Although Pfeil wanted to run from the room with the disgusting Polaroid, burn it in the fireplace, he simply stood there, mesmerized by it. The naked couple was lying on a blue bedspread. The wallpaper behind them had a silver and gray pattern. They were in the classic missionary position, the guy on top.
The guy. Pfeil always thought of him in impersonal terms. Carly’s boyfriend. That boy she was seeing—although he was really a young man, not a boy. The jerk. Not thinking of him by name was a way to dehumanize him. But the minister knew his name quite well. It was Paul Edley.
Edley was Ice Island’s version of a disreputable character. He wasn’t a murderer or a drug pusher or a thief, but he wasn’t much good either. His father had died, leaving him the family’s boat rental business. Paul had let the boats deteriorate until they were in pretty bad shape. Allison Farraday, the local insurance agent, had cancelled Edley’s insurance because she was afraid the boats were unsafe. Instead of taking care of the business, Edley pursued his other interests. He liked to ride the old Harley Davidson motorcycle he’d fixed up. And he liked to chase women.
Edley was twenty-two years old, a tall, good-looking young man with dark curly hair, a friendly but slightly wicked grin. Women liked him. There were rumors about things that happened with a couple of the island’s married women. There was another rumor about a high school girl who had to sneak off to Detroit for an abortion.
Why, the minister wondered angrily, didn’t I forbid Carly to see him? Yes, it would have made him and his daughter adversaries. Yes, they’d have fought. Yes, Carly might have defied him. But look what doing nothing had accomplished. The result was in his hand. Carly screwing this creep while someone else took pictures. He stared at the photo, rage welling up inside him. Suddenly he saw himself with his big hands around Edley’s neck, squeezing, the slimy son of a bitch begging for his life.
Instantly the image vanished, Pfeil’s fury swirling away like dishwater going down a drain. He heard a squeak, a brief startled cry that could have been made by a terrified animal, and then he realized that the sound had come from him.
The naked couple in the photo was moving.
Writhing on the bed.
The still photo had become a motion picture.
Paul Edley’s ass rose and fell. Carly squirmed, her lips were parted, her eyes closed, her expression showing she was lost in the pursuit of animal pleasure. As the minister stared at the scene, it seemed less and less like a movie and more like a magic window through which he could see what was actually happening, as if he were a voyeur, spying on what his daughter was doing at that precise moment.
The photo slipped from his fingers, fluttered to the floor. For a long moment, he simply stared at it, reluctant to touch it. A part of his brain, the part that could only accept logical, rational, scientifically explainable things, was screaming at him, telling him that this wasn’t real, that still pictures could not move and therefore he had imagined it.
Still photos don’t come to life, Doug, old buddy. Uh-uh. No way. You start believing that, and the next thing you know they’ll come and get you and put you in one of those places with padding on the walls. You just pick up that picture and see for yourself.
The minister bent down, hesitated, then picked up the photo. The two naked people having intercourse were frozen in a split second of time. Okay, Pfeil thought. It was just my imagination. The picture upset me so much that my brain went haywire for a moment. That’s all.
But deep down inside, where unvarnished truth lived, the minister knew better.
2
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Irene Waggoner said, tucking her shirt into her jeans.
Smoking a cigarette, Paul Edley sat on the edge of the bed, watching her. He was unable to decide whether he thought she was pretty. She was a bit on the thin side, wiry, sort of athletic-looking, with a plain face. On the other hand, she had long, slender legs and shiny dark hair, a nice smile.
“What’s the rush?” he asked. “Kevin’s down at the hardware store, selling nails and screwdrivers. He won’t be home for a couple of hours.”
“But I’ve got to get dinner ready for him. And sometimes he calls to find out what’s on the menu. I should be there in case he does.”
“Guy like Kevin, guy that big, must think about food a lot. Must always be hungry.”
Irene had moved into the bathroom. Looking through the open doorway, he could see her combing her hair. “Yeah,” she said. “He likes to eat.”
“Too bad for you his other appetites aren’t like his one for food.”
