The Cypress House

by Michael Koryta

  Arlen stared at him. “Paul… you remember where you are? You remember what happened to the man who drove us down here?”

  “Arlen, it’s not like she blew his car up!”

  “I don’t care if she did or not, he ended up dead and we ended up in jail and this ain’t a place I intend to stay around.”

  “So where are you going to go?”

  “Away,” Arlen said. “Hitch a ride into a town and figure it out.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather do that with a few dollars in your pocket?”

  “They’re probably my own dollars,” Arlen snapped. “I’m still not sure she didn’t steal it herself.”

  Paul sighed and shook his head again. “You know that’s not the case.”

  “I don’t know a damn thing, son! Neither do you.”

  “Arlen, she’s here by herself. We can’t just leave. It isn’t right. I mean, if she were my mother and somebody walked off and left—”

  “You aren’t confusing her for your mother,” Arlen said. “I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

  Paul flushed and looked down, twirled the hammer in his hands. “I got off that train when you asked me to.”

  “Aren’t you glad you did?”

  “Yes. But now I’m asking you: stick for a few days. Just long enough to help her get this place put together.”

  Arlen stepped back and ran a hand over his face. He didn’t want to leave the kid here on his own. Not in this place.

  “Listen,” he said, his voice sharpening in a way that brought Paul’s eyes up. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, son? Look me in the face and lie?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “All right. So when you tell me we’ll stay just long enough to get the tavern cleaned up, and then we’ll go back to Alabama… that’s the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  Arlen said, “Shit,” and sighed.

  “Won’t be so bad,” Paul said. “Working right on the ocean like this? It’ll almost be a vacation.”

  “Just find me another hammer,” Arlen said. “Faster we work, faster we can leave.”

  They walked back to the front of the house together in search of the second hammer. Barrett was leaving, pulling away in his van with a honk and a wave, and Rebecca stood on the front porch with a newspaper in her hands and a grim look on her face. She glanced up at them, said nothing, and passed the paper to Arlen. The front page was half covered by an enormous headline that shrieked: 1,000 PREDICTED DEATH TOLL IN KEYS.

  Below that, a promise of the “complete hurricane carnage in pictures” stood above a photograph of corpses stacked on the front of a ship.

  Arlen didn’t want to see the complete hurricane carnage in pictures. Nor did he want to read about the dead. Paul had seen the look on his face, though, and he said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  Paul came up and looked over Arlen’s shoulder at the photograph of the dead men and that headline. One thousand predicted dead. One thousand.

  “Let me see,” Paul said, his voice hushed. Arlen passed it over, fished a cigarette out and lit it and smoked with his back to the boy and the newspaper. Every now and then Paul would let out a murmur of horror or pain. Rebecca had joined him and was reading at his side.

  “Arlen,” Paul said, “most of these pictures are of the veterans’ camps. They were just waiting there for it. Waiting in tents and shacks.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s got an editorial in here someone wrote for the Washington Post. Says it was a tragedy, but then says that the men in those camps were ‘drifters, psychopathic cases, or habitual troublemakers.’ ”

  Arlen lowered his cigarette and smashed it out on the deck rail. He’d heard the camps were rough. It’s why the CCC hadn’t wanted to send juniors. But something else those men were, every last one of them? Veterans. Soldiers. Men who’d listened to Washington when Washington told them to go across an ocean and pour their blood into the soil of a place they knew nothing about, men who’d taken bullets and bayonets and breathed in mustard gas. Heroes, Washington had called them back in ’18 and ’19, the war won and the economy strong. Now they were “drifters, psychopathic cases, or habitual troublemakers.”

  “You think those men on our train died?” Paul said.

  “Yes,” Arlen said. It was the first time he’d given the boy a flat, honest answer on that question. The dead deserved that much right now. They deserved a little honesty.

