The Girl Who Ran Off With Daddy (15 page)

Mother tilted her head at me. “What happened to your nose?”

“Merilee hit me. She’s a big meanie.”

“I know why you haven’t been coming, Stewart.”

“Do you?”

“It pains him greatly.”

I said nothing.

“Are you ready to say hello?”

“Yes, Mother. I’m ready to say hello.”

She took my arm, and steered me over to him. His nurse smiled up at us. He continued to stare straight ahead.

Mother mustered a smile. “Look who’s here, Monty,” she said, raising her voice. “It’s Stewart. And Merilee. And your granddaughter, Tracy.” And Lulu, who was sitting out in the grass all by herself getting really pissed.

“Hello, Father,” I said, hearing the strain in my voice—and hating it. “How are you doing today?”

He moistened his lips with his tongue but didn’t respond. Or blink.

“We’re doing fine,” his nurse assured me. She was plump and hearty and really upbeat. I hated her. “We ate all of our oatmeal today. We watched some television. We—”

“Who’s this
we
you keep talking about?” I snapped at her.

She recoiled as if I’d slapped her, then got up and marched inside. Merilee shot me her warning look. I breathed in and out slowly. I sat down next to him. I patted his bony knee. He gave off a sickly sweet aroma, like rotting flesh. I smiled at him.

Abruptly, he turned and nodded hello to me as if I’d just been away a few minutes, not many, many weeks. “Why d-don’t you … you bring Stink around anymore?” he said. His voice was different, hollow and trembly.

Stink had been my best friend in elementary school until he and his family moved away. That was in 1961. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since.

I glanced up at Mother. She smiled at me encouragingly. She wanted me to humor him, to say something, anything. This part I found difficult. This part I found excruciating.

“Always l-liked … Stink,” Father went on, grinning crookedly. “Good little p-pal for you, Bucky.”

That was my childhood nickname, Bucky. He’d taken to calling me by it again. I’d taken to letting him.

The invasion was under way now—the widows from the neighboring apartments inching toward Merilee, fluttering excitedly. The widows loved to get their picture taken with her, to coo over the baby. Merilee was gracious about it. She’s always gracious with her fans. Within moments they surrounded the patio, a dithering cloud of blue hair and fruity perfume. Mother suggested I take Father for a walk.

I did, wheeling him slowly along the cart path to the golf course, Lulu trailing us forlornly. I wheeled him like he’d once wheeled me back when I was vulnerable and afraid and needed him. Now he needed me. All part of the big cycle, I suppose. Only nobody warns you about it and they sure as hell don’t give you lessons. They ought to give proper lessons, goddamnit.

There was a faint drizzle in the air. I pulled up by a bench next to the putting green, tucked his blanket around him against the damp and sat there with him, thinking what a shame it was we’d never had the chance to be adults at the same time. We’d never been men together. Men who listened to each other, learned from each other. Men who didn’t hate each other. And we never would be. That was never going to happen. Not now. Not ever. And I knew, way down deep inside, that this would be one of the biggest regrets in my life until the day I died.

“Bucky?”

“Yes, Father?”

“When are you going to g-get … ?” He trailed off, trying to remember the word. “Get … married?”

“Married?”

“You and M-Merilee. You have the baby now. Should b-be married.”

Well, well. Here was clarity, briefly.

“We were married once before, Father, and it didn’t work out. We like it better this way.”

“Should be a … big wedding,” he said stubbornly. “In a-a church.”

“We’d rather keep it a small, quiet affair.”

“You’re g-getting married at the house?”

“No, we’re having a small, quiet affair.”

“But you have T-Tracy n-n-now,” he sputtered, frustrated by his impaired speech. And possibly by his impaired son. “What happens when she … g-gets older?”

“We’ll have to buy her bigger clothes.”

“I m-mean, what’ll she tell her … friends?”

“That she has really weird parents. But I’m fairly certain they will have already figured that out for themselves.”

“You never could make a c-c-commitment.” His voice was heavy with reproach. “That’s always b-been your … problem. Always.”

“So that’s it,” I said sharply. “I always wondered.”

We sat there in brittle silence for a moment. Something we were both used to.

“G-Got some numbers in the mail from Gene,” he mentioned offhandedly, meaning his accountant. “One of my CDs … it’s a-about to roll over. He’s got … other options. Can’t m-make head nor tail of them. Mother … n-never could.”

