Some People Talk with God

by John Enright

  “Oh? The alleged-scene-of-the-crime car?”

  “There’s no reason for you to know that.”

  “So, she was in his car? The CI guys will probably discover that. They took her fingerprints.”

  “What difference would that make?”

  “If she wasn’t in his car to steal it, maybe she was there to be raped.” The woman swirled her ice cubes around in the bottom of her drained glass of iced tea.

  Amanda didn’t like this woman, this Sissy, young and smug, a knowing smirk on her half-caste face. Didn’t like what she was trying to do, whatever it was. But if she wanted to find out the truth, that couldn’t hurt, could it? Keep her away from Denise, re-direct her somehow. “You should speak with Susan,” Amanda said.

  “I thought you said Susan no longer lived here.”

  “She doesn’t. They took her away.”

  “They? Who are they?”

  “Denise and someone named Lloyd, a psychiatric nurse. They supposedly took Susan to the clinic where he works.”

  “Know which one?”

  “No. He’s from Saugerties is all I know.”

  “Well, there aren’t that many psychiatric clinics this side of Albany. I’ll find her. You have anything else you want to tell me?”

  “No. Only don’t come back here. This is private property, private business. There’s no story here.”

  Chapter 14

  Didn’t anyone else find it demeaning leaving a message on a machine with a robot voice? “The person with whom you wish to speak deems herself too important to talk with you now at your convenience. Take a knee and whisper your supplication after the rude noise, and we’ll see.” Dominick refused to leave messages on people’s machines. He called Morgan’s number twice on Tuesday morning and got just her machine or service or voice mail or whatever they called it. He wanted his car back. He wanted out of the Hotel St. George, out of lovely Hudson, out of the Hudson Valley altogether. Why wasn’t he already on the Vineyard?

  He called Vernon, who had no answering robots, to come pick him up and take him back to Catskill to see about his car. Morgan had said be patient. His patience had expired. He could be such a passive wuss sometimes. It was time to move on. Vernon came and picked him up, and they headed back to Catskill. At the Greene County Sheriff’s Office no one seemed to know where his car was until Dominick found the detective who had questioned him, who told him the lab boys hadn’t released it yet. Dominick gave him the telephone number of his hotel.

  “That’s over in Hudson, isn’t it?” the detective said. “I thought I told you not to leave the county. Hudson is in Columbia County.”

  “There were no rooms available here in Catskill,” Dominick said. Was this about to go Kafka on him?

  “They found the girl’s fingerprints all over the car, including the back seat.”

  “I told you she took the car.”

  “They found her hair in the back seat. There were blood stains on the back seat as well. We don’t know if she was a virgin or not.”

  “The blood is mine,” Dominick said, pointing to his many-colored brow.

  “Did she do that to you defending herself?”

  “No, Susan did not do this to me. Look, I just came here to inquire about my car. If you have further questions for me, I’d rather have my lawyer present.”

  “Well, I still don’t have enough to hold you on, but if you flee we’ll catch you and that will be another charge.” Having authority meant getting to make threats.

  Vernon had stayed out in his car. “I was getting a bit nervous there,” he said when Dominick rejoined him. “I don’t trust those guys. Where to?”

  “I have to make some photocopies. Where would be the best place?”

  “You mean like Xerox? Probably the library’s easiest.” The public library was only a few blocks away, a square brick civic building from an earlier age on a quiet side street. Vernon again waited in the car.

  There were a dozen or so pages of the papers from the trunk that Dominick wanted copies of, primarily printed clippings and pages from old newspapers plus a couple of pages of sermon drafts. He had decided to return the stash and the ledger to where he had found them. He had no claim to them. He had brought them all with him.

  He only wanted copies of the ones he found most curious. He had never known, for instance, that there had been such strongly held sentiments among some Northerners in the 1840s and ’50s for the Northern states themselves to secede from the Union because of slavery. Southerners controlled the federal government, which was a slave to slavery. The Constitution itself was despoiled by its immoral acceptance of the despicable practice. No righteous man—or state—should continue allegiance to such a benighted government.