She stopped combing her hair and looked at him. “But it worked out real well for you, didn’t it?”
Jesus, he thought. She thinks she’s giving away something special, doing me some big favor by getting into the sack with me. It was really the other way around. Her husband hadn’t had a hard-on in a year and a half, and she came here to get what she needed.
Edley wondered whether he should try to get her to let him take her picture for his album. He’d convinced many of the other women he’d had here to let him do it. He’d set up the camera on a tripod, set the time delay, then hurry back to the bed. Some of them, like the preacher’s daughter, had made him take two pictures, so they could have one too. So far he’d filled up four pages in his photo album. He wondered how long it would take him to fill the whole thing. Ten years? Twenty?
It was surprising how few of them refused to go along with the picture taking. When he’d first come up with the idea, he thought most women would object out of fear that someone would find the pictures or that he might decide to use them for blackmail. What he hadn’t figured on was how much women liked to do things they considered naughty. And having your picture taken making it with some guy was certainly naughty. It made the whole thing seem more daring, more risky. For some women the camera was like an aphrodisiac; it made them twice as horny.
The photo album was Paul Edley’s way of keeping score. In it were pictures of wives and daughters who’d come up to spend a portion of the summer fishing and boating and getting away from it all. But it wasn’t exclusively summer people. Oh, no. He got laid in the winter too. In fact, a lot of Ice Islanders would be shocked to learn who was in the album, making it with him in living color. Come take a look at my photo album, he thought. See what your neighbors are doing when they think nobody’s looking. He chuckled to himself.
“See you tomorrow?” Irene asked as she emerged from the bathroom.
“Naw, not tomorrow. I got stuff I gotta do.”
“What?”
“Work on the boats.”
She eyed him skeptically. “Paul, you haven’t worked on those boats in years.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s why I’ve got to do some maintenance. I don’t, one of ’em will sink someday, and I’ll get my ass sued off.”
“Day after?” she asked, studying him with her dark brown eyes.
“Probably,” he said. “But call me first.”
“Okay. You going to walk me to the door?”
He stood up. He’d been sitting there, wearing just his pants. Now he slipped on a shirt and accompanied Irene to the door. He knew what was expected, so he stopped her at the door, pulling her gently to him, kissing her softly. When she started responding, he stopped, pushed her gently away.
“If we don’t stop,” he said, “Kevin’ll come home to an empty house.”
Taking in a slow breath, she nodded. “You sure about tomorrow?”
“Hey, I gotta work on the boats. Honest.”
Looking resigned, she pulled on her coat, gave him a quick kiss, and hurried out the door. Edley decided Irene was ready to become part of his album. He watched through the window as she climbed into a red Ford Bronco, started the engine, and drove off. He hadn’t been entirely truthful with Irene. Although the boats did need work badly, his plans for tomorrow didn’t include working on them. Carly Pfeil was planning to play hooky and spend the day with him.
He was
going to have to do something about Carly. She was starting to talk as though this were true love, a permanent relationship, and Paul Edley didn’t see any permanent relationships in his future. Uh-uh. He had an entire photo album to fill up before he could think about permanent relationships.
He went into the kitchen and looked into the refrigerator, wondering what he should have for dinner. Seeing nothing that looked interesting, he grabbed a beer, popped open the top, and took it to the living room, where he sat down on the couch. Edley wasn’t much of a housekeeper. Old motorcycle magazines and back issues of Penthouse were strewn around, cobwebs hung in the corners, and the sink was full of dirty dishes. A while back he’d been making it with Debbie Lewis, a summer person whose father stamped out hubcaps or something down in Flint. Debbie had hated clutter and dirty dishes, and she’d kept the place spotless. That’s what he needed, another woman like Debbie. Someone who liked to clean. Maybe he should tell Carly that if she wanted a permanent thing, she should demonstrate her cleaning skills. He’d have to think about that.
3
Reverend Douglas Pfeil drove west on Island Avenue. He passed the closed Michigander Inn, and then he was out of town. He stared at the road, uncertain what he was going to do, but knowing he had to do something.
