Bodies and Souls

by Nancy Thayer

  Suzanna studied Johnny as he settled his mother into the pew and seated himself next to her. He certainly was handsome. Too handsome for his own good, probably; she was grateful her daughter was too young for his charms. She wondered who he would marry now. He seemed to have given his complete attention over to his mother since he returned home, but surely that couldn’t last.

  “You know,” Madeline had said this evening as they lay in each other’s arms, “probably half the people in this town—the female half—are delighted that you and I have each other. That takes two women off the market.”

  “What a way to put it!” Suzanna had laughed.

  “Well, it’s true, you know,” Madeline had said. “There are more single eligible women in this town than there are men. Especially now that Judy Bennett’s widowed. And I heard that the Moyers are getting divorced.”

  “I heard that, too,” Suzanna said. “I wonder why. They always seemed to be the perfect family.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it had something to do with the Bennetts,” Madeline had said. “The Moyers were their closest friends, and tragedies have a way of reverberating among friends.”

  “That was such a sad time,” Suzanna said, thinking of those bleak fall days after the police had found Ron Bennett’s Mercedes in the river.

  “I know,” Madeline replied. “That’s probably another reason why no one made a fuss about us. This town was so hard hit by Ron’s death. I think it made us all feel mortal. In the face of that, any kind of love seems a blessing.”

  So there they sat, together at a wedding, a couple fairly much like any other. They would never hold hands in public or even kiss a quick good-bye if anyone else was around, but in a way this necessary restraint provided an elegance to their relationship, and an awareness of pleasures they might have otherwise missed. Just now Madeline leaned over to Suzanna and whispered, “Look at that hat.” Suzanna looked at the hat—it was a turquoise affair with a plume, very ostentatious for Londonton—and Suzanna smiled, but she was smiling not so much at the hat as at the rush of pleasure she got when Madeline’s breath and perfume drifted up against her skin.

  Gary Moyer was one of the last guests to arrive at the wedding. The usher who greeted him at the door was a seventeen-year-old hulk named Carter Doullet, who was a friend of Michael Taylor’s and a friend of Gary’s own eighteen-year-old son Matthew.

  “Hi, Mr. Moyer.” Carter grinned. “Your wife’s already here. I think I can squeeze you in next to her.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Carter,” Gary said. “I’ll just sit at the back by myself, thank you.”

  Carter looked surprised. Gary realized that meant that Matthew wasn’t telling his friends that his parents had separated. Gary settled himself into his pew, wondering if he should now worry about the implications of his son’s secrecy. Of course the boy did not want his parents to separate, so he probably thought the less he talked about it, the less real it would be.

  The church was absolutely packed, each pew stuffed with brightly dressed well-wishers. These people, Gary thought, these people. My friends and acquaintances, my clients and colleagues. He understood now why it was that Johnny Bennett had run away—because after living in a town for a long time, a man feels duty-bound to remain superficially as he always superficially has been. The clothes he wears, the jokes he makes, the restaurants he frequents, the people he sees, all become established to the point of routine. It is this that gives a town a secure and homey atmosphere. People assume they can rely on one another to remain predictable and the world in turn seems a safer place. But if a man wishes to change even the slightest thing—the way he wears his hair, the color of his shirts, his restaurant, his sport—the town is discomfited and must go through a series of minute readjustments. And a major change, a death, a divorce, a serious crime, rocks the town like an earthquake, causing each member of the community to feel the walls of his house shiver with the precariousness of life. It would be easier to move away to a new town, where a lover or a hairstyle is readily accepted as part of you, than to make a major change in your hometown.

