by Aitana Moore
“Except one day, finally, there was Mark at the trailer, wanting to see his daughter. And she was only three years old. Or already three years old, depends how you look at it. But he must have seen something of himself in her — the dark hair, maybe. She's lanky, like he was. Anyway, there is something, if you look. Their hands were very alike." She motioned toward the box. "Once he came over with this box for her and told her to try and open it — and she sat there till she figured it out. She was five! He was proud of her then, and he kept saying, 'She's so smart, she's so smart,' but as if she had just inherited the intelligence from the air. I was the one bringing her up, and he had been denying she was his. All of a sudden, he had to have her. He had to take her away."
"What did you say?"
She shrugged. "I'd have done what was right for Lynn. But not just like that."
No, not without him paying you.
April shrugged. "Still, it didn't work because he died. Freak boat accident. He liked sailing — rich people, you know — and the boat just turned over."
"But Lee still went to her grandmother?"
"Yeah, a while later. When Nathan had to move here, and I was coming with him. The old witch said her son had wanted her to take care of Lee, send her to a good school. That's what he was going to do if he had lived. And, well, I thought it was better for her."
Her expression said that she had gotten nothing out of it, except to be rid of a daughter as she started a new life with a different man.
James slid open another compartment of the box. There was a photograph in it: Lee as a child, her hair short as a boy’s, and next to her an old and rusty supermarket cart with a blond boy inside.
“Oh, look at that! Lee and Billy. Didn’t I tell you about the dungarees, that’s how she went ’round, all dirty, pushing Billy in that cart to show him things ’cos he’d get so tired. Look at the lil’ cushion she got for him. Innit sweet?”
My Lee. James wondered what he had been doing when she had gone around with her sick friend. He was glad that he had returned; Aunt Im had been right.
He handed April the box.
"Don't you want to take it to Lynn?"
"I don’t know when I’ll see her.”
"Now what you talking about?" April asked, letting her hands drop on her lap with the box. "You can't just give her up like that!"
James considered her in silence as her eyes evaded his. She had been about to ask him for money; she would have said her dear Lynn would never have wanted her to live as she did — but now she wouldn't dare, because she saw that he had seen her.
As she led the way downstairs, he stood at about the height where Gavin estimated Joe to have been hit the first time. A man might survive that fall, depending how he landed. Joe had landed badly, his neck cracking as it hit the steps.
Yet Cora had not been on those steps, and Lee — it was said — had not been at home. How had the poker ended up next to Joe's body without April's bloody steps going up and down the staircase? He leaned over and looked at the ground below, where Joe had lain. His eyes detected something before he kept descending.
"I must go," he said. "But could I trouble you for a glass of water?"
"Of course! And you didn't even drink your tea. Sure you don't want another one?"
"Certain. Thank you."
April walked to the kitchen as James moved to the side of the stairs, where Joe had fallen. The ceramic floor was still the same as in the crime photos. What he had seen was a chink in one of the tiles: a large chink such as a fire poker might have made, if it had been dropped over the rail from the staircase.
FOURTEEN
Hawkshaw, population 8,362, was composed of six streets that crossed a main street where most of the commerce was.
The name of the main street was Main Street.
The other roads kept going to either side, twisting and turning around woods, with houses such as April Keane's — some better, some worse — along the way.
Main Street had a row of low, attached brownstones, a few of them boarded up. Two diners had closed; during hard times, families ate at home. A large pharmacy with a sign from the 70s, however, seemed to be thriving. There was a tattoo shop that looked new. People might stop eating out, but they probably had lots of messages about gloom, doom and injustice to write on their bodies.
The wheels of the car made a sound familiar to James, of hard rubber over water. It was raining, and the asphalt reflected the neon signs from the businesses and the traffic lights that changed slowly or just blinked yellow.
At the end of the street, there was a sign which said Blue Osprey, and a bar seemed like a good place to go, especially when it boasted a small parking lot at the back.
The inside of the place looked like the bar James had seen in just about any American movie — as recognizable, he supposed, as the British pub. In this one, the customer could choose to be at a small table surrounded by high stools, at the counter or at red booths in the left corner. Most men in a new, unknown place tended to sit with their backs to the wall. It was the atavistic need to watch out for possible dangers without necessarily being seen, although any stranger in Hawkshaw would stick out like a sore thumb no matter where he sat.
A girl was cleaning glasses behind the counter, and she had obviously taken advantage of the shop next door in her spare time, as the visible parts of her body were tattooed with skulls, roses and serpents. There was only one other customer, a man who looked like he was never anywhere but perched on the last stool at the counter.
The waitress finally came to James' booth. She had several piercings on her face and a dead stare.
"What can I get you?"
"A beer?"
"Draft or bottle?"
"Bottle."
"What beer?"
Signs on the wall told him he had a choice between Heineken, Corona, Bud, Miller and Pabst.
"Give me your most popular one."
She went behind the counter and came back to slam a bottle of Budweiser on the table. James raised an eyebrow. "May I have a glass?"