Memories floated through his consciousness. Five-year-old Carly, eyes wide in anticipation, as she opened the biggest present under the Christmas tree, the one that contained a stuffed animal nearly as large as she was. Carly in the school play, momentarily forgetting her lines and staring at the other actors, the silence lengthening, then abruptly remembering, the words coming in a rush. Carly crying her eyes out because the boy on whom she had her first crush was unaware of her existence.
He passed the Forest Road turnoff.
The minister recalled Carly’s first spoken word. They’d guessed it would be Mama or Dada and if not one of those maybe bottle or blanket or the name of some other familiar object. Instead, baby Carly had said “Uke,” which he and Carolyn had finally decided was Duke, the name of their Cocker Spaniel.
Midway between the town and Al McDougall’s sugar maples on the west end of the island was the intersection with South Point Road. Pfeil turned, headed south. A red Bronco passed him, going the opposite direction. It was driven by Irene Waggoner, whose husband, Kevin, worked at Ace Hardware. She sped past the minister, looking straight ahead, as if she hadn’t noticed him. Pfeil scowled. Except for a few unoccupied summer cabins, the only thing on South Point was Paul Edley’s place.
He drove another three or four minutes before a faded hand-painted sign came into view: boats for rent, daily rates. Beyond the sign were two white clapboard buildings, a one-story house with a bent TV antenna on its roof and a boathouse. The drive forked, one branch going to each structure. Pfeil drove to the house.
He had to watch his step as he walked to the front door, because both the drive and front steps were covered with ice. Although he knew a lot of Ice Islanders who were bad at keeping their walks and drives shoveled, the minister chalked it up as one more example of Edley’s laziness. He wasn’t feeling terribly charitable toward Edley at this particular moment. He pushed the button beside the aluminum storm door, and the barely perceptible sound of chimes came from within. Paul Edley opened the door.
The minister didn’t know Edley very well—the young man wasn’t a churchgoer—so he found himself staring at him, taking a moment to form an impression. Pfeil could see why women were taken with Edley. Tall and muscular, the young man had a face that combined boyish innocence with masculine ruggedness. His dark hair was thick and curly; his brown eyes combined intelligence with a devil-may-care sparkle. And he had the standard-issue mustache that all hunks seemed to possess these days.
“Reverend Pfeil, isn’t it?” Edley asked. “You here to sell tickets for the church raffle?”
“No. I’m here to talk to you. May I come in?”
“Sure.” Edley held the door open as Pfeil stepped into the living room. “Have a seat, Reverend.”
The minister shook his head. “I’d rather stand, thank you.”
“Suit yourself,” Edley said, lowering himself onto the couch. “Now, what’s on your mind?” He smiled knowingly, as if to say, I know what’s on your mind, but we’ll play it out anyway. It’ll be fun.
When Pfeil had left the house, all the words he’d been planning to say had bubbled within him, ready to be spewed like white-hot lava. But now, standing here before this young man who grinned at him mockingly, the minister’s anger and determination evaporated. He felt as awkward and unsure of himself as he had when, as a fledgling minister, he’d stood before a congregation to give his first sermon.
Edley simply stared at him, waiting. Taunting him with that silent grin.
Suddenly Pfeil’s fury began to bubble again. This creep had taken advantage of a sixteen-year-old girl. Used her. Toyed with her. All for his own satisfaction, food for his hungry ego. And now the son of a bitch had the nerve to smirk at him with his damn superior, knowing grin, as if Edley were a bully about to teach some stupid little kid a lesson.
“Stay away from my daughter,” Pfeil said, the words coming out like blasts of hot steam.
Edley raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because I said so. That’s all the reason you need.”
For a long moment Edley just stared at him. Then he shook his head. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I just did. Stay away from her.”
Edley folded his arms. “Get fucked.”
Pfeil wasn’t sure what to do next. This wasn’t supposed to have gone like this. Finally he said, “You ever hear of statutory rape?”
