It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t understand A.’s absence as that I could not understand both his absence and the car’s presence. Except under severe duress or drunkenness, he never rode in anyone else’s vehicle. I knew he must still be on the premises. On the other hand, if he were just out for a walk in the woods, a normal activity on such a crisp, clear afternoon, why did he leave his car parked outside the garage? That was not normal. (Rather, it was not usual. Nothing about A. was normal.)
I decided to examine the car more closely. Perhaps there was a note, or a clue. After circling the enormous green Chrysler twice, I finally noticed the three holes in the front window on the driver’s side, holes surrounded by interconnected cracks, like spider webs, holes that could have been made only by high-powered rifle bullets.
This was certainly a curious, if not ominous, development.
I called out his name several times, doubtless with fear in my voice and surely with urgency. No answer. Silence—except for the whisper of the cold wind riffling through the pines and the distant, harsh cries of a pair of crows from somewhere in the woods behind the house.
What could I do? I couldn’t ask any of A.’s neighbors, those folks in the trailers and shacks back along the road, if they had seen him recently. The mere mention of his name and myself as a concerned friend would have invited any of those folks to slam his door in my face, or worse. Years of living in A.’s proximity had aroused in his neighbors a certain amount of anger. I couldn’t call the police. To a stranger, especially to a law enforcement official, the circumstances simply weren’t that ominous. The police chief, A.’s brother-in-law, but no help for that, doubtless would have advised me to drop by again in a day or two, and if A. still hadn’t moved his car, then perhaps an inquiry could begin. And though at this time his divorce from “Number Five,” as he called her, had been legally consummated, A. nevertheless was still living alone, so there was as yet no new spouse, no proper “next-of-kin” to alert and interrogate.
Feeling puzzled, helpless and, increasingly, alarmed, I got back into my car and started the long drive home to Northwood. I had not gone many miles when I imagined, successively, three separate events, or eventualities, which, successively, I believed true—that is, I believed in turn that each event sufficiently explained the peculiar circumstances surrounding A.’s absence.
Event #1: Upon arriving at my home in Northwood, I built a fire in the library and was about to fix myself a cognac and soda when the phone rang. It was A. His voice was sharp, harsh, annoyed with me, as if he had been trying to reach me for several hours.
I tried to explain that I had spent most of the day photographing jays and chickadees in the snow and had stopped by his house on the way home, but he interrupted me, barking that he didn’t give a damn where I’d been; he’d been arrested by his own brother-in-law, Chub Blount, and had been charged with the murder of Dora, his fifth wife. He told me that he’d been permitted one call, and he’d called me, and then, when I hadn’t answered the phone, he’d decided I was probably in on the arrest somehow, so now he was calling to let me know what he thought of that kind of betrayal.
I was shocked. I assured him that I was shocked. “I didn’t even know Dora was dead, for God’s sake! And you know what I think of your brother-in-law,” I reminded him. “If I had known that Dora was dead, murdered, I mean, and if for whatever reason I had thought you were responsible, you know I’d never have called Chub in. I probably would have called the state police, not that idiot,” I reassured him. “Assuming, of course, that I would’ve called anyone. I mean, what the hell, A., you know what I thought of Dora,” I said.
Apparently my words soothed him, as good sense inevitably did. Above all else, even in distress, A. was a reasonable man. In a calm voice now, he said that he wanted me to hire a lawyer for him.
“Did you do it? I mean, you know, kill her?” I asked. Perhaps he’d shot her with his 30.06 while she was sitting in his car—though I could not imagine any circumstance under which Dora might have ended up sitting in the driver’s seat of A.’s Chrysler while he stood outside with his rifle. But I did want those bullet holes explained.
For several uncomfortable seconds A. snarled at me, literally snarled, like a bobcat or cougar interrupted at a meal. Then he shouted that he hadn’t called me so he could confess to me, and he hadn’t called to protest innocently that he was being framed by his brother-in-law. He’d called, first, to tell me what he thought of me if I had been a party to his arrest, and then to instruct me to hire a lawyer for him. Not a shyster, a lawyer, he bellowed. He figured it was a job that fitted my natural and acquired skills rather well. (A.’s sarcasm rarely failed to make a point, though often an obscure one.) As to whether or not he had in fact murdered his ex-wife, A. told me that if the lawyer I hired was able to convince a jury that he didn’t do it, that would be the truth. If he failed, that would be the truth too, A. explained. That was why he wanted the best lawyer in the state of New Hampshire, he shouted. Did I understand?