  Gary had felt in the past few weeks that he owed an explanation for his impending divorce to his barber, his mailman, even the men who collected his trash. Not that these people would ever presume to ask, but the question was in their eyes, in their demeanor. Some of it was idle or even prurient curiosity, but most of it, Gary was sure, was real concern. He had in fact revealed himself to an old man named Jack who was the custodian for the building where Gary had his law offices. Jack came in to clean one night and found Gary sleeping on the sofa. He stayed, perching on the edge of a chair, to discuss his own divorce, his own love life, this old man of sixty-four. When he left, Gary was comforted by Jack’s words: “Ah, it happens to us all sooner or later, age catches up with us and we want something wonderful to happen just one more time before we die.” But Gary felt guilty, for he knew that just as Jack had provided comfort for him, so he had provided discomfort for Jack, a chilly reminder of things going wrong in the world.

  As it was, he could explain himself to the custodian whom he scarcely knew with more ease than he could to his friends, than he could to his wife. Where did it begin? He and Pam and the Bennetts had been friends for more than twenty years, so that they felt like family to one another. They shared memories, hopes, old jokes, and the right to criticize one another, to bare their worst faults to one another and still want respect. A sense of competition existed between them, and of course that pleasant sensation of mutual attraction. Like any other quartet of close friends, they admired and complimented one another, they indulged in flirtations that were real even though they were harmless and slight.

  It was almost a year ago that Reynolds Houston called Gary with his suspicions about Ron. Gary’s instinctive reaction had been anger at Reynolds: pathetic old dried-up busybody! Then he had seen the figures, and been even angrier: at Reynolds for discovering it all, at Ron for being such a damned fool, at himself for not taking precautions as a lawyer and a friend to safeguard the rec center money and Ron. When they had confronted Ron on that Sunday night last fall, Gary had been nearly dizzy with relief at Ron’s easy explanation.

  “Much ado about nothing,” he said to Reynolds as they drove away from Ron’s house that night.

  “So it seems,” Reynolds replied. “We’ll see if it’s so in the morning when Ron writes us a check.”

  Old maid, Gary had thought, old troublemaker. The men had finished the drive in silence, mutually irritated, Gary by Reynolds’s cynicism, Reynolds by Gary’s naïveté. They had just managed to say a civil good night when Reynolds dropped Gary at his home.

  “Just more boring rec center hassles,” Gary had told Pam when he got home. Then he had settled down to watch some Sunday-night TV, and had been self-indulgent enough to feel slighted by the bowl of pretzels his wife set on the table next to him. The image of the raspberry pie that had been sitting on the counter in the Bennetts’ kitchen haunted him. He had always admired Judy’s flair for cooking; Pam did not like baking. She never made pies. Pam doesn’t love me as much as Judy loves Ron, Gary had thought, sulking. Then, quickly ashamed of his thoughts, he had reached out and taken Pam’s hand and stroked it as they sat together watching TV.

  What a fool he had been! He had believed Ron completely. He had sat there like an idiot, safe in his own home, coveting a piece of raspberry pie, instead of worrying about his friend. He had gone to bed, he had slept soundly. God, even now the remembrance made him squirm with shame. He had been so dense that he had slept soundly while his best friend committed suicide.

  At five-fifteen on Monday morning, the phone rang. It was Mich Michadello, the local sheriff. Gary and Mich had gone to school together from kindergarten through ninth grade, when Gary had gone off to prep school. As children they had played cops and robbers, and now they were both in their late forties, and playing the game for real. They shared the same sense of values; they liked seeing criminals locked u
p; they enjoyed a sense of mutual admiration and companionship as they each worked at their own place in the system of providing law and order for their town. Several times a month they got together in a coffee shop to discuss current cases and to trade information. When Gary first heard Mich’s voice, he assumed that was what he wanted; then he saw the time on the clock.

  “What’s happened?” he asked.

  “It’s Ron Bennett,” Mich said. “He’s been in an accident. His car went into Blue River right at the Main Street bridge. Do you think you can get down here right away?”

  “Yes. I’ll come right away,” Gary said, and from that moment on he knew his life was changed. Now there was no doubt in his mind. He knew Ron had taken the money, and he knew Ron had committed suicide rather than bear the disgrace. Gary was sick at heart. He thought: If we had not confronted him with this information, he would still be alive.