"I thought you didn't want draft."
"A glass would still be nice."
Now smiling as if he were something exotic, she went behind the bar again and took a glass from the stack above her head, showing it to him. He shook his head. She took another and another, her smile growing, until he nodded at a long, curvy one.
The girl set it down on the table more gently this time and stood watching him incline the glass to pour the beer inside.
"That's usually for soda," she pointed out.
"Well, lucky me that people drink soda, then."
"You're the Englishman," she stated flatly.
"I'm one of them."
"The one with Lynn."
The barwoman looked not much older than twenty-one. She would have been in her teens when Lee left town, but then again James supposed few things ever happened in Hawkshaw. All its inhabitants must be talking about Lee's return and Joe Keane's murder.
"Is it always this empty here or am I early?" he asked.
"You're early. It'll fill up. People start coming in at six o'clock."
"It's six."
"On Saturdays they arrive later."
James looked at the biggest neon sign on the wall. "And what does 'honky tonk' mean?"
The girl guffawed. "You don't know what a honky tonk is?"
"There's Honky Tonk Woman by Elton John ..."
"Who?"
"Someone old."
"Well, honky tonk is a bar like this one. With live music, you know."
Men had, in fact, walked in from the back carrying instruments, which they began to set up in a clear space under the sign. James dreaded to ask.
"What kind of music?"
"Country."
That might even be pleasant, if it weren't for the electric guitar a man was just then plugging to a big speaker. She followed his eyes.
"Country-rock tonight," she explained.
James groaned ins
ide, thinking he wouldn't last long when things got loud — but things got interesting instead, when the door opened and Officer Brooks walked in dressed in civilian clothes. He wore jeans that were tight across his thick thighs, a checkered shirt under his jacket and a belt with an elaborate buckle. His eyes swept over the bar, as if he were looking for someone. When he saw James, he tried to hide his surprise, moving to the counter in an unconvincing show of indifference.
"Hey, Sara!" Caleb said, after a moment. He widened his eyes on purpose as he looked at James. "You're the Englishman, right? You were at the hearing for Lynn?"
"Yes. And you're Officer Brooks?"
"Good memory."
"You made an impression."
"I did?" Caleb motioned toward the booth across from James'. "Mind if I sit down?"
"On the contrary."
"You're early tonight," Sara remarked to Brooks.
"My sisters are coming in."
"Masha coming?"
"No, she's with her grandmother at the hospital."
"Sorry 'bout that. Wanna drink?"
"I'll have a beer too."
"Ain't taking care of that ulcer, I guess." Sara twisted wry lips at the repressive look Brooks threw her. "You want a glass as well?"
Brook's eyes flicked toward James' beer. "Nope."
Sara went to get his drink as Brooks said, "Surprised to see you here."
"Are you?"
"Guess I thought you'd gone back to England."
"I did, and then I came back here. I have three months' lease on a house in Greensboro."
"That's crazy!" Brooks waved his hand over the table in a sort of apology. "If you don't mind me saying so. I mean, you can go anywhere and you wanna stay around here?"
"For the weather," James said.
Sara returned and slammed the beer in front of the officer. "If you guys get hungry, there's pork barbecue. Cooking right now."
"That's OK, honey," Brooks said. He turned back to James. "The weather?"
"Not tonight, particularly, but you do have mild winters."
"You can go anywhere, like the Caribbean or the Bahamas or something, and you come here for the weather?"
Irony would clearly be a one-way thing in that conversation, and James only smiled at Brooks’ disbelief as the officer took a long, manly swig of his beer. "I think it tastes better like this."
Oh, the pissing contest had started. James decided to make Brooks despise him more by turning sideways and crossing his legs — something few American men ever did, and probably none in that town. His movement didn't go unnoticed. Brooks spread even more in his seat.
"Look, I hope you don't mind me saying so,” Brooks went on, mentioning what James might or might not mind for the third time. “It’s a small town and all, we tend to be plain speaking. But am I right in thinking it's not the weather keeping you here, it's Lynn? I know you're paying for that attorney of hers. He's a good one, so maybe you want to see things through to the end?"
"Something like that," James allowed.
"But you haven't known Lynn very long, have you? Let me tell you, where she goes, trouble follows. She was always like that. Always. I'd just like to warn you."
"Why, thank you, Officer."
"I read about you and your wife, and what happened up in England. I don't know if Lynn was mixed up in that. Then there's the thing in Mexico. You see what I mean. She just can't let things be."
"True, there is never a boring moment with her, is there?" James said, sipping his beer.
Brooks lowered his head as he stared at James from under his brows. Yes, that was what Officer Brooks looked like with his thick neck and shoulders, his small eyes and close-cut reddish-brown hide for hair: a bull.
"The point is, sir," Caleb went on, "what would you gain by sticking around here? You do see that you make Lynn look bad?"
"She's being tried for murder. How can she look any worse?"
"People here don't necessarily buy that Lynn killed Joe, but if she ran behind Billy's back, a boy born and bred here, a boy who's sick ..."