  Rebecca had been staring at Arlen, but when he looked over she turned away. Paul folded the paper, but Arlen shook his head, took it from the boy, and lit a match and held it to the edge, watched as the flame caught and licked along until the rolled paper was a torch in his hand. Then he dropped it out into the sand, and they watched it burn down to embers.

  Part Two

  CORRIDOR COUNTY

  14

  SOLOMON WADE MADE HIS first appearance the next day. By then they’d gotten the yard cleared and all the damaged siding repaired and had turned to the back porch. The railing could be salvaged, but many of the spindles were lost and the pillar that supported the roof had been smashed and sheared in half. They got the railings in place easily enough and then Arlen went to the roof pillar, turned the pieces over in his hands and studied them, looking at the jagged ends.

  “Won’t fit together anymore,” Paul said. “There’s some scrap wood around but nothing like that.”

  “Got to make it work, then,” Arlen said, eyeing the uneven fit of the broken wood. “If we shave it down and smooth it, we can drive nails in like this”—he indicated the angle with his index finger—“and make it solid. Will it look perfect? Nah. But it’ll hold. Problem is, we’ll lose some length, so we’ll have to cut a block to put between this piece and the rail. Maybe put it between this piece and the roof, actually. That’ll hide it better.”

  It was nearing noon and had been, much as Arlen was loath to admit it, not an altogether bad day. He enjoyed working with the boy, and they’d made swift progress. All things considered, he was in fairly good spirits when he went around the side of the house in search of a drill and heard the clatter of an engine and saw the visitor approaching.

  Rebecca Cady was also on the south side of the house, using a shovel to move sand out from under the foundation, where it had been heaped by the wind. Give her this much: she’d worked hard and without complaint alongside them. At the sound of the car, she straightened without much interest, but when she got a glimpse of it, her body went tight.

  It was a steel-gray Ford coupe, and it rumbled right down the hill and into the yard, parked beside the truck. The engine shut off and the driver stepped out, and when Arlen saw who it was, he cursed himself instantly. They shouldn’t have lingered to give Solomon Wade another crack at them. It was begging for trouble.

  The only thing that reassured him was that Wade appeared to be alone, not accompanied by Sheriff Tolliver.

  Wade had a cigarette in his mouth, and now he removed it and blew smoke and studied the house with a quality of ownership. He removed his white Panama hat and fanned himself and shifted his gaze their way. He took his time walking down to them, looking around the property and smoking his cigarette and not saying a word. When he was close enough, he came to a stop and stared at Arlen. Behind his glasses his eyes were gray, reminded Arlen of the color of the sea as it had crawled up the beach in the storm.

  “I expected you would have left my county by now.”

  “Hurricane slowed us down a touch,” Arlen said.

  Wade showed no reaction. At that moment Paul rounded the corner, half of the broken porch support in his hand, and everyone turned to face him. He pulled back and swung the piece of wood around in front of him, as if to ward off their stares. He looked as thrilled at the sight of Wade as Arlen had been.

  “They’re helping me with repairs,” Rebecca said.

  “I gathered that.”

  “And their money was stolen. Sometime after Tolliver arrested the
m, all of their money was stolen.”

  “Is that so?” he said without apparent interest. “How’s the dock?”

  “Nearly ruined. Same with the boathouse.”

  His scowl said that was of personal annoyance.

  “There’s a lot to be done,” she said.

  “Well, get the tavern cleaned up first, and get it done fast. You’ll be having visitors soon. Friends of mine.”

  “Solomon”—she waved her hand at the building behind them—“you see what this place looks like? I can’t be ready for anyone.”

  “They won’t mind the condition.”

  “There was a hurricane—”

  “I am aware. But it’s gone now.”

  Paul Brickhill shifted the piece of wood in his hands and frowned at Wade, disliking the judge’s tone. Arlen watched it and saw what he’d already suspected—the boy was beyond smitten with Rebecca Cady.

