You just assaulted a police officer, he said as he slid his sidearm back into its holster. You should be under arrest.
His head was pounding, and he could feel his pulse thrumming in his neck and his ears.
I'm not going to arrest you, however, because...because it's the day after Christmas. Let's leave it at that.
The milk tanker slowed, the driver turned to watch the spectacle at the side of the road, and then it was past. The pavement was still trembling beneath its weight when Terry released Hammond and backed away, and told him there would be a gas station open in Vergennes if his bladder could make it another ten or fifteen minutes, but otherwise he should just go and use the woods. Then he retreated to his cruiser and watched Hammond drive away, only then realizing he hadn't gotten the man's signature on the traffic complaint.
WHEN HE FINALLY returned to the barracks, he couldn't bear to begin the paperwork he found waiting for him on his desk, and so he decided he would phone his mother instead. He'd been meaning to call her all morning. Yesterday when he'd spoken to his family--his mother and Leah and Russell had all gotten on the phone for at least a moment--Russell had sounded pretty hammered. He wanted to be sure now that his brother hadn't gotten into any trouble.
He was surprised when Russell answered the phone, but also a little relieved: It meant the man had had the common sense to understand he was too drunk to drive, and had spent the night at their mom's.
I am mighty impressed to find you in Saint J., he said. What kept you from trying to weave your way home?
You want me to say it was good judgment, Russell said, his voice low and tired.
That would be nice. Unexpected but nice.
His brother yawned. I just fell asleep and no one bothered to wake me.
Passed out, eh?
No, I fell asleep. There's a difference.
Where?
In my truck, he said, and he laughed. Leah and Rick found me, and carted me back inside. It seems I couldn't find my keys in my pocket, and I never made it down the damn driveway.
You are one very lucky son of a bitch. You could have killed someone, you know, you could have--
I have a headache, Sergeant Sheldon. Spare me this morning's lecture.
This is serious.
You think everything is serious.
He rubbed his eyes: He still had his headache, too. You working today? he asked Russell.
I was supposed to. Soda and the mail, people got to have it.
You call in sick?
Do I have two moms? Is that what I got for Christmas? A second mom?
Is that yes?
Yes, I called in sick. You can sleep easy.
Look, would you rather I didn't worry about you?
I'm fine, okay? I had too much to drink yesterday, but I won't do it today. Okay? I'm clean, my truck's clean.
He shuddered at his brother's use of the word clean, since he thought they were only talking about beer. He realized Russell was protesting too much, and if he was pulled over for speeding or even something as simple as a broken taillight, he'd probably wind up busted once again for possession.
Good, he said, but he was unable to muster the enthusiasm he imagined his brother wanted to hear.
You sound like you've had a pretty bad morning yourself.
You've got that right.
The two of us should take a day off together next month and go to the Outdoor Show, Russell suggested.
Maybe.
Not maybe, definitely! We'll go to Saint Albans and spend the day ogling camping gear and guns. I know you need a new hunting jacket.
We'll see. Mom around?
Is indeed, Russell said, and while his brother called their mother to the phone, he stared at the photos on his desk of Laura and the girls, and worried that a better man would have brought in a picture of Alfred by now.
"[They lack] habits of thrift, economy, or...responsibility, and they are, with few exceptions, thieves and liars."
MAJOR THOMAS ANDERSON, TENTH REGIMENT,
UNITED STATES CAVALRY,
TESTIFYING ON THE QUALITY OF THE AFRICAN-AMERICAN SOLDIER TO THE SUBCOMMITTEE ON THE REORGANIZATION OF THE ARMY, JANUARY 2, 1878,
45TH CONGRESS, 2ND SESSION
*
Laura
The boy sat beside her on the couch, and she told him all that she could remember about any picture he chose. He balanced each photo album on his knees, and when they had finished with one, he would place it gently on the floor and she would hand him another. Once she got up to get a cup of hot tea, and once he rose off the couch to go to the bathroom, but otherwise they never left the small room with the woodstove. Though it was nearly lunchtime, neither of them had bothered to get dressed yet. And when they were through--when they had flipped through the acetate-covered pages of five photo albums--he asked if there were more.
