They arrived at Jimmy’s house, and Duncan used Jane’s key to unlock the front door, calling, “Jim! Cavalry is here!”
It had obviously never occurred to Duncan, as it had to Jane on other nights, that maybe it wasn’t just the wind or Jimmy’s imagination, that maybe there was an actual intruder who would attack anyone who disturbed him.
“Jim!” Duncan called again.
At the end of the long, narrow hall, the door to Jimmy’s bedroom cracked open. “Duncan?”
“Come on out,” Duncan called. “I’ve got Jane here with me.”
Jimmy stuck his head out the door and looked at them. “Oh, it is you guys.”
“Of course it’s us,” Duncan said. “Now let’s investigate this mystery sound. Where is it the loudest?”
“In my bedroom,” Jimmy said. “But generally it stops when other people are around.”
This was true. Jane had never once heard it. In the past, whenever Jimmy called her in the middle of the night, she and Jimmy had huddled together, whispering, in the living room until dawn, when they fell asleep in armchairs.
“Well, let’s try and see if we can lure it out,” Duncan said. He led Jane down the hall to Jimmy’s grubby bedroom with its narrow twin bed and wooden dresser. Jane and Jimmy sat on the edge of the bed, but Duncan stood, his head tilted.
“Jimmy, have you—” Jane began to ask, but Duncan motioned her to be quiet.
They waited. Silence.
Jane started again, “Jimmy—” but again Duncan shushed her.
It seemed like even the house was holding its breath, but at last they heard the sounds: a staccato rapping as though unseen fists were knocking on the walls. Jimmy clutched Jane’s hand, but Duncan said calmly, “That’s your water heater, Jim. Dirt in the bottom makes that popping. We’ll flush it out this afternoon. It’s nothing to worry about.”
Jimmy smiled at him worshipfully, and Jane felt the kind of gratitude usually associated with rescued kittens. She realized that there were two types of people: those you called in the middle of the night and those you didn’t. And Duncan was the kind you called. How lucky, how insanely lucky, she was.
“You know what?” Duncan said. “Now that we’re all up, we ought to go see the sunrise at the beach.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Jane bit her lip. “Maybe we should try to get some sleep. We’ll all be so tired later.”
“That’s what coffee is for,” Duncan said.
Jimmy frowned worriedly. “Last time I drank coffee, I accidentally stapled my shirtsleeve to the workbench.”
“That’s because you drank the whole pot,” Duncan told him. “I’ll watch you more closely this time.”
“Okay, let’s do it,” Jane said. Or perhaps it wasn’t Jane who said that but the carefree new person she’d become. She could take a nap later.
As soon as Jimmy got dressed, they all rode in the front seat of Duncan’s van—Jimmy in the middle—to the gas station. Jane and Duncan went in and bought two large coffees and a hot chocolate from the hot-beverage machine.
“I’ve rethought the coffee thing,” Duncan said to Jane about the cocoa.
Then they drove to Whiting Beach and sat on the playground swings, the rubber seat cold against Jane’s legs even through her sweatpants. She sipped her coffee and wrapped one hand around the chain.
They were just in time. The sky was striped with every flavor of sherbet—raspberry, orange, peach, lemon—and every stripe was reflected in the lake. The sun peeked over the horizon slowly, slowly, growing to a shimmering gold oval that trembled for a moment, heavy, gravid—like a giant egg yolk that would fall forward and fry itself on the silver pan of Lake Charlevoix. And then it rose higher, a perfect yellow circle.
Nants ingonyama bagithi Baba! sang a part of Jane’s brain that seemed to have been given over permanently to The Lion King.
The sun inched up in the sky until it was just the sun again, that plain old heavenly body everyone takes for granted. But the wondrous feeling continued. Maybe it was the false euphoria of caffeine, but it seemed to Jane as though she and Duncan and Jimmy were the only people awake in Boyne City. No, more than that—the only people alive in Boyne City. It felt as though some apocalypse had roared through town, and they were the only survivors. And right then, just after dawn on that summer morning, Jane felt she could never want for anything more.
