The Cypress House (32 page)

    "Your
father's last words to you were to say you'd have to learn to believe."

    Actually,
his last words had been a promise that love lingered. Spoken so soft, so kind,
so damned forgiving, that years later Arlen would still wake in the night
almost unable to breathe from the memory of it.

    "The
only thing I have to believe," Arlen said, "is that I did the right
thing. I've got to believe that. And you know something? I do. Always have,
always will."

    She
paused, then said, "Arlen, if you know that you can see the dead before
they're gone, why can't you speak to them after they are?"

    He
got up out of the chair swiftly, ready to go inside and pour a whiskey and get
the hell away from this conversation. He ought never have told the story.

    "Stop."
She caught his arm, and her hand was soft and cool, and stilled him. "We
won't speak of it anymore."

    He ran
a hand over his eyes and leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted beyond
measure.

    "Let's
go to bed," she said, rising with her hand still on his arm.

    "It
was wrong what was done to him," Arlen said. "That was wrong. Murder,
as you said. But what he'd done was wrong as well. He was out of his mind,
Rebecca. Hearing about it is one thing, I suppose. But you didn't see it. You
didn't see the way he held that poor dead woman and looked into her eyes."

    "I
know," she said.

    "He
was going to be a problem. He was going to cause harm."

    "Of
course he was," she said in a soft voice. "Of course."

    They
didn't speak of it again in the days that followed. He worked on the boathouse,
the walls going up quickly, and there were no visitors. Rebecca's brother was
to be released on the upcoming Tuesday, and she went into Thomas Barrett's
store once to make phone calls and arrange to go out and collect him. Arlen
asked if she wanted him to go along, and she said that she didn't.

    "You
can meet him when we get back."

    Arlen
nodded, but he couldn't help wondering if he'd ever see her again. If she might
pick up her brother and drive off in some unknown direction, and that would be
the end of it. He hoped not, but he couldn't help the thought.

    It
turned out he didn't need to worry over it—she never had the chance to make the
drive to Raiford. Owen Cady arrived on Monday, the day before his scheduled
release, and he arrived in the company of Solomon Wade.

    They
came around noon, and Arlen and Rebecca were both out on the back porch, having
just finished lunch. They heard the car and looked at each other with shared
displeasure, fearing it would be Wade. When they walked through the barroom,
the gray Ford coupe was visible in the yard, and Rebecca said, "He's come
to make a last round of threats in case I'm thinking about running
tomorrow."

    Then
the doors on the Ford opened and two men stepped out: Solomon Wade from the
driver's seat, and a tall, rangy kid with blond hair from the passenger's.
Rebecca said,
"Owen,"
in a whisper, and went onto the porch.

    The
two men walked toward her, Solomon Wade with a blank face, Owen Cady wearing a
wide grin. He crossed to the steps and hugged his sister fiercely.

    "I'm
home! " he yelled. "Made it home! "

    He
stepped back from her and laughed, still wearing the easy grin, Rebecca
standing there stunned and silent.

    "Well,
I thought you might be happy," he said.

    "I
was supposed to get you," she said. "Tomorrow. I was supposed to pick
you up tomorrow. That's when they said you'd be getting out."

    She
was staring at Wade.

    "Solomon
here pulled a few strings and got me out a day early," Owen Cady said.
"Figured we'd surprise you."

    "You
could pull strings?" she said woodenly, still looking at Wade. "You
could do that to get him out a day early? A
day?"

    "You're
welcome," Wade said.

    "Get
off my property," Rebecca said. "Get away from here. And stay away
from him. You stay —"

    "Rebecca,
what in the hell's gotten into you?" Owen said, raising both hands in a
peacemaking gesture, glancing back at Wade in apology. "Solomon hasn't
done a thing but help."

    Arlen
thought that might snap her. Thought she might turn and go running up the
stairs and come back with a Smith & Wesson in her hand. Instead she just
swiveled to stare at her brother and said, "He didn't pull strings to keep
you out."

    "That
isn't his fault! It's mine. I don't know what —"

    "It's
fine, son," Solomon Wade said, his voice awash in generosity. "If
your sister wishes this to be a family occasion, a family occasion it shall be.
I just wanted to welcome you back to Corridor County myself."

    He
gave a little bow, said, "Y'all have a fine afternoon." Then he
turned and walked back to his car and drove away, one hand lifted out the
window in a neighborly wave. A dark red flush rose in Rebecca's face as she
watched.

    "I
don't know what's gotten into you," Owen said. "I wanted to surprise
you. Can't you be happy to see me?"

    She
looked back at him, blinked, and tried to force some cheer.

    "Of
course I'm happy."

    Owen
looked up into the doorway at Arlen and said, "Who's this?"

    Arlen
stepped forward and put out a hand as Rebecca said, "Arlen Wagner. He's
helping me rebuild things after the hurricane. We lost the dock and boathouse
and most of the back porch."

    "Good
to meet you," Owen said. He gave Arlen a measuring stare, though, some
suspicion in his eyes.

    "Likewise,"
Arlen said. "Your sister has been eager for your return."

    "Half
as eager as me, that's for sure. Raiford isn't a fun place to be. Tough fellas
in there." He gave that grin again, and there was a cockiness to his eyes
and bearing, as if he considered his prison days a point of pride.