  An example, a passage from the fragile page of a newspaper called Friend of Man that Dominick placed carefully on the copying machine’s glass:

  If there be human enactments against our entertaining the stricken strangers—against our opening our door to our poor, guiltless, and unaccused colored brother pursued by bloodthirsty kidnappers—we must, nevertheless, say with the apostle: “We must obey God rather than man.”

  Nonviolent civil disobedience, all to save your soul. It was clear from the sermons that at least for the Rev. Van Houten it was all about “higher obligations” and assuring your own salvation. Judgment Day was always imminent for these nineteenth-century spirit-heads. There was a strident sense of immediacy in everything they wrote. The world was coming to an end. It seemed best to Dominick to stick it all back in the trunk, back to the past where he had found it and where it belonged. Then he could leave this place. Also, he could retrieve the shirts he had forgotten and left hanging in Morgan’s closet when he packed.

  Neither Vernon nor Dominick mentioned Sissy—non-topic—as they headed south to Diligence. Along the way they passed The Hill Top bar. “Ever been in that place, Vernon?”

  “Nope. Don’t go out to bars no more, and if I did I wouldn’t go there. The folks that go there are sort of stuck on their own kind. Okay by me. It’s their place. I don’t need it.” There was a long pause as Vernon just drove. “And they call themselves Christians.”

  Dominick was giving directions and he missed their turn-off. When he finally realized it and had Vernon turn around they had to go back several miles.

  After the second turn Vernon said, “Oh, I know where we’re going now, the old Van Houten place. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “You know the place?” Dominick asked.

  “It’s been there forever. I had an auntie used to work for the folks who ran the place back when I was a kid. Poor farm land, all ridge top no valleys. They ran sheep on it. That ruined it for good.”

  When they got to the house only Amanda’s old Chevy was parked out front. Dominick had hoped that no one would be there, so that he could just do his business—pick up his shirts and put the papers secretly back where he’d found them—and get out. Now he considered not stopping at all. He had ignored the messages Amanda left for him at the hotel. That had been impolite. Now he would have to apologize. That was society for you—where you had to act insincerely sorry for not doing something you had no interest in doing. But Vernon said he had to use the bathroom, so they parked the old Caddy beside the old Chevy, like a Havana street scene, and got out. Dominick left the papers behind.

  “The old place still looks pretty good,” Vernon said, “just older.”

  They both stopped at the top of the steps. There was a wide swatch of what looked like dried blood in front of the door.

  “Looks like something ran into an accident here,” Vernon said.

  “That was no accident.” Dominick didn’t know what it might mean, but it was a very purposeful declaration of something. “Come on,” he said, “we’ll go around and in through the kitchen.”

  “Looks like cow blood to me,” Vernon said. “All blood is different.”

  ***

  Washing her hair always helped. She didn
’t know why. It just did. After that woman Sissy left, Amanda went and washed her hair. Sissy’s hair had all been in those long tight braids. How often did they get washed? Amanda toweled her hair as dry as she could and then brushed it out. It was such a beautiful day she decided not to blow-dry it as usual but to go sit on the back porch and let it dry in the summer air. She headed to her room to find something to read, something mindless, something distracting, some romance novel she’d already read and half forgotten. She had plenty to choose from. As she passed the top of the stairs she heard something down in the kitchen—a floorboard creaked and a door softly closed. She stopped. She was dressed in just her bathrobe. She tightened its belt around her waist and went down the stairs to check.

