “Nude Queen of the Communist Cannibals!” Whoever came up with the commie cannibals deserved a bonus. Now that was real writing.

Kylie was at the checkstand. Looking sweet but nervous, she set a small boxcar load of cosmetics on the counter.

“You don’t wear all this stuff.”

“I thought I’d really get dolled up tonight.”

“You don’t need dolling up, kiddo. You’re a good-looking girl.”

“You’re prejudiced, McCain. You like me.”

“He’s your husband. I’m assuming he likes you, too.”

She bit her lower lip, half-whispered, “You should see what I’m up against, McCain. She looks like a movie starlet.”

I wanted to hold her, protect her. Any man who could throw away a young woman this bright, this decent, this caring—but she had to go through with this, I knew. Same as I’d had to go through it with Pamela Forrest all those years. Being desperately in love is grand, isn’t it?

She nodded to my ham and cheese. “You should eat better.”

“I know. Usually, Mrs. Goldman fixes me meals three or four times a week. But her sister took sick all of a sudden.”

“Where’s her sister?”

“Des Moines.”

I saw how her right hand was twitching.

It made her even more vulnerable.

“I wish I was in Des Moines,

McCain.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I try to be objective about it, you know.”

“One thing you can’t be objective about is being in love with somebody.”

“I mean, I really can’t blame him.”

“I can.”

“I’m what you’d call pretty, I

guess.”

“Very pretty.”

“But you should see her, McCain. She makes me want to hide in the basement.”

“Is she as smart as you are? As much fun as you are? As deep as you are?”

“Oh, McCain, I’m not deep.”

“Are you kidding? You know things, Kylie. You understand things. You have insight into people.”

“I don’t fill out a bikini very well.”

“I happen to’ve seen you in a bikini one time. And you filled it out just right.”

“And my nose— You know, back east a lot of Jewish girls get bobs.”

“You don’t need a Bob. Or a Dave.

Or a Rick.”

She smiled.

“You’ve got a very fine nose. It fits your face perfectly.”

We went through this every once in a while. Her insecurities ran pretty wide. But then again, so did mine. I figured that’s why we liked each other.

“You’ll be fine tonight. You just have to relax.”

“It’s like a first date. And look how long we’ve been married.”

I held her hand. “You’ll do fine.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

She asked about the case and I told her what I’d learned. She tried to seem interested but her anxiety made that impossible. She said good-bye and fled.

I hate to admit this but that night I drank more than my usual two beers. I drank three beers. Which meant, given my size and my inability to hold alcohol at all well, I was pretty stinko.

I banged my knee going to the

bathroom, I banged my head getting a slice of cold pizza from the refrigerator, and I banged my butt when I miscalculated how far the end of the coffee table extended.

My dad and I are about the world’s worst drinkers. It takes most accomplished drinkers a long time to get stupid when they drink. We can do it in about the length of time it takes to guzzle a beer-and-a-half.