“I was starting to think you weren’t gonna show up,” Marlee said.
“Oh, you know. This reunion thing, Breaking Ninety, is …”
“Breaking a lot of people’s chops.”
“Yes! That’s sure as hell true.” The publisher’s son, a handsome man with his father’s best physical features, laughed, and Marlee congratulated herself on putting him at ease.
“What are you drinking?”
“Well, nothing yet. Beer, maybe.”
“C’mon,” Marlee said, putting her hand on his shoulder and steering him back toward the porch. “I’ve got a whole tub full of cold ones. Hey, up there on the porch! Reach in and get a beer for Lyle.”
“Boo.”
“No top brass allowed.”
But the insults from the dark porch were good-natured, and the publisher’s son laughed again.
Marlee was proud as well as happy. She was probably the only person at the Gazette who could have a party like this, inviting everyone from the greenest cub reporter to the publisher’s son, and get it to work. She could do it because she could kid the publisher’s son in front of the rank and file, and vice versa. And she could do that because she was able to see them as people.
Oops, Marlee. Don’t get big headed just because you’ve had a few drinks. Just relax and enjoy your own party.
“Thanks,” Lyle Glanford, Jr., said, ripping the tab off a can of beer.
The only person Marlee would never think of inviting to a party was the publisher himself. He just never mixed with the regulars. But Lyle junior was all right. He had bounced around all the departments at the Gazette; his father had seen to that, wanting him to learn every phase of the operation. He had not shown himself to be brilliant, but he was far from the dolt that some of the younger reporters made him out to be. It was not his fault that he was the publisher’s son.
Besides, Lyle had always been nice to Marlee. A couple of years back, just after his divorce, she had even thought he would ask her out. Or maybe that had been wishful thinking.
The guests had eaten nearly all the hot dogs. Some of the dog lovers in the crowd had thrown tidbits to Nigel, who acted as if he could stand a party every day.
Marlee switched from wine to beer and glided from room to room, looking out at the porch every so often to make sure no one gave Nigel any beer.
“… your first dose of Bessemer winter is going to be an eye-opener, I promise.”
“Yeah, well, I used to live up near Plattsburgh.”
“Then you’ll be right at home here.”
“For sure some people have left Bessemer because of the winters.”
“Storms here are the stuff of legend …”
That reminded Marlee: crammed down in her shoebox of old pictures were several of mountainous snowdrifts and a couple from the ice storm of—what?—twenty years before that had shut off power across the city. She nudged through the crowd, opened the closet door, got out the picture box again, went back to the dining room table.
“Hey, everybody!” Marlee said over the din.
“Message from Marlee! Shut up, everyone.”
“All right,” Marlee said. “All right. I’ll keep this short, and you can go back to drinking, or whatever else consenting adults do.”
Scattered laughter.
“Some of you old people might like these pictures,” Marlee said. “Maybe you new folks, too. Give you a notion of what you’re in for if you stay in Bessemer.”
A few people crowded closer, started picking through the pictures. Marlee listened to the chatter:
“Look at that, for God’s sake. Snow up to the streetlights.”
“For the longest time, the Chamber of Commerce pressured the Gazette not to run snow pictures on page one. The merchants figured it would discourage shoppers.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I am like hell. Wait till you’ve been here awhile.”
“Not so loud … there’s Shafer.”
“So what?”
“Ah, Shafer’s a decent guy. For an editor.”
That exchange among some younger reporters pleased Marlee. They’re seeing good old Will as human, she thought. “Listen, you folks,” she said. “If you want to hear some voices from the past, you can play the tapes from old parties. You old farts might hear your own voices. You young snots might like hearing how your elders used to sound. Just keep the volume down to a roar, okay?”
“Hard-core porn!” someone shouted.
“Better,” someone said.
Marlee went back to the porch, where several guests were still drinking, and fished another beer out of the tub. She would make it last awhile.
“Good party, Marlee.”
“I’m glad,” she said. Damn, she was more tired than she’d thought It was hard work, throwing a party. Worth it, but hard work just the same. She drifted over to the dark corner of the porch and sat in an old wicker chair. She was close to the dog’s pen and right next to an open window.
The door between the porch and kitchen opened and closed, and Marlee suddenly realized she was alone. Good. She felt like resting for a moment.
“Hi, Nigel.”
She could make out the dog’s shape, down there in the dark. She saw the tail wagging.
Marlee listened to the chatter around the table:
“Now when the hell was that?”
“Jeez, look at that snow. Okay, that guy’s wearing plaid double knits, right? So must have been, what, ’73 or ’74?”
“Don’t forget, the styles come to Bessemer a couple of years later.”
“That’s for damn sure.”
“Will you look at this! Like silver spaghetti covering the whole world.”
“That’s from the famous ice storm.”
Quietly sipping beer in the dark, Marlee enjoyed the conversation; the very innocuousness of it meant people were relaxed and having a good time. She heard clicks as someone turned on her tape recorder, then whirring noises for fast-forward and reverse.
A flat, metallic voice rose from the tape: “… the friends I had here in Bessemer, you people, and I want you to know …”
“You remember,” a listener said. “That’s Charlie Buck. Got out while the getting was good and made a name for himself.”
