The Emperor of Ocean Park (60 page)

“What do you want me to do?” I mutter, the way we talk to other drivers, as though they can hear us but, usually, secretly relieved that they cannot.

I decide to get off the road and let the fool pass me. The trouble is that there is no shoulder, so I have to wait for a side turning. I slow down, because if a crossroad should emerge I do not want to miss it.

The Suburban flashes its lights again but does not leave my tail.

For reasons I cannot quite explain, I feel myself slipping from annoyance toward fear, although I would be a lot more frightened if the car that is chasing me were a green sedan. Perhaps I have become over-watchful, an aftereffect of the beating I suffered.

I notice a couple of large ponds on the right-hand side of the road, meaning I am now in the town of West Tisbury, site of the Island’s summer agricultural fair, where Abby won all those prizes a million years back, when everybody was still alive. Thinking about my baby sister awakens in me an image of a fiery crash, and a desire, perhaps irrational, to get the Suburban off my tail. I try to recall the Island’s geography. Most traffic this time of year will bear left, in the direction of Vineyard Haven. So will the Suburban, I suspect, if it is not following me. Only one way to find out. There is a sharp right-hand turn coming up: the South Road, which I can take to the Edgartown Road, where a left turn will take me toward the airport, and, ultimately, Edgartown . . . a crowded part of the Island. And crowds are what I suddenly crave.

I see the intersection ahead. I accelerate, flipping on my left-turn indicator, and then, at the last possible second, I turn a hard right onto South Road. The rear end fishtails, the front wheels whine in complaint, and then the little Camry is under control again.

Behind me, the hulking Suburban duplicates my maneuver with contemptuous ease.

For a foolish instant, visions of Freeman Bishop’s mutilated body dance in my head. And of Colin Scott, pitched over the side of a boat. Then I remind myself that I am on the Vineyard, for goodness’ sake, where I have summered for over thirty years. Maybe the leviathan behind me is only a rude driver, not . . . well, whatever else I was worried about.

Two minutes later, with the Suburban still on my tail, I streak past the tiny clutch of stores and houses that mark the center of West Tisbury, but there is nobody on the street. The sun is sinking, the trees are casting long, unhappy shadows, and the empty town looks like a movie set. I turn left onto the Edgartown Road, and the Suburban remains a few car lengths behind me.

Once more the trees close in on either side. The day is suddenly darker: perhaps a storm is gathering. The Suburban still hangs on my bumper. I am not quite sure how far the airport is. Three miles, I suppose, maybe four. The Martha’s Vineyard airport is a tiny affair, but there are bound to be people there, and people sound good right now.

The airport, then, is my new goal.

I never get there.

As I top a small rise, the Suburban roars up close to the Camry’s tail once more, and now it is mere feet behind me.

The road falls off into a steep gully, we are momentarily invisible from both directions, and that is when my irritation causes me to make a mistake. Trying to prove I will not be intimidated, and also trying to avoid leaving the road when I reach the bottom of the hill, I slow down further, letting the speedometer drop below twenty.

The Suburban hits me from behind.

The bump is not hard, but it is jarring enough to snap my neck to the rear. As my head whips forward again, my teeth close on my tongue.

As instinct makes me press the brake, the Suburban strokes my car again, this time at an angle, so that the rear end slews a little and the front wheels slide, almost as though the larger car is trying to force me off the road and into the woods.

I manage to remember to steer in the direction of the skid instead of fighting it, and so I avoid spinning the Camry completely around, but I still travel another twenty or thirty feet, all the way to the bottom of the little valley between the last hill and the next, before I regain control.

The Suburban glides down the hill behind me. We both stop, right there in the road.

I take a moment to make sure that all my body’s working parts are in good order. I taste blood in my mouth. My neck is singing with pain. My fear is gone. I am furious, the daylight is all fading to red, but I make myself control the rage, keeping my Garland cool, rooting in the glove compartment, thinking:
Rear-end collision, always the fault of the driver in the back, and a good thing, because bashed bumpers are expensive, especially on foreign makes, and where in the world is that insurance card?

