by Ed Gorman
We left him, left the warehouse, and went back to town.
"You think he's gonna die?" Barney said, just as we started down the tracks.
"I don't know."
"Maybe we should turn him in. Maybe that really would be doing him a favor."
"What if he killed himself?"
"You heard him. He said he didn't have the guts."
"No, he said maybe he didn't have the guts. There's a difference."
We came to Spring Street, my street.
"Night," Barney said.
"Night," I said, and started to walk away.
When I was out of the streetlight and walking in the shadows, I heard Barney say, "You really think he looks like Mitch?" and I called back, "Yeah, I think he looks a lot like Mitch," and then we were both lost to our respective blocks, just footsteps now in the summer night.
Our house has a lot of gables and gingerbreading which should make it a Victorian, I guess, but my mom says it's not really a Victorian, at least not a regular one anyway. She always says this whenever somebody visits us for the first time and says "I just love Victorian houses." Most of us in the family just close our ears when she starts in.
Mom and Dad were in the living room with my eight-year-old sister, Debbie, watching the Late News with Earle Rochester who my dad says is a) a Democrat and b) a funny-looking gink who can't keep his opinions to himself ("See how he sneers whenever he says the name Eisenhower?" he always says to my mom, by which you can guess that Clarence is a Republican).
Dad was sitting in the leather recliner, which is his sacred chair, and wearing his Purple Passion (as Mom calls them) Bermuda shorts and a sport shirt.
The first thing he said to me was, "How come you were buying hydrogen peroxide and boric acid and gauze and stuff like that at Hamblin's tonight?"
He kept staring right at the TV, as if he wasn't missing a word, but asking me his question and then waiting for an answer.
I was ready for him. On the walk home I'd thought up a good one. "Barney and I were going to fix up this tackling dummy like it got all beaten up and then hang a sign on it that said 'This is what happens to bullies, Maynard' but Barney got scared and chickened out."
"You're just begging Maynard to come after you again," Clarence said.
I said good night to everybody and went upstairs. Things had gone much easier than I thought they would with Dad, I thought, as I went in the bathroom and peed and brushed my teeth and washed my face.
Mom had turned the fan on in my bedroom so it was going to be pretty good for sleeping.
I got the light on and stripped down to my underwear and picked up a new issue of Imagination, which had a lead novel by one of my favorite writers, Dwight V. Swain. I started to lie down when the door eased open and Dad stuck his head in.
"All right if I come in and talk a minute?"
"Sure." So it wasn't over. And I knew what was coming.
He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me. He's not a very big guy but boy can he scowl.
"I'm going to ask you one question, one time only and if you ever told the truth in your life, it had better be this time. You understand?"
"I understand."
"Hamblin said you had a lot of money on you. Twenties and fifties. Is that true?"
"Yessir."
"Care to tell me just where the hell you found that kind of money?"
"Out by the old fairgrounds." I'd been ready for that one, too.
"The fairgrounds?"
"Down by the crick. In a paper bag. Nearly three hundred dollars."
"Is that the truth?"
I didn't feel good about lying to Clarence but I didn't have any choice. "That's the truth."
"That money should have been turned over to the police."
"We tried. We went to the police station and asked for Sergeant McCorkindale but he went fishing for a couple of days."
"There are other policemen there."
"Yeah but then Cushing came in and started calling us girls and insulting us the way he usually does."
"Cushing's a jerk. You shouldn't pay any attention to him."
I shrugged. "I get tired of being insulted."
"I'm going to speak to the chief about that. I'll tell him I want Cushing to keep his tongue off my son."
I shook my head. "That'll just make it worse, Dad. Cushing'll get me alone somewhere and then make fun of me for siccing you on the chief."
He nodded. "I suppose you're right." He glanced around the room. "Where's the rest of the money?"
"In my jeans pocket."
"How much did you spend?"
"Fourteen bucks."
"I'll take the rest of it over to the chief in the morning."
"Fine."
He thought a minute and said, "I wish I could tell you that the next time Cushing says something to you I'd clean his clock for him."
"I know, Dad."
"I'm just not very tough."
"Neither am I, Dad. I guess it runs in the family."
"But guys like that usually get theirs in the end. One way or another, they get it."
ii
The next morning around ten, I met Barney by the water fountain in the town square. As usual, a lot of the old men who play checkers all day long had pulled their green park benches up so they could be closer to the fountain. I've never figured that out. All these old-timers must have had a bad drought when they were kids because they sure do treat the fountain like somebody was going to sneak up and take it away.
The first thing Barney asked, his red hair brilliant in the hot August sun, his blue-and-white striped polo shirt already showing little patches of sweat here and there, was "Clarence ask you about the money?"
"Uh-huh."
"You tell him what we talked about?"
"He was pretty cool about it, actually. I'm going to get a paper bag and stuff the rest of the money in it and give it to him. Roy won't need it. He's got plenty more."
"So old man Hamblin called him then?" Barney said.
"Sure. Did you think he wouldn't?"
"I wish we could go out there. To see Roy, I mean."