“That sunrise was so beautiful,” Jimmy said, and his voice was both awe-filled and matter-of-fact. Jane knew exactly how he felt.
2008
For many years to come—for the rest of her life, in fact—Jane would associate the arrival of Willard Williams in their lives with the “People in Our Community” learning unit at school. She always taught this unit during the month of October, and near the end of the unit, she took her class on a field trip to the farmers’ market and they bought caramel apples, resulting in a mass loss of baby teeth.
This year Jane had decided to invite a series of guest speakers to talk about their roles in the community. She convinced the other second-grade teacher, Mr. Robicheaux, that it would be better if they combined the classes during the speaker visits.
Mr. Robicheaux was an underfed man in his fifties with a scraggly white beard, a plume of white hair, and slightly pinched features. Two years ago, on the first day of school, a little girl named Jordan Chandler had looked at him and whispered “Bird!” in a fearful voice. Jane knew exactly what Jordan meant. She even knew what kind of bird—a cockatoo.
Jane understood that most parents hoped to look back on their children’s succession of elementary school teachers as a perfect string of flawless pearls, and she suspected that Mr. Robicheaux was more like a dark, misshapen dud. He was famous—or, more accurately, infamous—for arriving after the last bell, calling students “Boy” and “Girl” well into the first quarter, being unable to correctly add up the class milk money, misplacing his bifocals (he usually borrowed a student’s eyeglasses), accidentally shredding completed worksheets, and carrying a whiskey flask on field trips. There was a widespread belief that he didn’t understand the metric system because his students often entered third grade unaware that it existed, and he had been passing out a spelling list with joyful spelled with two ls for at least twenty years. Jane found working with him strangely rewarding; even on her worst days, she knew she was a better teacher than Mr. Robicheaux.
“What’s the point of guest speakers?” Mr. Robicheaux had asked.
“It’s an opportunity for the children to hear from people who contribute to the community,” Jane had said. “And to learn about how we all work together to make Boyne City a better place.”
Mr. Robicheaux looked unconvinced.
“When the guest speakers are here, you won’t actually have to teach,” Jane said.
Mr. Robicheaux shrugged. “Well, in that case, okay.”
Honestly, why did she even bother?
Jane had extended invitations to more than thirty local people, and had managed to secure visits from the mayor, a doctor, a volunteer firefighter, and a yoga teacher. Mr. Robicheaux had invited the bartender from the Sportsman, and Mrs. Robicheaux, who was a seasonal tax preparer for an accounting firm.
“The thing is,” Jane said delicately, in regard to Mrs. Robicheaux, “in general, I think the children will respond more to people whose jobs they understand.”
“Aw, Georgina will take care of that,” Mr. Robicheaux said. “She’ll explain it.”
It seemed rude to argue further, so Jane put Mrs. Robicheaux on the schedule and decided to kick things off with the bartender. The bartender’s name was Albert Jackson, but everyone called him Banjo, and he was, perhaps not surprisingly, a very popular guest.
Jane had asked him to come at eight thirty—speakers were always best first thing in the morning, when the children were still digesting breakfast and moving slowly
—and Banjo arrived right on time, wheeling a hand trolley loaded with cardboard boxes of supplies.
Jane and Mr. Robicheaux pushed back the heavy vinyl accordion divider between their classrooms, and all the children sat on the floor in a semicircle around the table set up at the front. Banjo showed them how to make a classic gin fizz with gin, lemon juice, and egg white. “This is actually the most difficult drink to make,” Banjo said over the knocking sound of the cocktail shaker. “Most people don’t shake it long enough.”
He gave the completed gin fizz to Mr. Robicheaux and then delivered a short lecture on bartending, during which he said, among other things: “If you hold your finger over the air hole on the pour spout, you can slow the flow right down to a trickle while making mixed drinks and most people never even notice.”
He ended by mixing a Shirley Temple and adding a maraschino cherry.
“Now, I’ve brought all sorts of ingredients,” Banjo said, gesturing to his cart. “You kids can invent your own drinks and give ’em a special name, like Shirley Temple.”