“Yes, I understand. How do you think it happened, though? I mean, how do you think Dora was killed? How does Chub, the police, explain those bullet holes in the Chrysler?”
A. uttered a low, sneaky-sounding giggle, almost a cackle, except that he was genuinely amused. He was intrigued, he said, by my knowledge of those holes. Until now, until I had asked about them, he himself had wondered who killed Dora. But now … and his voice drifted back into that low, sneaky giggle.
“Now, look, A., you don’t think that I…”
He assured me that he thought nothing of the kind. Besides, he pointed out, it didn’t matter what he thought, who he thought had killed her. All that mattered to him was getting his case presented to a jury by the best damned lawyer in New Hampshire, and if I could find him the best damned lawyer in New Hampshire, he’d forget all about my knowledge of the three bullet holes in the Chrysler.
I agreed to the terms. I had no choice. But who could such a marvelous attorney be? I wondered. In a backward state like New Hampshire, how could there be a barrister sufficiently gifted to create the kind of awful truth A. had defined? The task of locating and hiring such a person frightened me. I am an ordinary man. I felt alone, young, inadequate.
Event #2: I departed from A.’s house, driving carefully along the rutted, rock-snared path to the main road, where I turned left, and in a moment I was beyond A.’s property and was passing the battered house trailers, tarpaper-covered shanties, and those all but deserted farmhouses. Then there was a stretch of road where for about a half-mile there were no dwellings and the dark spruce and Scotch pine woods came scruffily up to the edge of the road, darkening it, creating the effect of a shaggy tunnel or a narrow pass through a range of craggy mountains. As I entered this stretch of road, I saw a young woman standing by the side and was about to pass her when I realized who she was and what she was carrying in her arms.
It was Rochelle, A.’s twenty-six-year-old daughter, his only child and at that the child of his own late childhood. A lovely red-haired girl with long thin arms and legs, dressed in a forest green wool parka, hatless, with the hood laid back beneath her dark, tumbling, red river of hair—she was a startling figure to behold, especially when she was the last person in the world one expected to see out here, and even more especially when one realized that she was carrying a rifle, which, because of the telescopic sight attached to it, I instantly recognized as A.’s own Winchester 30.06. She had the rifle cradled under her right arm and across the front of her flat belly, with her left hand gripping the bolt as if she had just fired off a round, or was about to. She seemed distraught, shaking, green eyes darting wildly, roughly, and in the direction of the woods on the left side of the road. She did not seem to notice my car as I slowed, crossed over, and stopped beside her.
Leaning out the open window so she could recognize me, I cried, “Rochelle! What’s the matter? What are you doing out here?”
“I’ll kill him!” she screamed into the woo
ds, as if I were located in that darkness rather than behind her in my car. “I’ll kill the bastard! I’ll kill him!”
“Where is he?”
“In there someplace,” she said in a hoarse voice, as if she had been screaming for hours and had exhausted all her vocal resources but the roar. All she had left was her maximum effort; anything less collapsed of its own weight. “I know he’s in there,” she croaked, motioning toward the woods with the tip of the barrel. “I think I hit him once, maybe twice, at the house when he drove up. When I chased him down here, I could see he was bleeding, his face was bleeding, all over his lousy face, the bastard!”
Her own face was gathered up like a fist, her green eyes agate-hard. Her fine, even teeth were clenched, and the muscles of her long jaw worked ferociously in and out. Her delicately freckled hands had turned chalk white from the force of her grip on the rifle.
Though she had acknowledged my question by shouting her answer into the woods, she had not acknowledged my presence yet and continued to stare searchingly into the tangled darkness. With extreme care, moving slowly yet smoothly and, I hoped, gently, I got out of my car. She seemed not to notice so I took a single step toward her; then she wheeled about on her heels and swung the gun up, slapped the butt against her right shoulder, and pointed the tip at my heart. She sighted down the barrel with care, focusing the telescope with her left hand as if she were tuning in a distant radio station.