"So do I."
"I woke up in the middle of the night. I had this dream that Roy was dead."
"He's pretty tough. Did you read the newspaper this morning?" My dad subscribes to the Des Moines Register. Even though it's pretty much a "Democratic rag" as he frequently calls it, it's the only daily we can get in this part of the state.
"Yeah," Barney said. "He really is a tough guy."
Right there on the front page, in a big black blaring headline, it had said: State Police Seek Fugitive and just below this was a picture of Roy looking more like Mitch than ever. The story told of how Roy had been a war hero in Korea but that he'd drifted into crime with his older brother and how authorities suspected that they'd been responsible for at least ten bank robberies in the past six months.
"He's a pretty cool guy, no doubt about it," Barney said.
"Very cool guy," I said.
"What're we gonna do all day?"
"You wanna see a flick?"
"Which one?"
"Blackboard Jungle is back at the Rialto."
"And there's another one," Barney said.
"What's the other one?" In those days, the Rialto always played two and sometimes three movies. Of course, when they had three of them, you could bet that two of them were real dogs, usually something with Bing Crosby and a lot of nuns.
"It's a western with Rory Calhoun."
"I still say," I said, "that Rory is a fake name."
"You wanna go or not?"
I shrugged. "Guess there isn't much else to do."
So we killed two hours before going to the movies by riding our bikes all over town and seeing who was out and around. We saw Maynard the bully unloading peat moss at his uncle's hardware store and just as we were passing him, Barney said, "I'll give you a buck if you give him the finger."
"I'll give you two bucks if you give h
im the finger."
But of course, wanting to live till sundown, neither one of us gave him the finger.
The Blackboard Jungle was still a pretty cool movie. The only problem was that I couldn't see myself as any of those kids. They were really kind of whiny and immature. I mean I'd much rather be Glenn Ford than any of the kids. (For one thing, Glenn had made two movies with Rita Hayworth, who I still think is the most beautiful and sexy and in some strange way saddest woman I've ever seen, her sadness being a part of her beauty.)
And Rory Calhoun was pitiful as usual. He looks like a decent guy and I'm sure he is a decent guy but he sure can't act. And when a fifteen-year-old kid from Somerton, Iowa, knows you can't act then you really can't act.
But it was air-conditioned and three rows ahead of us sat two really cute girls from Catholic school (Dad has never liked Catholics much but Mom says except for the Pope they're very fine people) and there were some especially neat coming attractions for two new monster movies. (Later on, I'd learn that coming attractions are a lot like life—the buildup is usually better than the payoff.)
When we got out, the sunlight was blinding and my body felt like some invisible demon had taken this huge paint roller and covered me with glue.
We got on our bikes and started down the block. We stopped at the corner for a red light and that was when the black Plymouth sedan pulled up to the curb. The window was rolled down on the passenger side. Cushing had to lean way over. "Afternoon, ladies."
Neither of us said anything.
"I want you to ride those bikes of yours over to the square and wait for me there. I'll meet you by the drinking fountain."
Even Cushing was fixated on the drinking fountain. "You girls understand me?"
We didn't nod or anything but obviously we were going to do what he told us.
When he pulled away, Barney said, "I think we're in trouble."
"I think you're right."
"That jerk."
We rode over to the square.
Since it was nearing suppertime, the square was pretty quiet, except for a couple of squirrels running around the edges of the wading pool where I used to go when I was five or so. But one day I saw some little kid's turd floating in there and I got out of the water and I never got back in again. I mean never.
We sat on the bench next to the fountain. Cushing parked down by the railroad tracks so it took him a few minutes to get up here.
He had on a straw fedora and a baby blue—colored summer weight suit and his usual big mean grin.
He went over to the fountain and had himself a drink and then flicked some water from his hand (everybody gets wet at that fountain) and then he took out this long pack of Viceroys and knocked one out on the edge of his fist and then he put it in his mouth and lit it and said, "Where'd you girls get all that money?"
"Huh?" Barney said.
"Last night at Hamblin's. Hamblin told me all about it."
"Found it," I said.
"Found it where?"
"Laying near the crick."
"What crick?"
"Out by the fairgrounds."
"It was just laying there?"
"In a sack."
"What kind of sack?"
"Paper sack."
"How much was in it?"
"About three hundred dollars."
"Where is it now?"
"At my house. My dad made me make up the money I spent from this savings account he keeps for me. He's gonna take it to the chief tonight."
"You could be in a lot of trouble."
"I know," I said.
But I knew better than that and so did Cushing. The Chief and Dad are in Rotary and Lions and Odd Fellows and the Masons together and twice a year they go hunting and fishing and they're real good friends and so I'd practically have to kill somebody before the chief did anything to me. I guess that's what Roy meant when he said I was respectable.
Cushing dragged on his cigarette a few times and swatted flies with his big hand a few times and just kept staring at us.
"You know what I think?" he said.
"What?" I said.
"That there's more money somewhere and that you're just not telling your dad about it."