Outside it had been snowing for well over two hours, and the ground was a down comforter of white.
There are, she answered, but all the pictures in them were taken before the girls were born. They're photos of Terry and me, and the different cats we've had over the years. I'm afraid they'd be pretty boring. She reached over and stroked the back of his neck and his head for a long moment, quite certain that she had not derived pleasure like this from these photos--from anything--in a very long time. She wasn't exactly sure why that was, but she thought it was because she was sharing these memories with a person who'd never met Hillary and Megan before, and so she was almost telling their stories from scratch. She was reciting the anecdotes as if they were fresh and new, and she was sharing them with a person who was not listening just for her sake. Alfred was there beside her, hanging on her every description, because he was interested in her children. He wanted to know who they were, and if she didn't understand completely his reasons, that didn't matter. He wasn't treating her like she was an emotional invalid, and he wasn't doing her a favor.
She took back her hand and he looked at her and started to smile.
What's funny? she asked.
Your hair, he said.
My hair?
It's been a mess ever since you took out your headband. It looks like it did in that picture Terry took when you just woke up. The time the girls brought you breakfast in bed. Mother's Day, right?
And that's funny? My hair amuses you?
No, but you were just rubbing and rubbing my head, and I bet my hair looks the same as before you started. Neat and tidy. Same as when I wake up in the morning. See, my hair always looks fine. It looks fine when I go to bed at night, and it looks fine when I wake up in the morning. I never looked at it that way before. But yours? Yours is--
A rat's nest, I know, she said, trying her best to keep a straight face.
Just not neat.
And you like that.
I just think it's funny.
You do, do you? she asked in mock outrage, and then she placed both her hands on his head and--despite his squeals that she was tickling him and she had to stop--used her fingers like scalp massagers and did her very best to mess up his hair.
AFTER LUNCH ALFRED wanted to visit the horse, and Laura went with him. She tried to convince herself that she wasn't joining him because she wanted reassurance that the animal wasn't some wild beast with froth at the mouth, but as they tromped through the snow, she knew that was among the reasons she was going. Though the lump on his head had gone down a bit and his wrist was feeling a little better, she remembered well the image of the boy with the ice pack on his head. Nevertheless, she knew that Alfred had no plans to ride today, despite his desire to try out his new boots: There were already nine or ten inches of snow on the ground and the storm was showing no signs of slowing. Laura had heard on the weather that the storm would drop perhaps half a foot on their corner of the state at the most, but it was clear now that the earlier prediction was considerably wide of the mark. The moment she opened their front door, she could see that the air was thick with flakes the size and shape of small
sprigs of parsley.
Briefly she thought of Terry, and she experienced a sharp pang of worry when she imagined him out in the storm. There would be cars in ditches by now, and cars colliding with trees and telephone poles and other vehicles. There would be fender benders and serious accidents, and it was likely there were already people who'd been rushed to area hospitals. And Terry, no doubt, already had been by the side of motorists whose cars were at best lodged in drifts and at worst had become the sort of twisted wrecks--shattered windshields, flattened roofs--that gave her the shivers when she saw them at body shops or on the backs of flatbed trailers.
Sometimes when she expressed her concerns to him he would point out that while snow certainly sent a great many cars off the road, it didn't always lead to the bloodiest crashes. Speed did, and even those idiots slowed a bit in a snowstorm. He would also remind her that he was about as good as it got when it came to driving in snow, if only, he said, from years of practice.