"Except that she's not doing that, Officer."
"Caleb. You can call me Caleb, I'm not on duty now."
"Call me James, then."
"Well, James, it's what I was saying. You here, in this small town — why would you come? A rich man like you? Why would you even stay in Greensboro? Those people of the defense, they want to sling mud everywhere, even on the police and the lab — but I can tell you something: I'd never frame Lynn for anything. Not for nothing. We take care of our people here, we don't turn against them. If she did something, as a police officer I can't cover it up. But I wouldn't plant evidence or mess up a crime scene so she went to jail. That's the last thing I want."
"I bet."
"What?"
"I'm sure you don't want her in jail."
"Lynn's difficult, but she's good underneath all that. She's kind. She's trying to do right by Billy, and you gotta let her do that."
"I'm not stopping her."
Caleb called Sara, ready for his next beer, but James opted for a Jack Daniels.
" 'Beer before liquor, never sicker'," Caleb quoted.
"That's just a myth.”
"Then bring me one too," Caleb told Sara. He turned to James again. "I know you're paying for Billy's care, but it just don't look good, you staying round like this. Makes you look bad too."
James feigned alarm. "Does it?"
The Jack Daniels arrived, and Sara had brought small shot glasses and heavy whiskey glasses. James pointed at the latter and she poured liberal doses of alcohol into two of them. It could be her way of showing generosity toward early clients, or perhaps she was hoping James and Caleb would get into a fight and liven up her evening. But when someone expected James to lose his temper, it was the easiest thing in the world for him to keep it.
"Leave us the bottle, please," James said.
"All righty," Sara replied. "Guess you don't have to worry how expensive it gets."
"Makes you look bad," Caleb went on single-mindedly as soon as Sara moved away, "like you're mooning for Lynn."
"But maybe I am."
With a noise of disdain, Caleb let his eyes fall to James's crossed legs and back to his face. "Pining for a married woman, and you don't even feel ashamed?"
"Do you?"
Again, the small eyes shot pale sparks at James, but Caleb sat back, a smirk appearing on his face. "You can't blame a man for remembering. You don't forget your first, do you?"
"Not if you have a decent memory, I should think. You may even remember them all."
"Nah, nothing's like your first. And Lynn ... well, I don't have to tell you she's special. There's girls that want you to buy them an expensive perfume or something. Lynn, now, that stuff’d only spoil her smell. She used to come over to my house, you know — my parents worked and were out till the evening. And when she left, I'd just sniff those sheets. She smelled like cinnamon. It was like you had just put some rolls in the oven, or like apple pie was cooking."
"You like to bake?"
"Funny," Caleb said, without laughing. "But you know what I mean. There ain't no woman who smells like that. I've caught whiffs of her since she came back. She ain't spoiled, don't matter how many hands she's been through."
It was James’ turn to stare without saying anything, and Caleb's grin grew wider.
"Nothing like your first one," he repeated. "It's the same for women, you know."
"I’m sure,” James said. “So much so that she went on to marry a boy who wouldn't be able to touch her. Which proves that she was either thinking no one would measure up to her first, or she wanted to never have sex again."
This time Caleb made a decisive move to lean over the table. "I've been trying to talk to you man to man about Lynn. She'll drive you crazy if you stay here. You'll just spend all your money—"
"That's hardly possible. I have a lot of it."
"Well, you'll pay for all the attorneys to get her off, you'll bu
y this town, what the hell do I know? She'll still do what she wants. She'll still run away from you when she feels like it. If you cared about her, you'd leave — you know why?"
"For her own good, I suspect?"
"Right. Because I told you, we take care of each other in this town."
"That reminds me of a science-fiction film I saw once ..."
Officer Brooks had had enough, and he rapped the table with his knuckles. "We'd take care of Lynn."
Their conversation was interrupted by the door, opening to admit a group of women, and Lee was among them.
Well, the Blue Osprey was the best joint in Hawkshaw, and James had expected to meet Lee somewhere. Nevertheless, she looked startled when she saw him, and more startled when she spotted Caleb. The mystery behind Caleb's urgency was solved: he had wanted James to leave and not see Lee at all.
In any case, she had recovered enough to nod at them as a woman with her cried, "Caleb, we'll sit over there."
"I'm coming!"
Caleb rapped the table with his knuckles again, more gently this time. "That's all I wanted to say. We'll take care of Lynn. You don't have to worry about her."
"Thing is, Officer," James said in a smooth tone, "I'm inordinately fond of cinnamon."
FIFTEEN
"Well, Lee, if that was your man just before you got back, I can only go: damn!" Sophie Brooks said.
Her sister frowned at the mirror. "Sophie, you respect Billy."
The three women were together in the bathroom of the Osprey, where Caleb's sisters were taking the opportunity to tease their hair a bit higher, since they thought the rain had spoiled their styles.
"You have a bigger bag, Lynn," Abby said. "Hold my comb for me? Otherwise it'll be sticking out the side of mine all night."