  It was still raining when he got to the bridge. It had been raining all night, and from the looks of the low gray sky it would keep on raining forever. The street and sidewalk were plastered with fallen leaves that glistened slickly in the dim light. The street was shining with water, and rivulets ran down the side of the road to gather in puddles at low spots or to gurgle down the drains. Three police cars were parked by the side of the bridge, their flashers spinning in senseless circles, the vivid streaks of light making the bleak morning sky seem even grayer. Will White’s big black-and-yellow tow truck was parked up on one side of the grassy bank, and policemen in identical rain slickers stood near the truck, yelling at one another over the noise of the rain.

  Gary looked down. The river was not blue today, but muddy gray, and turgid. It surged over and around Ron’s yellow Mercedes as relentlessly and effortlessly as if it had always done so. Gary felt nausea rise in his throat. It could not be true; it was true. He swallowed and grabbed on to the bridge railing for support.

  The metal was cold and wet. He began to shiver. My friend, he thought, how I have failed you.

  “Christ,” Will White said, so loudly that Gary could hear. “You tell me how. I can’t see no way to get a truck down this bank. It’s too damned steep.”

  Mich Michadello left the group of policemen and came walking through the muddy grass to join Gary at the bridge. His feet made squashing sounds as he approached; his slicker squeaked.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “It’s Ron’s car all right,” Gary said.

  “We know,” Mich replied. “He’s already out, Gary. The ambulance left for the hospital about ten minutes ago. But he’d been dead for hours. Looks like the impact of the crash killed him. He didn’t know a thing. At least it was quick.”

  “Shit,” Gary said. “Christ.”

  “Listen,” Mich said. “I have to talk to you. I’m trying to figure this thing out. We’ve never had an accident like this before, and we’ve got to find out what it is. We don’t want this kind of thing happening again. But it’s a real puzzle. The road is a straight flat stretch for a good three-quarters’ mile on either side. It was probably slick out last night because it was raining, but it wasn’t that slippery. Unless Ron was speeding, he should have been able to stop the car if he went into a skid. There aren’t any tire marks, but there wouldn’t be with all this rain. It looks like he just drove off the road and into the river, like he aimed the car, and pressed on the gas. Otherwise the car should have stopped on that bank.”

  “What are you saying, Mich?”

  “Well, I think you’re about as close to Ron as anyone. I guess I just need to know if you think there’s any reason why Ron Bennett would have committed suicide.”

  “God, Mich, you can answer that question as well as I can. Ron loved his family, he was a happy man, he was building the rec center—do you think he’d commit suicide in the middle of a project like that? Christ.”

  “I had to ask,” Mich said. “I thought it’d be better to ask you than to ask his wife.”

  Gary looked his old friend straight in the eye. “It’s a terrible, terrible accident, Mich,” he said. “It’s a tragedy that’s going to rock this town. Don’t try to make it into anything else.”

  “I’m just doing my job,” Mich said.

  The two men stood there for a moment, deadlocked in the rain. Then another policeman came muttering past them. “There’s nothing more we can do in this damn rain,” he said.

  Mich sighed. “All right,” he said to Gary. “It was an accident. Do me a favor. Come with me to tell his wife.”

  It had been a little after seven when the two men had arrived at Judy’s house. She must have been sleeping soundly, because they had to knock and ring a long time before she appeared at the front door, and when she did, she seemed disoriented and slow. Her face had that blurry, saggy look that Pam’s had after a long sleep. She was wearing plaid slacks and a yellow sweater, but they were creased and wrinkled as if she’d been sleeping in them, and her hair was coming loose from the braid. He had never seen her look quite so disheveled—so vulnerable.

  “Gary? Mich?” she said, opening the door. She was quiet as they came into the hall, and then she said, “Johnny. It’s Johnny, isn’t it? Oh, Lord, how could I have slept? I set the alarm clock for nine-thirty, but Ron must have turned it off. Gary, tell me what happened. Is Johnny okay? Where did you find him?”