The horse nickered when she saw Alfred, and leaned over the front of the stall. She watched the boy feed the animal the baby carrots he'd begun buying weekly for Mesa with his own money, sometimes stroking her nose when she was done chewing. Soon he opened the stall door and led the horse out, and she was impressed by the way he effortlessly slipped what he called the noseband over the great creature's muzzle and was capable of buckling the halter so close to one of the animal's eyes. The horse seemed far more interested in her, she decided, than in the leather straps Alfred was placing around her head, or in the fact that she was tied now to a post in the center of the barn.
Here, he said, and he took her hand, still in its mitten, and placed it against the small indentation between Mesa's shoulder and neck, and told her what he knew about the prophet's thumb.
She noticed for the first time the wide ribbons of white that looked almost like stockings between the horse's rear hooves and hocks, and the way her head sometimes seemed to move in slow motion. The mare seemed gentle and inquisitive, but she also seemed huge: bigger and healthier than the horses she occasionally saw, since most of those animals were neglected and starving and abused. A horse in their county had to be in a pretty sorry state before it came to the attention of the animal shelter.
They'd been there a short while when both Paul and Emily joined them. The wind was not loud--there was really very little wind at all--but the snow had muffled the sound of the older couple's footsteps as they trudged from the house to the barn, and Laura jumped when she saw them suddenly beside her. Alfred had already shoveled out the stall and was bent over using a metal pick to remove manure from Mesa's hooves when they arrived. She had noticed that her body tensed whenever he stood or walked or crouched anywhere near the animal's hind legs: She worried that the horse was going to kick back and crush the boy's skull or, if he was lucky, merely smash in his jaw.
Emily was wearing a long parka with a cotton scarf over her ears and what might have been the ugliest cowboy hat Laura had ever seen on her head. The straw was dyed green and the pink band along it was, essentially, an ad for a restaurant in Texas that specialized in something appalling called the ladies' choice thirty-two-ounce steak.
We didn't mean to scare you, Emily said.
You didn't. Your hat did.
It's from Amarillo, Emily said, laughing. They do like their beef there.
Apparently.
Paul strolled over to Alfred, looked briefly at the hoof he was working on, and complimented the child on his work.
Merry day after Christmas, my friend. I'm sorry we won't be riding today.
Alfred shrugged, not unhappily, let the hoof fall back to the ground, and patted the side of the big animal.
Did you call to see about lessons yet? Emily asked her.
I made a few calls. Most places were closed today, but I did find a couple that still picked up the phone. It sounds like the nearest place with an indoor ring will be up in Burlington. Are you still interested? she asked Paul.
Of course he is, Emily answered for him. He'll be happy to drive the two of them there and back for as long as the lessons last. Right, Paul?
Absolutely. There's nothing I want more than to have some nineteen-year-old kid teach me exactly what I already know.
When she saw that Alfred was returning the hoof pick to a toolbox on a shelf along the side of the barn, she ventured up to the horse and ran her hand slowly along the long slope of her nose.
She won't bite you, Paul said. She might try and nuzzle you to death, but she doesn't bite. Trust me, Laura, she's a very good-natured horse. You don't have to worry.
I will always worry. I worry about...everything.
Well. If you can find a way to keep Mesa off the list, you'll be doing you both a favor.
She took her hand from her mitten and ran her fingers over the winter coat that was growing fast now all along the animal's body. It reminded her of the solid, bristlelike fur on a German shepherd or a husky.
When is Terry due back? Emily asked. It had come up on Christmas Eve that he would be on duty the day after Christmas.
Late afternoon, early evening. His shift ends at four, but with weather like this I'd be surprised if he gets home before six or six-thirty.
Did your parents have a nice visit?
As nice as they ever have here, I guess. They left early--in theory to beat the snow.
And you?
She could tell by the earnestness with which Emily had invested those two words that the woman wasn't asking to be polite, but with Alfred nearby she decided she would answer the question as if it were a mere conversational pleasantry.
Yes, she said. Very nice.
Emily nodded and looked at her carefully, then stamped her feet against the cold. Would you like a cup of tea? she asked, without ever lowering her gaze or taking her eyes off Laura. Inside, maybe, where it's warm?