The other driver is already out of his vehicle, leaning over, inspecting the damage to our bumpers. I open the door and walk back to join him, reminding myself to remain calm, and I discover that the driver who hit me is female. She does not even glance up, and I find myself looking down at the back of a very tall woman in a yellow cashmere overcoat. I notice for the first time that she is a member of the darker nation, a fact which, through some bizarre trick of racial psychology, actually reassures me. The semiotician in me takes a brief interest in this symbology, but I shut him up.

“Excuse me,” I say, with a little less force than I intended, but it has never been easy for me to be tough with women. “Hey,” I add when I am ignored. And then I notice the familiar shock of hideously flat brown curls.

The driver of the Suburban straightens up, turns slowly in my direction, and smiles toothily as I gape in astonishment.

“Hello, handsome,” says the roller woman. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

CHAPTER 33
A HELPFUL CHAT

(I)

T
HE ROLLER WOMAN TURNS OUT
to have a first name, but apparently no surname, because Maxine is all she is willing to tell me. She also has made luncheon reservations for two at a cozy inn I have never heard of down one of the confusing little side streets of Vineyard Haven. I can think of no particular reason to turn down her invitation, especially because I make no effort to come up with one. So Maxine drives the Suburban, which seems unscratched by our collision, and I follow in the Camry, whose rear bumper is badly mangled.

Vineyard Haven is the common but unofficial name of the town of Tisbury, or else it is the other way around—more than thirty summers on the Island and still I cannot keep them straight. The word
picturesque
tends toward overuse, especially to describe New England shore towns, but the narrow, neatly tangled lanes of Vineyard Haven, each lined with tiny white clapboard homes, stores, and churches, actually deserve the accolade. The town looks like a film set, except that no director would dare to create a town so perky, full of bustling energy, amidst gorgeous leafy trees and magnificent views of the water from . . . well, just about everywhere. Ordinarily, a trip to Tisbury brings a smile to my face, because it is so shamelessly perfect. But today, dragging my bumper along Main Street, I am too busy wondering what is going on.

I assume I am about to find out.

“Sorry about your car,” Maxine murmurs as soon as we are seated. The dining room only has about a dozen tables, and all of them look out on a grim churchyard, the rooftops of houses down the hill, and the inevitable blue water beyond. Ten tables are empty.

“Not as sorry as I am.”

“Aw, come on, handsome, lighten up.”

She grins the same infectious smile I first saw at the rollerdrome the day after we buried the Judge. She is wearing a brown jumpsuit and a multicolored scarf, her clothing every bit as unconventional as her hair. I find that I like her a lot more now that she has a name, even though I expect to discover sooner or later that Maxine, like just about everybody else I have met since my father died, has as many different names as she needs.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” I mutter, refusing to be drawn.

“Why? You
are
handsome.” Although I’m not, really.

“Because I
are
married.”

Maxine puffs her lips in amusement but lets this go, for which small mercy I am grateful. I usually hate being out with women other than my wife, out of a holy terror that somebody will see us together and draw the wrong conclusion. I value my reputation for fidelity, and I believe in the old-fashioned notion that adults have a responsibility to live up to their commitments—something I learned as much from my mother as from the Judge. Yet, sitting here with the mysterious Maxine, I find myself unable to worry about whether anybody will think we are a couple.

Which is why I must tread carefully.

“So, if I can’t call you handsome,” she sighs, “what would you
rather
have me call you?”

I want no intimacy with this woman. Or, rather, what I want is irrelevant, since I
are
married. “Well, given the difference in our ages, you should probably call me Professor Garland, or Mr. Garland.”

“Yucch.”

“What?”

“I said . . . yucch, Professor Garland.” Flashing those dimples at me. “And you’re not
that
much older than I am.” Smiling.

I am tempted to smile back. “Why are you following me?” I ask, trying to stay on track.

“In case you change your mind about that skating lesson.”

She laughs. I don’t.