  “I don’t have electricity,” she said. “No lights, no icebox, no—”

  “Then put out some oil lamps,” Wade said. “They’ll be down Monday evening, and you need to be ready to receive them.”

  “Hey,” Paul said, “she just told you…”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. Both Arlen and Solomon Wade turned to him with daggers in their eyes, daggers carried for different purposes, and Rebecca Cady laid her hand on his arm, the word “stop” clear in the touch.

  “Son,” Wade said, “do you remember that cell?”

  It seemed a rhetorical question, but Wade held the boy’s eyes until it became clear he wanted an answer. Paul managed a nod.

  “I hope that you do,” Wade said. “It would serve you well to remember.”

  They all regarded one another in silence, and then the judge dropped his cigarette into the sand and ground it out with his shoe.

  “Becky? Be ready for my guests.” He turned to Arlen then and said, “Mr. Wagner, walk on up to the car with me.”

  Arlen did as he said. They left Paul and Rebecca behind and walked in silence until they reached the Ford. When they got there, Wade pulled open the driver’s door and stood with one foot resting in the car and one on the ground, his arm leaning against the roof. He put the Panama back on his head.

  “Shame to hear about the loss of your savings,” he said. “Tough country right now for a man with no dollars.”

  He was staring back up at the inn, where Paul was watching them and Rebecca was pretending not to.

  “I’d expect,” Wade continued, “that you’d like to have that cash back.”

  He was waiting for an answer again, just as he had with Paul. Arlen said, “I expect you’re right.”

  Wade nodded. “Now of course I know nothing of the circumstance of your loss. I don’t know how much money you carried, if there even was any money.”

  “Of course not,” Arlen said, wanting to smash those glasses back into Wade’s face.

  “But I do know of a way that your loss could be made up. I have some sway in this county, and I believe I could see that you’re reimbursed.”

  “On what condition?” Arlen said. “Because you’re damn sure not making that offer without a string on it.”

  “On the condition that you do what you should have done all along, and tell me the truth about Walter Sorenson.”

  “Judge,” Arlen said, “you’ve heard the truth. Heard it over and over. I can’t make you believe it.”

  Wade gave a little sigh, as if this were expected but still disappointing.

  “You believe you’re making a stand, Mr. Wagner, and, like so many foolish men, you believe that making a stand, even at the loss of a few dollars, is worth something. It’s a sad, silly notion. You couldn’t fathom the amount of money that passes through this place. Tell me, where do you think it goes?”

  “Right into your pockets,” Arlen said, and Wade smiled and shook his head.

  “You make my point for me. You possess a staggering lack of understanding of the world. The dollars that pass through my hands, Wagner, they rise and disappear like smoke. Then men you’d never imagine are connected to a place like Corridor County fill their lungs deep with it. You know my role in all that?”

  Arlen didn’t say anything.

  “I am,” Solomon Wade said, “the match.”

  He shook out a cigarette, put it between his lips, then struck a match theatrically and lit the cigarette. When the tip glowed red, he inhaled and then blew smoke into Arlen’s eyes.

  “Those men I speak of,” he said, “they need their smoke. I provide it. Someday, a day not far off, I will breathe of it myself.”

  He leveled his gaze at Arlen. “I suspect you believe that you can carry on out of this place and out of my reach, Mr. Wagner. Believe that once you’ve made a few dollars from Miss Cady here, you can just go back to Alabama or West Virginia.”

  Arlen bristled. He had never spoken of his home state. Not to the judge or the sheriff. In fact, he rarely spoke of Fayette County to anyone.

  Wade looked at him and nodded. “Yes, I know where you’re from. The boy, too. And if I desire, I can tamper with his life same as yours. Hell, I’m one phone call away from bringing shame down on his family.”

  “What do you know about his family?”

  “More than you, probably. His old man used to work in a silk factory in Paterson. Got into an accident, lost the use of his legs. Was in a wheelchair until he killed himself on some bad hooch.”