Okay, she agreed. She didn't know what Emily wanted to discuss, but it was evident that she didn't want Paul or Alfred around, and so for the second time in three days she joined Emily in the kitchen that looked out upon the barn.
SHE SIPPED TEA from a mug that proclaimed Gallup, New Mexico, was the Pride of the Land of Turquoise Jewelry, and talked about the photographs she had shared that morning with Alfred--and, what was really the point of her story, how much she had enjoyed just being with the boy. It was warm in the kitchen, as warm as it had been in her own den earlier that day, and she found she was, once again, happy to relive her memories of her children.
How are he and Terry getting along?
The question felt sudden to her, but she told herself it had come to Emily because she herself had brought up Terry so often in her recollections. Terry taking the girls out for Halloween, each child a witch. Terry planting annuals in the garden while the girls stood beside him, supervising. A photo of Terry and her and the children--both girls in bonnets--was in the living room barely twenty feet away, a picture Paul had taken one Easter when the twins were in kindergarten.
I think fine.
Emily drizzled honey with a wand into her own tea, and seemed to be scrutinizing the translucent stream as she spoke. He struck me as a bit out of sorts on Christmas Eve. Maybe it was just me. But he seemed tired, and he almost never seems tired. Is he?
Tired? Oh, he may be. It's not easy to be a parent when you've lost the rhythm.
Alfred is pretty self-sufficient. He might be the most low-maintenance child I've ever seen.
She glanced out the window at the barn, but she couldn't see either the man or the boy through the snow. She was wondering why Emily was disagreeing with her, and where this conversation was going. She couldn't help but think of Terry's admission that he had had a drink with some woman in a bar up in Newport in November, and she had to reassure herself that there couldn't possibly be a connection.
He is now, she said, referring to Alfred. But September and October were difficult. You know that. There was some adjustment. I told you about the time he just up and left for Burlington one
Saturday morning. Terry and I were frantic. And then there was that day when he disappeared at the orchard. One afternoon we went to an apple orchard on the lake out in Addison, and Alfred just vanished on us. One minute we were walking back to our car and he was right behind us, and the next he was gone. He just hadn't felt like leaving yet, so he didn't. Went back to the lake to throw apples. You can imagine how much that little escapade endeared him to Terry.
So that's all it is, then? Terry's tired?
She tried to make light of Emily's questions, but it was impossible not to wonder what Emily knew that she didn't--and whether, perhaps, there was more to Terry's indiscretion than a beer after all, and everyone in the town but her knew. God, this really is about Terry, isn't it? she said. I thought for sure you wanted to tell me something about Alfred. Maybe something had happened when he was with Paul.
I think Alfred is doing just fine.
You're not trying to keep something from me?
You mean like a tumble?
She nodded. Or acting up, maybe.
Nope. No more tumbles. No acting up.
And he hasn't said something?
About?
I don't know. About his past, maybe.
If he has, Paul hasn't told me. Really, Laura, I think the child is doing very, very well.
Me, too. He's spending Monday with Louise--the girl can't be more than twenty-five or twenty-six years old, but she's been his caseworker most of the fall--and I think she's going to be thrilled with his progress.
Good.
Don't you?
Yes, but I don't think you should worry about pleasing some twenty-five- or twenty-six-year-old social worker.
I want her to know Alfred's happy.
I think he is. I think you are.
She waited for Emily to add, I think Terry is, but Emily brought her mug to her lips and it became clear that this--this--was the reason she had brought her inside her house. It wasn't meant as a warning or--as Laura might have viewed it had she been feeling more despairing--an indictment. It was merely an observation. She considered adding that final sentence herself, because Terry certainly had seemed happy through most of November. Yes, he had been preoccupied over the last couple of weeks, but he was entitled. After all the two of them had endured, wasn't he allowed to be a bit moody?
the Buffalo Soldier (2002) Page 22