“Don’t!” she ordered.
I froze, one foot held delicately off the ground, both hands palm down and off to my sides, as if quieting an orchestra. “Rochelle,” I said in a calm voice, “give me the gun. C’mon, honey, let me have the gun now, you don’t want to kill your dad. I know you’re mad at him, I know he’s upset you, but you don’t want to kill him for it, now do you, honey? C’mon, honey, let your ol’ buddy have the gun, then we can sit down and talk about it.” I had slowly let my foot descend to the ground and had taken a second step.
I was terrified—the sight of one of the most stable creatures I had ever known, one of the most admirably predictable and rational women I had ever met, standing wild-eyed before me with a high-powered rifle zeroed in on my thundering heart, so upset my notion of the real and expected world that anything could have happened, anything, and it would have seemed appropriate, Rochelle could have broken into a Cole Porter song and started tap-dancing her way down the road, using the rifle as a cane, waving over her shoulder at me as she pranced out of sight, the end of a musical comedy based on the exciting life of a girl revolutionary. Or she could have suddenly opened her mouth wide, as if to eat a pear, and shoving the tip of the barrel in, jammed her thumb against the trigger and blown the top of her lovely head away. Or she could have simply squeezed one finger, nothing more than that, just wrinkled her trigger finger one-sixteenth of an inch, and I would have heard the explosion, possibly would have smelled the fire and smoke, seen a shred of the narrow belt of the blue sky fall into my face as I was blown back against the side of my car, my chest an erupting volcano for no more than a split second, and then Nothing, unimaginable Nothing.
With a shudder, I decided it didn’t matter what happened so long as anything could happen. I took another step, then yet another, and gradually, as I neared her, she lowered the barrel of the gun until, by the time I could reach out and touch her shoulder, it was pointing at the ground. With my left hand I took the gun from her, and with my right I reached around her shoulders and drew her to me.
Suddenly she was sobbing, her bony, fragile shoulders hunched and twitching with the sobs. And then it all came out, what he had said in his answer to her letter, what her letter had said about her mother, A.’s first wife, until finally she was blubbering wetly against my chest. “Oh, I don’t understand, I just don’t understand! Why does he have to be that way, why is he so awful? Why?”
I sighed. It was not going to be easy for me to explain. After all, she was his daughter, his only child. And she loved him.
Event #3: (From The New York Times, Wednesday, May 1, 19——.)
ABERDEEN LAKE, Dist. of Keewatin (AP)—On and off for the last twenty-four years a man with a long gray beard has lived in an empty tomb in a little used cemetery in this tiny (pop. 49) village one hundred miles below the Arctic Circle. He says, “It’s nice and peaceful.
“Well, it’s waterproof and nobody is going to trouble a fella living in a tomb,” says the sixty-five-year-old man, who goes only by the name of Ham.
“They call it a receiving tomb. They put the bodies in there until the ground thaws and they can bury them. But they haven’t used it in a long time,” says the old-timer, an American who refuses to talk about his past.
He considers himself a retiree and draws a $62.50 monthly Social Security check. Does it bother him living in a cemetery?
“No, I kind of like it,” he says. “You know, we all got to die sometime, and this just helps a fella get used to the idea. Besides, it’s kind of nice here.”
Where did he come from? What kind of life did he lead that brought him to this end? “I’m luckier than most,” he says. “I got what I wanted, not what I deserved.”
I read the article with slight, barely conscious interest, prodded by my daily habit of reading every article in the newspaper from beginning to end diligently, regardless of the content, but perhaps also prodded by the vaguely familiar tone of the somewhat cryptic remarks attributed to the old man, an assertiveness tempered by a strangely familiar form of personal humility, a kind of matter-of-fact pride and wisdom that I had not heard in many years. There was a small wirephoto of the graybeard above the article, and when I studied the blurred face, I recognized, in spite of the long beard, the hair, the stooped posture and the obvious aging that had taken place, my friend of long, long ago. It was A.