  “Judy, let’s go sit down—” Gary began.

  “Tell me now,” Judy said. “Where’s Johnny?”

  “It’s not Johnny,” Gary said. “It’s Ron. He’s been in a car accident. Judy, he’s dead.”

  Judy’s forehead wrinkled with her attempt to understand. She put one hand to her face and one hand on the wall behind her, for support. “I’m so confused,” she said. “Wait a minute. I don’t understand. Is this Monday? Last night was Sunday? What do you mean, Ron’s dead? How can he be dead? He was just here, in the family room—” She turned and walked down the hall to the family room, then just stood there, looking around. The room was empty, the fireplace grate cold and black, the windows blocks of chilly gray. “Please tell me what’s happened,” Judy said, not turning around.

  “His car went off the road at the Main Street bridge,” Mich said. “Sometime last night around midnight, as far as we can tell. It was slick out, and he might have been going unusually fast—”

  “He was looking for Johnny,” Judy said. She turned to face them. She had gone very white, but her eyes were dry. “Johnny hasn’t been home since yesterday morning. He went to church with us, then he disappeared with that Howard woman. I wanted to call the police all day, but Ron wouldn’t let me. We had dinner guests. Reynolds Houston was coming over to talk with Ron at eight, and I went upstairs to lie down for a while. I—I had had too much to drink, because I was so upset about Johnny. I don’t drink much, and I guess it just put me to sleep. But I can’t believe Ron would go off looking for Johnny without telling me. And I’ve been asleep all this time—and now you say Ron’s dead? Oh, Gary,” she said, putting both hands up to her mouth, “please help me.”

  He had helped her. He had spent the past eleven months of his life trying to help her. It seemed that he owed it to her for Ron’s sake. There was so much that needed doing. He helped put out tracers for Johnny. He got Cynthia home from college. He helped with the funeral arrangements. And that very afternoon after Ron’s death, he sat with Judy in the downstairs study, and they went through Ron’s papers. He explained the financial situation to her, including Ron’s embezzlement.

  “We are ruined, then,” Judy said quietly. “Ron has ruined us.”

  Gary looked at her, this pretty, slender woman, who had always been so good, and who now sat before him rigid and white with shock at what the world had brought.

  “No,” Gary said. “You are not ruined. I won’t let you be ruined. There is no reason why anyone else should know about it. Only Peter, Reynolds, and I know, and I can deal with them. I think the important thing, Judy, is for us to reimburse the rec center from the insurance money. That wou
ld satisfy Reynolds.”

  “Damn Reynolds,” Judy said.

  “Well, it’s not just him,” Gary said. “He’s on the board, but he represents the entire town, you know. Sooner or later it would have had to come out—when the building was not completed but the funds were gone. I think this way we can put the money back and no one will know. And you’ll have plenty of money left. You can pay off the mortgage on this house, you can still send Cynthia to college. You won’t be rich, but you’ll be all right.”

  “How could he have been so stupid,” Judy said. “I always thought he was so competent. I always relied on him completely.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” Gary said. “And, Judy, he did what he could to make it right. He killed himself, I’m sure of it. So that you’d have the insurance money. So that no one would know about his theft. He did it to protect you and the children.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Judy said. “I can’t. I can’t believe he took the money, I can’t believe any of this. You’re making him seem like some kind of—crook.”

  It took Gary a long time to convince Judy. At last he offered to bring Reynolds in with the figures to prove it to her, but at this, Judy stopped, defeated. She said she believed him. She had heard enough. She agreed to let Gary handle it all for her; he would get the insurance money, reimburse the rec center, discuss the matter with Reynolds, arrange for as much of it to be covered up as possible.

  “Gary,” she said one afternoon, “you understand that there is no way I can thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me,” Gary said. “I’m doing this because I love you, and because I loved Ron. I think this is what he would have wanted me to do.”