  For months the girls had been talking about the house being haunted—hearing things and seeing things that weren’t quite there, having their personal items go mysteriously missing. Even Morgan had mentioned hearing invisible people going up and down the staircase that lay behind a locked door in her room and led to the cupola above it. Ghosts didn’t scare Morgan. She had yelled at them and they went away, she said. Of course, Amanda had heard things, too. Old houses made noises, but usually not in the middle of the day with no wind and no one else around. At the bottom of the stairs she looked down the hallway toward the kitchen. There was no one there. Then she heard the toilet flush in the downstairs bathroom, and its door to the hall opened toward her. She was pretty sure ghosts didn’t flush.

  When the door closed there was a black man standing there, his back to Amanda as he adjusted the waist of his trousers. He hadn’t seen her. Now, what would a black man be doing in this house? He walked to the kitchen, and Amanda followed him.

  “Hello?” she said as she came into the kitchen and the man was almost to the back porch door. What was this, African-American visit-your-bathroom day?

  The man turned around slowly. He was an older man. He nodded and his eyes smiled. “Hello there, miss.” He reached for the doorknob and opened the door.

  “What are you … who …?” Amanda didn’t know what to ask. The man walked out onto the porch, carefully closing the door behind him. She was barefoot with a head of wet hair and naked except for the robe. She just stood there and stared at the closed door. Then it opened and Nemo stepped in.

  “Hello, Amanda. I’ve come to get a few things I left behind.”

  “Who was that?” Amanda asked, pointing toward the porch.

  “Vernon gave me a ride out. I still don’t have my car. Sorry to bother you. Is Morgan about?” Nemo seemed even further away than ever. The bruise on the side of his head was now yellow and green.

  “Did you get my messages?” Amanda asked.

  “Oh, yes, thanks. I’ve been busy. Maybe we can get together for dinner before I leave. Is Morgan …?”

  “No. She’s gone up to Albany, business. You’re leaving?”

  “Onto Martha’s Vineyard as soon as I can get my car back. I’m already two weeks late.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess it has been kind of hairy around here.”

  “What’s with the blood on the front porch?” Dominick asked.

  “Some Wiccan thing. They’re supposed to clean it off.”

  So, just like that he’s gone again. Were you expecting him to hang around? For what? But does he have to leave so soon? Who cares about his share of Marjorie’s money? He’s the only family I have left, and I just found him. Why doesn’t he like me?

  Will I ever see him again? He’s really not such a bad guy after all, but all we have in common is Marjorie and he doesn’t want to talk about that.

  “Do you have any children?” Amanda asked.

  “What?”

  “Children, you know, offspring, progeny. I was just wondering if I was an auntie to anyone.”

  “No, you have neither nieces nor nephews by me.”

  “Marjorie showed me the photo of your Oxford wedding.”

  “That was a long time ago and a very short—and childless—marriage. Now I have to go up and get a few things I left in Morgan’s closet.” Nemo headed for the doorway to the hall.

  “It’s locked,” Amanda said.

  “What is locked?” Dominick stopped to ask.

  “Her room, and I don’t have a key I’m afraid.” Of course Amanda did have a key. “I guess you will have to come back, or I could bring whatever it is in to you if I get over to Hudson first. What did you forget?”

  “Just a few shirts. Don’t worry about it. I can always get new ones.”

  “They wouldn’t fit anyone here. By the way, there was a woman here looking for Susan.”

  “Oh?” Nemo said. He looked distracted, ready to leave. “And did she find her?”

  “No. Susan’s not here. Denise had her committed.”

  “Committed? You mean like to a mental institution?”

  “That’s right. Denise thinks that in addition to raping her you cast some sort of spell on her or something.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Where is she?”

  “We don’t know. Denise wouldn’t say, and it’s really none of our business.”

  “But that’s not right.” Now Nemo seemed perplexed. “The kid is not crazy. She has just been ignored all her life.”

  “The woman who was here looking for Susan said she had talked to you about the case.”

  Nemo turned and looked at Amanda. The look was a question.

  “She said she was a reporter.”

  “Name of Sissy?” Nemo asked.

  “Yes, that’s right. Sissy something. I sent her away. None of her business.”

  “What did she say about me?”