Listening in the dark, Marlee thought, I sure as hell didn’t. Well, so what?
“I like the pictures, but who gives a shit about this?” a voice said as another tape started to play.
So turn it off, asshole, Marlee thought to herself. No one’s making you listen to anything.
“My old man has a tape recording of a fart contest.”
“Oh, I’ve heard that! It’s a stitch. Some English bunch made it.”
“They just put the tape recorder under the city desk after the editors had had lunch.”
“You foul-mouth bastard.”
Marlee heard the recorder whir, click to a stop. Then long-ago yet still familiar noises rose from the tape spools. Sounds of tables and chairs bumping and beer glasses crashing to the floor.
“Damn,” a listener said, “what the hell is that?”
“A party for … Grant Siebert, the label says.”
“Must have been ’73 or ’74, I bet.”
“No, no, before. I betcha he left …”
“Left before the Attica prison thing. I know for sure he wasn’t around for that, and the riot was in September of ’71.”
Marlee sat up, turned, and looked through the window at the cluster of people in the living room. Her heart beat a little faster.
“I betcha it was …”
“It was the winter of the ice storm. Remember?”
“Sure. Or maybe the spring right after.”
“What the hell’s an ice storm?”
“Okay, who’s the weather expert here?”
Marlee heard someone trying to explain what an ice storm was.
“Yeah, but when we say ‘ice storm’ around here, we mean the ice storm,” someone said.
“I lost a hundred bucks’ worth of frozen meat.”
“Power was out for—what? Three days? Four?”
“At least.”
Suddenly, Marlee’s mood changed. Instead of wanting to be alone, she wanted to be part of the reminiscences. She got up from her chair and went inside.
Several people in her age group were listening with slightly embarrassed smiles and nostalgia-bright eyes. Several younger people were laughing appreciatively. Marlee wondered how she looked.
“Damn, listen to that.”
“Humor unalloyed by compassion or taste.”
“Who was this party for?”
“Grant Siebert. Went to New York and …”
“This is him, right here in the middle. The good-looking guy with the wise-ass expression. And right here is …”
“Is he coming back?”
“I haven’t heard. Not that I care.”
“I hope he learned a little humility if nothing else.”
“Shh. Listen to this.”
Those close to the recorder could hear fairly well; those farther away were having trouble, or maybe didn’t care.
“… heard his putter was out of his bag, if you know what I mean.…”
Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to play the tapes, Marlee thought. “That wasn’t supposed to be on there,” she said. Damn; so far, it had been a very clean party.
Marlee saw Jenifer Hurley at the edge of the knot of listeners, her face wrinkled in concentration.
“What’s all that stuff about the priest and the golf club?” Jenifer asked.
“Big, big murder back then,” someone said.
“She’s too young to remember.”
“I’m not from Bessemer anyhow,” Jenifer Hurley said.
“A priest was found battered to death in a basement. With a golf club. They never solved it.”
“Probably a fag deal,” Ed Sperl said.
Nice, Ed, Marlee thought. You know damn well some of my guests are gay.
“Hell of a case …”
“Marlee? Can we talk for a second?”
Will Shafer was standing next to her.
“Sure, Will. Come on over to the corner.” She led him to a momentarily quiet spot near the kitchen and tried to tune out the party babble: “… right about the time of the ice storm … dead for quite a few days before they found him …”
“Marlee, can I ask you a favor? As a friend?”
“Sure, Will. What?”
“Could you, would you be willing to call Grant Siebert in New York and ask him to come to the reunion?”
“Me? Why me, I mean …” Marlee was stunned. She felt her face flush and hoped it didn’t show too much.
“Marlee, we don’t exactly have a stampede for the reunion. I’m batting almost zero with the out-of-towners. The publisher …”
“The publisher is gonna want at least a couple of big-city types,” Marlee said. “I understand.”
“Marlee, you have a knack, a social knack. I’d really appreciate it.”
“Oh … sure. Soon, right?”
“Please. And thanks.”
Marlee smiled and nodded. She had to be alone. She went to the porch, back to the wicker chair in the dark corner. Yes, her heart was beating faster; there was no doubt about it. Grant Siebert …
She looked over her shoulder through the window. Ed Sperl was standing at the table, flipping through the pictures. As Marlee watched, he pressed the buttons on the recorder. His face was full of concentration, or was he just trying to see straight after all the beer he’d had? She had never considered him sentimental.
I hope he doesn’t screw up the recorder, she thought. But she was too preoccupied to dwell on it.
The door opened, and Will walked onto the porch. “Marlee, thanks for a fine evening. We’re going to be going. And thanks again for, you know.”
“Sure, Will. Really glad you came.”
Marlee followed Will back inside, saw that a few other people were gravitating toward the front door. She wasn’t sorry: she was suddenly quite tired, more burdened with emotion than she had been in a long while.
After seeing out Will and his wife, Marlee went to the kitchen to get some ice water. She walked past Ed Sperl, who was still standing next to the table, sorting through the pictures.
“Bye, Marlee. A good time,” someone said.