The shadows were getting longer and a yellow passenger train was just pulling into the depot, furious with August heat and oil and power, and the people sat in the windows looking out at our little town, city people most likely, wondering how folks could live in such a small place. Once in a while I'd see really pretty girls in those windows and I'd have dreams about them for long days after the train had pulled out.
Cushing looked at Barney now. "How about you?"
"Huh?"
"You gonna tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"About the rest of the money."
"About the rest of what money?"
"About the rest of the money by the crick."
"He wasn't lying, Tom wasn't, Detective Cushing. We gave everything back except what we spent at Hamblin's."
"How about what you spent at Henry's supermarket?"
"How'd you know about that?" Barney said.
"When old man Hamblin told me about you being in there with all that crisp, green cash I just naturally got curious. I went to every store in town that was open last night and asked if you girls had been in there."
I guess that while he was one real big loud-mouthed showboat, Cushing was also a pretty good detective.
"So how about it?" Cushing said.
He was back to looking at me.
"How about what?" I said.
"How about telling me where the rest of the money is."
I don't know why but something about the way he said that—the words he chose, I mean—seemed odd to me but right then I didn't have time to think about it. I just had time to say, "There isn't any rest of the money. There's nearly three hundred dollars in a sack at my house that my dad is taking over to the chief's tonight."
"So that's how it's gonna be, huh, girls?"
"Honest, Detective Cushing," Barney said, getting that kind of whiny tone in his voice. "Tom's telling the truth."
Cushing held his cigarette up high and then dropped it straight down to the wet ground around the drinking fountain. Like he was dropping a bomb or something. And then he ground it out with the toe of his snappy black-and-white wingtips.
And then he stared at us.
"This is gonna get real bad, girls. Real bad."
"What is?" Barney said.
"This whole thing. With the money."
"But—"
Cushing held up his hand. "The last time I had a run-in with you little girls, everything went your way. The chief wouldn't press charges and the juvenile officers didn't see your breaking into that place as any big deal. It's going to be different this time. And I think you know what I'm talking about."
And then he left. No more words. Just left.
When Cushing had vanished on the other side of the bandstand, Barney said, "You think he knows about Roy?"
"I don't know. But I think he thinks there's a lot more money and that we have it."
"You gonna tell Clarence about Cushing?"
"No, because if I tell Clarence he'll start asking me a lot more questions."
We sat quiet for quite awhile, just watching the town at supper-time, merchants closing down, rolling up their striped awnings and turning out the display lights in the windows. Every summer seemed to get shorter the older I got, and at warm day's end there's a melancholy about everything, long purple shadows and mothers calling their kids in for dinner, and I felt this kind of sadness I can't explain, even though I was only fifteen I felt real old and I sensed that in just a few summers more all of us would be gone, I mean everybody I passed on the street young and old alike and all the people I loved including Mom and Dad and Gram and Debbie, all gone to ground and utterly forgotten with nobody to remember how beautiful the wine-colored dusk was on a snow-covered January night or how people laughed at Jack Benny o
n the radio or how neat it was to get a brand-new Ace Double Book or how the bonfire glowed on Homecoming night out at the football stadium or how lonely I felt the night Emmy Chambers told me that she liked Bobby Criker better than me or how much fun it was to chase fireflies with a jar on a July night with your aunt and uncle from Minneapolis sitting on the screened-in porch watching or how one spring night walking by the river I was so overwhelmed by the moonsilver water and the scent of apple blossoms and the friendly yips and yaps of neighborhood dogs that I knew absolutely positively that there was a God or how I sometimes had really corny dreams about saving some girl I loved from a burning house or how beautiful and neat and clean Main Street looked after a night rain—all those people and thoughts and memories would be dead. Mom and Dad would likely go first, and then all their friends and relatives, and then me and all my friends and relatives, and then Debbie and all her friends and relatives, generations born and generations dying until there was absolutely no trace of us left, almost as if we hadn't existed, absolutely nobody who could remember us at all, the people of Somerton with all their wishes and dreams and desires and fears would be at best a rotted skeleton or two to be dug up three thousand years hence and looked at and shrugged over and then forgotten utterly once again.
"You all right?"
Barney brought me back. "I'm fine," I said. But I wasn't. I never am when I start thinking of eternity that way.
"What time we going out to see Roy?"
"How about seven?"
"Meet you by the tracks?"
"Fine. But let's walk."
"Okay by me."
"I'll stop by Henry's and pick up Roy's stuff and meet you then." I rode home. Douglas Edwards and the CBS News was on. Mom was serving the first sweet corn of the year along with broccoli and Jell-O. Usually Mom doesn't let us eat in front of the TV—she'd read a piece in Parents magazine about how the American family was going to hell in a handbasket largely because of TV and rock and roll—but the heat evidently changed her mind for tonight at least, the living room being a lot cooler than the family room.
I sat beside Debbie on the couch. We both had metal TV trays which were kind of wobbly. She said, "It's hard to eat this corn with that tooth gone, Mom."
Which was when I figured out why she'd looked so strange when I'd come in. One of her front teeth was missing. In case I forgot to mention it, she's eight.