“Only because you never let her learn how.”

“Gibberish. All of it’s g-gibberish.”

I said nothing more. I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to take a look at it for him, tell him what to do. But I wasn’t going to. Not until he said the words. He didn’t have to beg me. All he had to say was: “What should I do?” A small thing, I suppose. But it meant a lot to me. And until he said it, until he admitted out loud to me that he valued my opinion, I would be goddamned if I was going to help him. I was not proud of this. It gave me no satisfaction or pleasure. But I couldn’t help how I felt.

We sat there in silence some more, until I realized he was sobbing.

I knelt before him, dabbing at his eyes with my white linen handkerchief. “What is it, Father?”

“I don’t w-want to go!” he wailed, clutching at my arm with his good hand. “Don’t let them t-take me away, Bucky! P-Promise me … you won’t! I don’t w-want to die!”

“I know you don’t,” I said, between gritted teeth. “I know.”

He calmed down after a moment. Stared out at the golf course—at least that’s where his eyes were. I had no idea where his head was. Not until he said, “I-I always liked Stink. B-Bring him around again. We’ll … play some … touch out in the yard, okay? W-Will you do that, Bucky? Will you b-bring Stink around?”

“Of course, Father,” I replied, my voice husky. “I’ll bring Stink around.”

Clethra was sitting there smoking a cigarette on the bench out in front of Debbie’s Diner, ultra-impatient.

“Like, I’ve been waiting forever,” she informed us with supreme annoyance.

“Like, we got here as fast as we could,” I informed her back. “Barry picked up Arvin?”

“Half a fucking hour ago.” She climbed into the front seat next to me.

“And how did it go between you two?” I steered us back toward the farm.

She shrugged her shoulders, looking out her window. “He’s
so
mixed up. Like, he’s convinced it’s somehow all his fault. Y’know, like somehow he drove Thor and Mom apart.”

“That kind of reaction is typical when parents split up,” Merilee put in from the backseat.

“God, I’d give anything to get him away from her,” Clethra said angrily. “The three of us belong together—Thor, me and Arvy. We could really have something together, y’know? If we could only get that bitch out of our lives.”

“She’s your mother, Clethra,” I reminded her.

“She’s a bitch.”

“Did you have any breakfast?”

“Breakfast?” She frowned at me, perplexed. “Like, no. Why?”

“It’s not good, the way you eat.”

“It’s bad for you,” Merilee chimed in.

Clethra heaved her chest. “Who are you guys, the food police?”

“It’s bad for you,” Merilee repeated. “Your system can’t tolerate it.”

“So what, y’know? So fucking what?”

“Fine, whatever,” I snapped. I’d had more than enough of her. She was hard and she was unyielding. A chip off the old block. Whether she knew it or not.

“Arvy said you were real nice to him,” she said, her eyes back out on the road.

“I’m nice to everyone—just as long as they aren’t related to me.” I glanced at Merilee in the rearview mirror. She was sticking her tongue out at me.

“Well, thanks,” Clethra said grudgingly. “I mean it.”

“Careful, I may faint and drive us right off the road.”

“Why are you being such a shit today?” she demanded.

“I always let my guard down on Sundays. Say hello to the real me.”

A light, steady rain was falling by the time we got back. The gravel drive up to the house was shiny and wet. I parked the Woody next to Thor’s motorcycle and let Lulu out the back. Merilee went into the house with Tracy. Clethra went into the chapel to see if Thor had returned from getting in touch with his wild self. As for poor unloved Lulu, she decided to set off on another of her death marches. I called to her but there was no stopping her. She was on her way out to the middle of the pond again, so as to end it all. Cursing, I tore off my shoes and socks, rolled up my trousers and went wading in after her, sending the ducks scurrying for cover in the marsh, quacking at me furiously. Just as I reached her I tripped over something solid there on the bottom. Solid and large. I reached down and tugged at it.

And raised up an arm. It was Thor’s arm.

He was down there getting in touch with his dead self.

“U
H-HUH.
YOU
AGAIN. SOMEHOW,
I ain’t surprised.”

“Real nice to see you again, too, Trooper.”

I was still trying to pull Thor out of the pond. I couldn’t lift him out—he’d been weighted down with something—so I had the Rover backed up to the edge of the water with a heavy chain hooked to its bumper. I was just about to tow him out when Resident Trooper Slawski came driving up in his Crown Victoria and jumped out and told me to cool it.