“Who’s Shirley Temple?” Matthew Harvey asked.
“A famous actress,” Banjo said. “Like Johnny Depp or Nicole Kidman.”
“Who are they?”
Jane often thought that seven was the last age at which you were immune to Hollywood celebrities. Or at least until you reached your eighties and just didn’t care about them anymore.
“You could also name your drink after a superhero or movie character,” she said tactfully. Immediately a happy babble of conversation broke out among the children: “Spider-Man!” “Buzz Lightyear!” “Princess Fiona!”
Jane had cleared off the counters that ran along the back of both classrooms, and while the children tied on their science aprons, she helped Banjo set out the bottles of juice and soda and seltzer, the plastic bowls of lemon slices and cherries, and the shot glasses. Jane was moved by Banjo’s thoughtfulness. If no parents called to complain, she planned to have him back next year.
The children mixed drinks happily, needing only minimal supervision. Banjo ranged among them, making suggestions, and Jane leaned against her desk. The gin fizz had apparently hit Mr. Robicheaux hard; he was asleep at his desk with his eyes open and his chin cupped in one hand. Jane was just wondering if she should wake him before or after recess, when Banjo approached her.
“Banjo, you did a wonderful job today,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure,” Banjo said. He paused and said more slowly, “Listen, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Jimmy’s bar tab, but last night his friend paid it all off, so I guess that’s okay.”
“Jimmy?” Jane asked. “My Jimmy?” Bar tab? What was Banjo talking about?
“Oh, yeah, him and his friend.” Banjo nodded. “They don’t ever drink anything except pitchers of light beer, but still, it was beginning to add up, and I thought you should know.”
“You’re saying Jimmy goes to the Sportsman,” Jane said slowly. This information was so startling that she felt the need to repeat it, like some form of teach-back learning. “And drinks pitchers of beer with someone.”
“Yeah, that new fellow, just moved to town to work as a cook over at the mountain for the winter season,” Banjo said. “The mountain” meant Boyne Mountain, the resort. “He’s staying at the City Motel until the ski season starts, I guess, and then he’ll move to employee housing—”
“How long has Jimmy been going to the Sportsman?” Jane asked. She had not thought it possible that Jimmy did anything that was unknown to her.
“He used to show up once in a while, usually on a Sunday. He just sits at the bar and has a beer, and I talk to him if we’re not busy. I know he’s been lonely ever since his ma— since she passed.” Banjo bit his lip in embarrassment—everyone was embarrassed to talk to Jane directly about the accident—and then hurried on. “But now that he’s made friends with this other guy, he’s been coming pretty much every night. I guess I thought you knew.”
“What’s this friend’s name?”
“Willard,” Banjo said. “I don’t recall his last name, if I ever even knew it.”
“That’s all right,” Jane said. “I’ll ask Jimmy.”
* * *
—
Jane drove over to Jimmy’s house that very afternoon. Right away, she saw that things were out of place. A car—a boxy maroon Buick, gray showing through thin spots in the paint—was parked in the driveway, and Jimmy couldn’t drive. The side door to the house was ajar, with just the glass storm door closed, and Jimmy never left the door unlocked (at least, not since he’d started watching Unsolved Mysteries). The radio was playing in the living room, and Jimmy never listened to the radio. Cooking smells were coming from the kitchen, and Jimmy never cooked.
A large man was also coming out from the kitchen, and the man wasn’t Jimmy.
“Hello!” the man said. “Looks like we have a visitor.”
Jimmy emerged behind the man, wiping his hands on a towel. “Hey, Jane,” he said, smiling. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I just thought I’d stop by and meet your friend,” Jane said. “Will you introduce us?”
“Okay.” Jimmy turned to the man obediently. “Willard, this is Jane. Jane, this is my friend Willard.”
My friend Willard. Jimmy’s voice was stuffed with pride.
“It’s nice to meet you, Willard,” Jane said.
“And you, too.” Willard shook her hand. “I have heard so much about you from Jimmy. Won’t you come on in the kitchen? Can I offer you a drink? Soda? Beer?”