“Come on. I’m serious, Maxine. I need to know what’s going on.”

“You’ll figure it out sooner or later.” Her wide, lively face is buried in the menu. “I hear the crab cakes are the best on the Vineyard,” she adds as the waiter nears, but half the restaurants on the Island make the same claim.

We both order the crab cakes nevertheless, we both choose the rice, we both ask for salad with the house dressing, we both decide to stay with the sparkling water we are already sipping. I am not sure which one of us is copying the other, but I wish he or she would stop.

“Maxine,” I ask as soon as the waiter is gone, “what are we doing here?”

“Having an early dinner.”

“Why?”

“Because we need to talk, handsome. Sorry, sorry. I mean Professor Garland. No, I mean Misha. Or I could say Talcott. Tal? Isn’t that what they call you? By the way, did anybody ever tell you that you have too many names?” More laughter. Maxine, however many names
she
may have, is far too easy to be with.

I stay on message. “You just thought you’d run into my car so we could have a talk?”

That fun-loving grin again. “Well, it got your attention, didn’t it? Oh, yeah, before I forget.” Maxine opens her large brown purse, and although my exhausted eyes might be playing tricks, I am pretty sure I see a holstered gun before she pulls out an envelope and snaps the bag closed again. Still smiling, she drops the envelope on the table. It is as thick as a telephone book. “Here.”

“What is that?” I have no particular desire to touch it, not yet.

“Well, I did wreck your bumper, and I can’t exactly give you my insurance card.”

Shaking my head at the unreality of the moment, I pick up the envelope and peek inside. I see a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills. Lots of them. Not new, either: well used.

“How much money is this?”

“Um, twenty-five thousand dollars, I think.” Not managing to sound quite as casual as she wants to. “Around that, anyway. Mostly hundreds.” The pixie grin again. “I know foreign-car repairs can be expensive.”

I drop the money back on the table. Something truly weird is going on. “Twenty-five . . . thousand?”

“Why, it’s not enough?”

“Maxine, I would
sell
you my car for maybe one-tenth of that.”

“I don’t want your car.” Deliberately missing my point. She taps the envelope. Her unpainted nails are trimmed very short. “I
have
a car. Take the money, honey.”

I shake my head, leaving the cash exactly where it is.

“What’s the money really for?”

“The damage, handsome. Take it.” She tilts her head to the side. “Besides, you never know when you’ll need some extra cash.”

Somebody obviously knows about our debts, a fact that irritates me.

“Maxine . . . whose money is this?”

“Yours, silly.” Oh, but Maxine has a smile! I struggle to keep my composure.

“What I mean is, where did you get it?”

She points. “Out of my purse.”

“How did it get into your purse?”

“I put it there. Do you think I let just anybody go through my purse?”

I pause, remembering the lessons from my years of law practice. In a deposition, formulate the questions with care. Most of them should be capable of
Yes
and
No
answers. Lead the witness, through her
Yes
es, to where you want to be.

“Somebody gave you that money, right?”

“Right.”

“Gave it to you to give to me?”

“Maybe.” She is being playful, not cautious, which is scarcely surprising, given that I have no means of compelling her to answer.

“Who was the person who gave you the money?”

“I’d rather not say.” But a toothy grin to make it friendly.

“Was it Jack Ziegler?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

I ponder, watching Maxine sip her Perrier. “Did the person who gave you the money tell you what it was really for?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And what was the money really for?”

“For your car.” Pointing toward the window. “If anything happened to it.”

Okay, I admit I was never a very good lawyer. Maybe that is why I became a law professor.

“You planned all along to hit my car?”

“Well, yeah. Probably. I mean, sure, I could have been more dainty about it.” She shrugs, a significant movement in a woman six feet tall, signaling me, perhaps, that there is nothing dainty about her at all. “I mean, you know what they say. Accidents can bring people together,
right?” Tilting her head now to the other side and fluttering her eyelashes. Playacting, but not ineffectively.

“Sure, that’s the way I always meet people. Crash into their cars and take them to lunch.”