“Sure. But I think sixteen’s old enough.”
“It’s not. You could go to jail.” The minister was bluffing. He had no idea what the age of consent was in Michigan.
Edley shrugged. “You going to drag Carly into court? What will your congregation say, your daughter involved in a scandal like that?”
Pfeil knew that Edley was right. He wasn’t going to court over this, even if Carly was below the legal age of consent—and he wasn’t sure she was. He was beginning to feel useless and foolish. Embarrassment, hot and sticky, surged through him, made him feel like turning and running.
But he didn’t run. He simply stood there, confused. Suddenly unwilling to look Edley in the eye, Pfeil shifted his gaze away. The living room was cluttered—motorcycle magazines, issues of Penthouse, a crumpled beer can. Despite the mess, the place seemed to be in fairly good condition. Neither the furniture nor the carpet was badly worn. A console TV set occupied one corner; a brick fireplace occupied another. Wood was stacked by the fireplace.
Pfeil realized that just standing there, not looking at the guy, was making him seem even more laughable. The minister took a slow breath, shifted his gaze back to Edley. Reaching deep down inside himself, he found the embers of his previous anger, fanned them.
“I’m telling you, flatly, never to see Carly again. I mean it.”
“Okay,” Edley said, “and I’m telling you, flatly, to get fucked.”
“If you do, I’ll come back,” Pfeil said. “I’ll put an end to this one way or the other.”
“If you come back, I’ll throw you out,” Edley said. “As a matter of fact, that’s what I’m going to do right now.” Rising, he made shooing motions with his hands. “Go. Leave.”
“Remember what I said,” the minister said emphatically.
“Just go,” Edley said, making it clear he wasn’t taking Pfeil seriously.
When they reached the door, the minister exploded. It happened so fast even Pfeil hadn’t known it was coming. As Edley opened the door, Pfeil grabbed him and shoved him out onto the icy stoop. The younger man slipped, fought for balance, then skidded off into the snow, landing face-first.
Pfeil stood over him, trembling. “I mean it,” he said. “Never come near Carly again.”
Edley sat up. For a moment he looked surprised, but
then the smirk was back. He stood up. “I thought you ministers were nonviolent and all that. I didn’t think you believed in fighting.”
“I believe in protecting my own.”
“Me too,” Edley said.
He took a quick step forward, and his fist landed in Pfeil’s gut, doubling him over and knocking the wind out of him. Pfeil’s lungs struggled for air that didn’t seem to exist. But the minister had very little time to worry about that, because Edley hit him with an uppercut that sent him sprawling backward into the snow. Edley moved in quickly and kicked him in the side, brought his foot back and kicked him again. Then again.
When the punishment stopped, Pfeil realized he had curled into the fetal position. He was in pain. He could barely breathe. And tears were running down his cheeks.
He felt more ashamed than he had ever felt in his life. He recalled thinking about his big hands earlier in the day, how they were strong like a blacksmith’s. He’d been so stupid. He was a middle-aged man who got very little exercise. What muscle he’d had once was now flab. He was soft, ineffectual. He’d been deluding himself when he thought he could prevent Edley from seeing Carly. Maybe another father could, but not him. He was useless, worthless. He wished he were dead.
A gust of wind blew loose snow in his face, as if even God were letting him know how unworthy he was.
It doesn’t have to be like this.
Go away, Pfeil thought. Leave me alone.
I can help you.
No one can help me.
I can. Look.
The minister saw Carly with her legs wrapped around Edley, the two of them squirming on the bed, Carly moaning, telling him she loved him. Abruptly the scene changed, and Pfeil saw Edley punching him, knocking him down, then kicking him.
Stop! Please! I don’t want to see any more.
Instantly he was watching a new scene. In this one he was walking up to Edley’s door with a tire iron. And then he was inside the house, with Edley. And Pfeil was swinging the tire iron, hitting the young man again and again and again, blood splattering on the wall, on Pfeil, and still he kept hitting him. It was a glorious, wonderful sensation.
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