“I’d love a beer,” Jane said, hiding her surprise. Since when did Jimmy keep beer in the house?
She followed both men back into the kitchen and sat at the table. Jimmy began drying plates from the dish drainer and putting them into the cupboard. Willard fetched a Bud Light from the refrigerator and opened it with an old-fashioned can punch. Jane would have bet that Mrs. Jellico had never used that can punch to open anything stronger than ginger ale.
“There you go, ma’am,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep going with dinner prep here?”
“Not at all,” Jane said.
Willard’s appearance was full of incongruities, as though he were still discovering himself, even though he looked to be in his fifties. He was very tall and had the sort of belly that Jane’s mother had always called a “front porch.” Willard’s front porch wasn’t the wraparound kind, at least not yet; it was more of a stoop, dense and jutting proudly forward. Yet he moved gracefully, almost daintily. His hair was black and tightly curled on top, straight on the sides—the hairstyle of a man who had reached maturity long before the days of styling gel and blow-dryers—and his eyes were cobalt blue, vital, alert. His voice was deep and cultured, but his shirt was cheap yellow polyester, and his shoes had run-down heels. His heavy face was seamed and ruddy, but open and relaxed, kind. He seemed to be smiling even when he wasn’t actually smiling.
He took another dish towel from the counter and draped it over his shoulder like a burping cloth.
“We’re having coq au vin,” Jimmy told Jane. “That’s French for ‘rooster with wine.’ ”
“It sounds delicious,” Jane said, although, last she knew, coq au vin had dark-meat chicken in it, and garlic, and button mushrooms, and red wine, which were all things Jimmy didn’t like. “I heard you were a chef, Willard.”
“More like a line cook.” Willard turned the burner on under a frying pan of bacon. “But I do have one or two specialties. Jimmy, I think I’m ready for you to chop the onions.”
“I better get my snow goggles, then,” Jimmy said cheerfully. “I used to wear them when my ma made me help her can spaghetti sauce. Onions make my eyes water something terrible.”
“I think your goggles are in the basement,” Jane told him. “There’re a
few cartons down there with winter clothes in them.”
Jimmy went off, and Jane could hear him clumping down the basement stairs. She knew it would take him at least ten minutes to find the goggles—it took Jimmy at least ten minutes to find anything—and she was glad.
“Willard,” she began, speaking slowly and choosing her words carefully, “I’m very pleased that you and Jimmy have become friends”—odd that she spoke to a man who was at least twenty years her senior like this, but Jane’s life was full of oddness—“but Jimmy’s not like other people. He needs a lot of support.”
“Oh, yes, I could see that right away,” Willard said agreeably, turning the bacon with a spatula. “But he’s a good guy. I think he’s capable of more than you think.” He glanced up at her suddenly, contrite. “Not that I’m criticizing. Jimmy’s told me how well you take care of him.”
Jane smiled, but she kept her voice serious. “Jimmy needs a lot of guidance. A lot of assistance. He doesn’t—he doesn’t always make sensible decisions.”
“That’s why I told him we ought to stop going to the Sportsman every night,” Willard said. “It didn’t feel right, him becoming a regular.”
Jane was silent; she couldn’t argue with that.
“I had a little brother with developmental delays,” Willard said. “He passed away many years ago, but we were close when I was growing up. Right from the start, Jimmy reminded me of my brother. Sweet and funny, completely genuine, completely open. Needing guidance, like you say, but just a pleasure to be around.”
A pleasure to be around? Someone else had said almost the same thing about Jimmy recently. Jane frowned, trying to remember. Duncan. Just last week, Duncan had taken Jimmy with him on a run to Traverse City. “Does him good to get out of town, and I can use the company,” Duncan had said. “Jim keeps it simple, and I like that.” Talking to Jimmy made Jane feel like flying into a million pieces, but apparently other people were much nicer than she was.
“Well,” she said now, drinking the last of her beer, “I should be going.”
Early Morning Riser Page 12