  “I don’t see any shame in that,” Arlen said. “I just see some sorrow.”

  “Sure. Thing is, with no father around to work, his mother had to. Pretty woman, his mother, or so I’ve been told. She took to waitressing at a few supper clubs. They aren’t the sort of clubs where you want your mother waitressing, you know? She’s not getting paid for delivering steak and potatoes. Be easy enough to send some local police down to make life hard on her.”

  Arlen felt a slow, liquid heat spreading through his body. “Listen,” he said, “you want to stick your short, sorry pecker into my life, have at it, Judge. But you tamper with that boy’s mother? With that boy, period? Wade, I’ll cut your damn throat. Think that’s a lie? I will cut your throat, you son of a bitch.”

  Wade’s voice was cool. “You’re an ignorant man, Mr. Wagner. Not a brave one—just stupid. We can stand here and trade threats, but when the time comes to deliver on them? That won’t be a pleasant day for you.” He nodded at the inn. “Go on back to work. Go on back and hope I don’t have cause to venture your way again. Pray for it.”

  15

  IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON BEFORE Arlen had the opportunity to get Rebecca Cady alone for a few minutes. Paul was immersed in work on the porch, the rest of the world vanishing from his mind the way it always seemed to when he was on a job, and when Arlen heard Rebecca moving around inside the barroom, he told Paul he needed a drink of water and then went inside.

  She was cleaning the bar with a wet rag and merely glanced at him. Only after he’d stood and watched her for a few minutes did she look back up.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. We’ve been helping you, so I figured you might do the same.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “Why did the judge come out here?” Arlen asked.

  Her face darkened, and she looked back down at the glossy bar top.

  “You heard him. He’s going to rent the place on Monday night.”

  “I heard that he was sending people down here Monday night,” Arlen said. “I didn’t hear a word about renting, though. Which brings to mind another question: where in the hell is your business? You know, customers?”

  “There was a hurricane.”

  “So you’re telling me that a few days from now, when people have settled from the storm, this place will be busy?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “That’s what I figured,” he said. “Now tell me about Solomon Wade.”

  “I’ve got nothing to tell. You’ve met him and you’ve met the sheriff. You should be able to
gather plenty from that.”

  “I’ve gathered that they’re crooked as snake tracks, sure. I’d like to know what in the hell it is they’re up to, though, and where Sorenson figured in.”

  “I’d have no way of knowing.”

  “I don’t believe that. As soon as the poor bastard blew up, you suggested we leave and let you handle the sheriff. Just as if you knew what might happen.”

  “I knew there was a chance you’d be treated unfairly.”

  “Treated unfairly,” Arlen echoed, nodding. “You mean locked up, beaten, robbed? That’s what you knew there was a chance of?”

  She held his eyes.

  “Sorenson was a bootlegger,” he said. “But this isn’t a dry county. What was his business here?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “That’s a damned lie and you know it.”

  She looked away, then back to him, and said, “What did Wade tell you when you were talking at his car?”

  “That he might have a way of finding our money if we told him what he wants to know about Sorenson. Trouble is, we don’t know anything.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. You do, though. You probably know a hell of a lot. Care to tell me what a man from Cleveland’s doing as sheriff of a place where visitors from the north are about as common as penguins? Care to tell me what it is brings men like those two to a backwater like this, what brought your father to it, what put your brother in—”

  “Don’t you speak of my family,” she said, and her voice was so low and cold that she seemed truly dangerous.

  He studied her, then nodded and said, “I’ll keep such questions to myself. They’re of no concern to me. Solomon Wade and his thug sheriff are.”

  She dropped her gaze, and when she spoke again her voice was soft and measured. “You should be careful with Solomon Wade. Whether you’re here or somewhere else, you should be careful with Solomon Wade.”

  It was a different version of the same speech Wade himself had given.

  “I’m wondering,” Arlen said, “why all of these boys seem to spend so much time at your place? What are you doing here?”