    Arlen
said, "I'm sure it isn't fun."

    "Let's
go on inside," Owen said to Rebecca. "I want to pour a drink, a good
one, and then I'll tell you some stories. Tell you what it was like in
there."

    Rebecca
frowned, and Arlen understood why. The kid was talking like he'd just returned
from a holiday trip. Wanting to tell stories? Shit. It reminded Arlen of men
he'd known who always wanted to tell stories about what the war had been like.
Inevitably, they were the ones who hadn't seen any real combat. He had yet to
meet a man who'd emerged alive from the Belleau Wood with any desire to tell
tales about it.

    As
Owen Cady swaggered into the barroom, bellowing about how beautiful the liquor
bottles looked, Arlen missed Paul with a sudden, deep ache.

    He
told his stories. They sat around for an hour while Rebecca made him a thick
sandwich and brought him a cold beer. Owen ate, and drank, and talked. And
talked some more. Everything was designed to impress. He told of how tough the
Raiford bulls had been, how quick with their billies and their fists, but he
didn't sound chagrined about it. He told about one man the guards had beaten so
badly he'd been taken out with a fractured kneecap and broken ribs, and when he
finished that story he laughed and shook his head, as if recalling some moment
of horseplay. He bragged about the other inmates as if they were a collection
of mythical heroes instead of a cell block full of cruel bastards and
swindlers.

    "Thing
about it is, you got to fall in with the right crowd early, or they'll eat you
for lunch in that place," he said. "I found some boys who knew those
I'd run with, and that was the start. You find somebody to back you when it's
needed and you do the same for them and that's how you make it. If there's
going to be fighting, you better not be alone."

    Rebecca
was listening quietly but unhappily. Owen had turned most of his attention to
Arlen, gesturing and pointing with his beer.

    "There
was a fella who ran with Dillinger," he said. "Did you know that Jack
— that's what Dillinger was called by them that knew him — came down to Florida
for a time when things got hot back in Indiana? It's the truth."

    "Dillinger
was killed last year," Arlen said.

    "I
know that. Everybody knows that."

    Arlen
shrugged.

    "So
were Pretty Boy Floyd and Baby Face Nelson," Owen said. "All in one
year. And Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker. No, thirty-four was not a good year
to be in the rackets."

    "No
year is," Rebecca snapped. "I wish you wouldn't say that like you
think it's a sad thing. Those people were criminals. They were killers."

    "I
know, sister, I know." But he winked at Arlen as he drank the beer.

    After
a time he ran out of stories or tired of making them up, and told Rebecca he
wanted to go upstairs and get some rest.

    "You
got no idea how sweet a real bed will feel," he said. "A beer and a
bed in one day? Must be heaven. Now all I need to do is find myself a
girl."

    He
gave Arlen another wink, and Arlen tried to plaster a grin on his face in
response as the kid strutted toward the stairs. Rebecca showed him the bedroom
she'd made up. Paul's old room.

    When
she came back down the stairs, neither of them spoke at first.

    "He's
a good boy," she said eventually.

    "I'm
sure he is."

    "All
this talk, the way he's going on, he's just trying to seem tough. I imagine
that's a skill you learn pretty fast in a place like that."

    Arlen
nodded. "I'm glad he made it out, and made it out so quickly. A lot of
guys who go into a place like that don't come out so cocky. Since he did, I'm
guessing the months went easier on him than on some of the others."

    "I
hope so," she said.

    He
didn't say the other things he was thinking, like there were some men who
jailed well because, frankly, they liked the credibility it gave them in
certain circles, same as men who valued scars because of what they told the
world:
I've been to rough places and seen rough things, and, buddy, I'm
still standing here.

    Arlen
had his share of scars. He kept them hidden the best he could.

    "He's
a good boy," she repeated. "Just give him a little bit of time."

    "Sure.
Can I ask you something, though? When do you intend to lay out your plan with
him? About leaving this place and heading to Maine."

    "A
few days," she said. "I want him to adjust, settle down. I want
Solomon to see that we haven't run yet. I want everyone to relax."

    "All
right."

    "In
the meantime . . . be patient with him. I know the way he sounds right now, but
it's not him. It's not really him."

    "Hell,
he can talk however he wants," Arlen said. "It's got nothing to do
with me."

    "I
know, it's just that I . . . I want you to like him."

    He
saw the sincerity in her eyes and said, "I like him, Rebecca."

    It
was one of the easiest lies he'd ever told.

    Owen
was back at it that night, telling more of his stories, speaking of Karpis and
Barker and Dillinger, any number of other well-known gangsters he'd certainly
never met but wanted Arlen to believe he had. He spoke of bank robbers and
killers and hustlers, spoke of them with a voice of adoration. He was twenty years
old now, a big, good-looking kid, with deep blue eyes and a smooth smile that
no doubt would draw in plenty of women. Rebecca, clearly growing more
frustrated by the minute, didn't wait as long as she'd suggested before
explaining that they'd be leaving the Cypress House.

    "Now
that you're back," she said in the midst of one of his tales, "we
need to find some time to talk things over. Doesn't have to be tonight, but
soon."