“Don’t you be messing with this here scene,” he ordered me sternly. “Not until we’re able to ascertain if this was an accidental drowning or perhaps—”

“It was murder, Trooper. And there’s no perhaps about it.”

He stood there in the rain with his arms crossed, scowling at me. He had a slicker on over his uniform, and wore a clear plastic thing that looked like a shower cap over his broad-brimmed trooper hat. Klaus was watching us from the backseat of the cruiser, dry and cozy. Merilee and Clethra were watching us from the kitchen porch. Grief etched Clethra’s soft young face. “Why you so sure?” Slawski demanded.

“A man like Thor Gibbs doesn’t drown in three feet of water.”

“Man maybe had a heart attack,” Slawski stated. “Or got drunk and passed out. I seen it happen, I’m saying it.”

“A man doesn’t die elsewhere and then dump his own body in the pond, Trooper.” I showed him the cart tracks that cut deep into the soft, wet earth between the gravel drive and the edge of the pond. Then I showed him the second, shallower set. Both belonged to our garden cart. “Someone killed him elsewhere and wheeled him down to the pond. Those would be your deep tracks. The shallow ones are from when they wheeled the cart back, empty. It’s standing up over against the carriage barn, where it usually is. There are shoe prints, too.”

Lots of shoe prints, none very distinct. There were too damned many of them one on top of the other in the squishy mud.

He looked down at them, then up at me. “Who you be—Mr. Bob Shapiro?”

“You’ll want to check the cart’s handles for prints, of course. Lulu’s searching for the murder site as we speak. I’m quite certain she’ll—”

“She better not be tampering with no physical evidence.”

“If you’ll toss me that chain we can get the body out,” I said, wading back in.

“Don’t you be telling me my business!” Slawski snarled. “This is my ’hood!”

“And this is my property, my pond and my friend,” I snarled back at him. “So either give me a hand, Trooper, or call someone who will.”

He didn’t budge, flaring his nostrils at me. Then he said, “I’ll get the fire department. One of ’em’s got a truck got a big winch on it.”

Lyme’s fire department was an all-volunteer one. Slawski raised somebody over the radio in his cruiser. Then he reported in to the Westbrook Barracks of the Connecticut State Police. Two members of the fire department showed up in less than five minutes, one of them behind the wheel of the mondo tow truck from Doug’s Texaco. Dwayne Gobble came zipping up the drive in his own truck a few seconds after them, greatly agitated.

“Billy here’s my neighbor,” he explained to me in a frantic, high-pitched voice. “I-I was helping him with some yard work when he got the call. I-I can’t believe it’s him. I mean, it
can’t
be Mr. Gibbs.”

“It’s him all right, Dwayne. I’m sorry.”

I moved the Rover out of the way and Billy backed up the tow truck. Dwayne waded in and felt around in the water until he found something to hook the winch chain onto. Then he gave Billy the signal and they pulled Thor Gibbs out. He didn’t come out easily. He’d been chained by the waist to one of the old iron wagon wheels that had been part of the carriage barn’s vintage contents. He was facedown; the back of his bald head was bashed in. His jeans were down around his ankles. Slawski motioned for Dwayne to turn him over. That’s when we made the unpleasant discovery that Thor Gibbs had been Bobbitted—his penis had been cut clean off.

“Damn!” Dwayne gasped.

The rest of us just stared.

Clethra started screaming. Merilee immediately took her inside.

“Damn!” Dwayne gasped again, louder this time.

Slawski shook his head. “Why would somebody want to do that?”

“You don’t really need an answer to that, do you?” I said.

He shot me a look. “Lousy hiding place for a body, water being so shallow. Bound to happen on him eventually.”

“There are several possible explanations for that,” I suggested.

“Such as?”

“Whoever did it was in a real hurry. Or they panicked. Or they wanted us to find him.” I tugged at my ear. “Or maybe they were just really stupid—you have to consider all of the possibilities.”

Another uniformed trooper pulled up the drive in his cruiser, followed by an EMS van. They got out, radios squawking.

“Gibbs was here all alone?” Slawski asked me.

“From ten until noon.” I frowned. “The driveway was all wet when we got home.”

“It be raining,” he pointed out, his eyes on the heavens.