And thus, once again, after a lapse of what seemed an entire lifetime, I began thinking obsessively about the man. “Where did he come from? What kind of life did he lead that brought him to this end?” I chuckled to myself at the poor, befuddled reporter’s questions and imagined A. frustrating the fellow with half-truths and outright lies, flattery and aggression. The reporter should not have been talking to A., I snorted, but me! He’d never learn the truth from A., not in a million years.
Believing as I did that each of the above three events, taken separately, could explain A.’s peculiar (to me) absence that Sunday afternoon in February 1975, I had reached a point in my relation to him where almost anything could happen and where whatever did happen would be believable. It would seem “natural,” “right,” consistent with all I had known of him before. In other words, the man had become sufficiently real to me that I could, and therefore should, write a novel about him.
It was almost four o’clock by the time I arrived at my home in Northwood. The sun was setting coldly behind the low hills, dragging a darkening gray blanket across the snowy fields and woods while the temperature tumbled fast toward zero and below. Then, as the sun dropped wholly behind the farthest hill, leaving only a sky fading from red to peach to sooty gray to deep, starry blue, a low cold wind cruised across the snow, from the colder, eastern horizon to the slightly less cold western, as if following the waning light. Then the wind was gone, like a pack of silent dogs, and the night settled motionlessly down to its business of making the icy lakes creak and boom, of making the trees snap, the streams whimper, the hibernating animals underground turn worriedly in their sleep, of making the rocks beneath the snow concentrate their mass.
Inside my house, as soon as I had built the fire to blazing in the library, I sat down at my desk, plucked my pen from the holder, and, opening a blank notebook before me, wrote in large letters on the first page, HAMILTON STARK, A NOVEL. I turned the page, and continued to write.
Chapter 2
The Matrix: In Which Certain Geographic, Historic, Economic & Ethnic Factors Get Described and Thence Enter the Drama; Also Flora & Fauna & Other Environmental Marginalia; Some Local Traditions; A Fabled Place & an Earl
y Murder There
matrix (m′triks, ma′), n., pl. ma-tri-ces (m′-tri-sz′, ma′), ma-trix-es. 1. that which gives origin or form to a thing, or which serves to enclose it: Rome was the matrix of Western civilization. 2. Anat. a formative part, as the corium beneath the nail. 3. Biol. the intercellular substance of a tissue. 4. the fine-grained portion of a rock in which coarser crystals or rock fragments are embedded. 5. fine material, as cement, in which coarser material in lumps, as of an aggregate, are embedded. 6. Mining, gangue. 7. Metall. a crystalline phase in an alloy in which other phases are embedded. 8. Print. a model for casting faces. 9. master (def. 18). 10. (in a press or stamping machine) a multiple die or perforated block on which the material to be formed is placed. 11. Math. the rectangular arrangement into rows and columns of the elements of a set or sets. 12. a mold made by electro-forming from a disc recording, from which other discs may be pressed. 13. (on the circuitry of an electronic computer) an array of components, diodes, magnetic storage cores, etc., for translating from one code to another. 14. Archaic. the womb. [
From The Random House Dictionary of the English
Language, The Unabridged Edition (New York, 1967).
1
HOW FAR BACK IN TIME is it reasonable to push, before one detaches himself from the near bank and poles himself, guiding the drift back downstream, home again, by straddling the current at midstream, stroke over stroke down to the present? Eh? Back there the stream had narrowed, had run with a swiftness that increased geometrically with each mile as one returned to the source. There were rapids, low overhanging trees with dangerous strange beasts residing among the dark foliage; there were hidden shoals, sudden waterfalls, mythical creatures drinking at the edges of eddies and pools, caves along the banks, dawns savagely bright and silent, dusks that fell in seconds and released at their fall the cacophony of nighttime hunts. And the farther back one poled his fragile craft, the closer one came to the source (that high clear spring where a mountain toad bejeweled by sunlight squats upon a thick pelt of moss and sleeps), the more trivial seemed whatever quandary, shame, or project that characterized one’s present.
Hamilton Stark Page 2