“Glad I came, Marlee.”
Marlee kept her smile. “Really glad you could make it.… Thanks for coming.… My dog appreciates the leftovers.”
Just a few people left now, and Marlee hoped she wouldn’t have to shoo them out. Ed Sperl was still at the table, flipping through pictures. He was holding a beer. I hope it’s almost empty, Marlee thought, because I’m almost running on empty.
“Night, Marlee. Night, Ed.”
Sperl put down the pictures, looked around him, seemed surprised that he was almost alone.
“Thanks for coming, Ed,” Marlee said. “The younger crowd really appreciated your war stories.”
“My pleasure,” Sperl said. “It’s fun, going down memory lane. You never know what you’ll run into.”
With that, Sperl winked, waved good-bye, and walked more or less steadily to the front door.
Alone at last, Marlee thought. It had been a good party; now she was glad it was over. She went back to the dark porch and sat down.
Twelve
Grant’s muscles still felt warm from his workout at the Y. He checked his mail, throwing out most of it, and tossed his gym bag in the corner. He got a beer, checking his answering machine: blinking light but no messages.
He lay down on the sofa, shook off his shoes, felt himself relax.
The phone rang.
Shit.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, I’m trying to reach Grant Siebert.” Man’s voice, long distance.
“You got him.”
“You won’t guess who this is.”
“You’re right.”
“I tried to call you a couple times earlier, but all I got was your goddamn machine.”
“Well, you got me now, so who the hell are you?”
Wise-ass laughter. “Glad to see you haven’t mellowed, Grant. It’s Ed Sperl. From the Gazette. Remember?”
“Sure. Yeah, hi.” He had not liked Ed Sperl way back then and hadn’t thought of him in years, even after the call from Will Shafer about the reunion.
More wise-ass laughter. “You don’t sound so glad to hear from me.”
Okay, Grant thought. I can play this game. “Why should I be? We haven’t talked in God knows how long.”
“You’re right. Sometimes it’s good to renew old ties.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
Chuckle. “Sort of. I’m calling about the reunion, Grant. I guess Will Shafer talked to you already.”
The reunion, of course. “Yeah, I talked to Will.”
“He was hoping you’d come back.”
“I know. The thing is, I haven’t been back for twenty years almost. I don’t know …”
“I hear you. Poor Will’s afraid they’ll hold the reunion in a phone booth if he doesn’t get a better turnout than he has so far.”
“Did he tell you to call me?”
Chuckle. “Shit, no. He may get someone else to do that.”
Grant remembered the feeling Ed Sperl had always given him. Something about him, some snakelike quality, had always made him uneasy.
“Look, Ed, I told Will I’d think about it.”
“I know. Just in case you do come back, I’m collecting little capsule histories for a reunion program. You know, whatever happened to so-and-so. That kind of stuff. I just need to know in a couple dozen words what you’ve been doing with your life. You went to Notre Dame, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You know who’s a big Notre Dame fan, is Will Shafer.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“He is. See, he went to Saint Jerome’s right here in
Bessemer. Word is, he really wanted to go to Notre Dame. Couldn’t cause his father was sick and all that.”
Sperl had a cynical, bored-sounding drawl that got under Grant’s skin. “You know a lot,” Grant said. “Is this going to take long? Like I said, I’m probably not even coming.”
“You should think about that, Grant. Country club’s being redone, food’s not bad from what I hear. Golf course is pretty good by local standards. You still play?”
“Not really. I never got into the game much around New York.”
“Hmmm. But you used to play in Bessemer?”
“A few times I did. That was a long time ago.”
“With anyone in particular?”
“No. I’d just go by myself to a public course and get paired with someone.”
“Hmmm. I’ve always heard you meet interesting people playing golf. Did you find that?”
“Mostly I met other golfers.”
Chuckle. “When was the last time you swung a club in anger?” Sperl’s voice had changed.
“The last time I played? I don’t know. Why?”
“Just wondering. Just wondering.”
“Anything else you need to ask me? I’ve got some things I need to get done.”
“You married?”
“No.”
“Good man! Smart man, I can tell you from experience. So you do magazine work, I hear?”
“Yeah. I’m an editor at Sleuth. We do—”
“Hey, hot shit! True-crime stuff. I know all about your outfit. Used to string for ’em.”
“Is that right?”
“Funny, I just never saw you on the masthead.”
“I’m not on it. Listen, Ed—”
“Just a couple more questions, Grant.”
“Listen, Ed, hold on while I go to the john.”
“Take your time. Gazette’s paying for the call.”
In the bathroom, Grant splashed cold water on his face and tried to stop his knees from shaking. Ed Sperl had a knack for asking questions that seemed dull, wooden, even stupid, yet they left him feeling vulnerable.
“I’m back.”
“So, Grant, you doing any writing? I remember when you left, you were hoping to set the world on fire.”
“It’s not burning yet. But I am writing, yes.”
“What kinda stuff? You been published?”
“Fiction and nonfiction both. I’ve been published in a couple of the magazines. Last year in Cosmopolitan I had an article on a woman who’s a homicide detective.”
Night of the Ice Storm Page 11