  “Just that she thought you were innocent, that you weren’t the rapist type. She seemed more interested in Susan’s story.”

  Nemo stood there silently for a minute, looking off into the distance, nodding his head ever so slightly. Then he said, “You did the right thing sending her off. No need for reporters. Listen, Amanda, Vernon has to get back. I will be in touch. Will you have Morgan call me at the hotel? I have got to get my car released.”

  As Nemo went to leave, Amanda stopped him, held him by both arms, and on her tiptoes kissed him on the bottom of his jaw, which was as high as she could reach. “In case I never see you again,” she said.

  ***

  The old Caddy bottomed out a couple times, but Vernon didn’t seem too concerned. He was crawling along in low gear. “It seemed a lot shorter when we used to walk it,” he said. “Of course, when you’re young you’re always in a rush. Now I’m too old to be in a hurry.”

  This side trip had been Vernon’s impulse. “When my auntie was working at the Van Houten place my brother and I would come out sometimes, summer days like this, to visit with her and then go fishing. There was a fine spot, out on a point that made a little cove, an old broken-down dock we could get out onto.”

  “What did you catch?” Dominick asked. He had lit up a Churchill and was enjoying the ride down the two-rut road through a tunnel of trees.

  “Shad, sturgeon, and stripers of course. Always had the place to ourselves. Catch a shitload of fish, too much to carry out, throw back the smaller ones.”

  They were on a small isthmus now. Dominick could see sun sparkling on water through the trees on either side. The road ended at a clearing like a fingernail on the tip of the narrow low slip of land pointing out into the big khaki-colored river.

  “I wished I’d known we were coming here. I would have brought some fishing poles,” Vernon said. “Hasn’t changed, only gotten a little wilder. Dock’s all gone.” On the cove side of the point there was an uneven line of blackened pier posts sticking up above the water. A cormorant the color of an oil spill took off laboriously from the top of one of them. They got out of the car and strolled down toward the water’s edge. The shore of the cove was a chaos of driftwood, including large trees. More birds took wing as the men came into their sight. “Just like it was,” Vernon
said.

  From where they were standing, their view of the wide swatch of river and the far shore was devoid of human imprint except for the white dot of a house on a distant ridgeline.

  “How far back do you think that dock goes, Vernon?”

  “You mean back in time? I wouldn’t know. A ways back, I’d guess. It seemed awfully old when I came here as a boy.” Vernon chuckled. “My auntie used to call it Nigger Landing, and she wasn’t given to using that word.”

  They sat down on adjacent boulders above the water. Dominick savored the view and his cigar.

  “You got another one of those?” Vernon asked.

  “What? Of course. My apologies. I didn’t know you smoked or I would have offered earlier.” Dominick pulled his cigar case out of his pocket.

  “My daughter doesn’t like me smoking or drinking, so I let her think I don’t; but that cigar smells awfully good. In fact, hold on.” Vernon went back to the Cadillac and opened the trunk. He came back with a full pint bottle of Jim Beam. “Might as well double down.” Vernon unscrewed the cap from the bourbon and took a drink, then passed the bottle to Dominick in exchange for a Churchill. They sat there in silence for a while, puffing and sipping, passing the bottle back and forth.

  “You been in these parts most of your life, Vernon?”

  “Except for a stretch in my twenties that I spent downriver in the city.”

  “Sissy said you were a pimp in New York.” Dominick wasn’t sure why he said that.

  “Oh, that’s Sissy’s story. I guess she finds it romantic or dramatic or something. I let Sissy keep a lot of her stories. They help her make sense of her life, like she wants to believe that her mother was a whore who found Jesus before she passed on.”

  “What about Sissy? She married?” Was it the bourbon making Dominick say such inappropriate things?

  “Nope. I don’t know if she’s even come anywhere close to getting hitched. I think she sort of scares the fellas off with all that feminist stuff. Who wants to hear that all the time?”

  “You’re close though.”