Bitch Creek

by Tapply, William

  A wheelchair ramp led from the driveway to the side door of Kate’s square brick house on the outskirts of South Portland. “He doesn’t use it,” she’d told Calhoun as she led him inside the night after her first visit to his place. “He never leaves the house anymore. He just sits in there watching TV, observing himself shrivel up, waiting to die.”

  The front room was dark except for the flickering blue light of the television. Walter was sitting in a wheelchair with a plaid blanket over his knees, and when Kate and Calhoun went in, he glanced up, nodded, then turned back to the television.

  “Walter,” said Kate, “this is Stoney.”

  Walter had dark, thinning hair and a sharp hatchet face. It looked as if his skin was stretched so tight over his bones that it might crack open if he smiled. “I figured,” he mumbled, barely moving his mouth.

  “We brought pizza,” she said. “Turn that thing off and come eat.”

  Walter drank three beers and ate half of a pizza slice. Kate talked about the shop, about how the stripers were mostly gone for the season,about putting together a catalog and starting up some mail-order business, about how Stoney was trying to negotiate some advertising with Umpqua and Loomis, about how she was looking to hire on a couple more guides for next year.

  Walter kept sipping his beer. He said nothing.

  Then Kate cleared her throat and said, “Walter, Stoney and I, we need to talk to you.”

  Walter lifted his eyes and looked at Calhoun. “You’re fucking my wife.”

  “No, sir,” said Calhoun. “But I do love her.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “But we’re not—”

  “Why not?” said Walter.

  “Kate’s not that kind of woman.”

  “No, I don’t suppose she is. What about you?”

  “I’m not that kind of man, either.”

  Walter nodded. “Good.”

  “We wanted to ask you first,” said Calhoun.

  He looked at Kate. She gave him a little nod. He turned back to Walter. “We’re asking your permission, sir. We want you to know how it would be. Sometimes your wife would come to my house back in the woods in Dublin, and she’d sleep with me and wake up with me and have coffee with me on the deck when the morning sun’s on it. I’d share my little spring creek with her, and I’d like to show her where it bubbles out of the hillside up behind my house. Kate and I, we’d fish together and walk in the woods together and listen to music together and talk about books. And we’d make love.”

  Walter stared at Calhoun without expression for a long minute. Then he said, “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ ”

  Calhoun nodded.

  “It’s Walter,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  Walter turned to Kate. “I worry about you,” he said.

  She began to speak. He lifted his hand off the table. “Let me finish,” he said. “I sit around here all day, and maybe you think I spend all my time feeling sorry for myself. Well, I do. But I also feel sorry for you. I know what I am. I know what you’ve been living with.” He turned to Calhoun. “I admire what you’re doing.”

  “If it was up to me,” said Kate, “I would’ve just told you. I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “You think I’d say no?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “How could you know?” said Walter. “You’ve got this bitter, shrunken-up invalid on your hands, never says anything nice to you.” He looked at Calhoun, then back at Kate. “Do me one favor, will you?”

  “What?” she said.

  “If anyone finds out about the two of you, you make sure they understand that I know, that I said it was okay by me, that”—he turned to Calhoun—“that I like this man. I don’t want anybody thinking bad things about either of you.”

  Calhoun never knew when Kate would come to him. They didn’t plan it or discuss it in advance, and he learned never to expect her. Not a night passed that he didn’t wish she was with him.

  But usually she wasn’t. Sometimes several weeks elapsed between her visits. Sometimes she showed up two or three nights in a row. When she arrived, Kate poured herself some bourbon from the bottle she kept over Calhoun’s refrigerator, and he had a Coke. They sat at the kitchen table, or, in the summer, out on the deck, where they could hear the creek gurgling and the nightbirds singing. They touched hands tentatively, were silent for long minutes, getting used to each other again.

  Finally Kate would tip her glass until the ice cubes clinked against her teeth. Then she’d smile. “I’m kinda tired, Stoney,” she’d say, and she’d stand up, hold out her hand, and lead him into the bedroom, where they’d lie together, their naked bodies pressed together, talking softly in the dark until they drifted off to sleep.

  “I guess you’ve got no news on Lyle,” murmured Kate. Her cheek lay on his bare chest and one of her long naked legs was sprawled over both of his.

  He stroked her hair. “Sheriff Dickman came by after you left,” he said. “And I called the house again. No news.”

  “I’m worried.”

  “Me, too.”

  She wiggled against him. “Hang onto me, Stoney,” she said. “I want to be sure you’re right here when I wake up.”

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “I’m not going anywhere, honey.”

  Ralph’s bark awakened him. He didn’t need to check his clock to know that the sun had not yet come up. Silvery predawn light oozed in through the windows, and somewhere out in the woods a gang of crows were having an argument.

  “What’s going on?” murmured Kate.

  “Somebody’s here.”

  He slid out of bed, pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt, took the Remington off its pegs, and opened the front door.

  Sheriff Dickman was leaning against his Explorer, tapping his Stetson against his leg.

  “Want some coffee?” said Calhoun.

  “Wouldn’t mind.”

  “Well, come on in.”

  Dickman jerked his head at Kate’s Blazer. “Don’t mean to intrude.”

  “Too late now.”

  Calhoun went back inside. The sheriff followed.

  Kate, wearing one of Calhoun’s flannel shirts and a pair of his baggy sweatpants, was padding barefoot around the kitchen, loading the coffeepot. She looked at Dickman with her eyebrows arched.

  “I’ve got some news,” he said.

  “Lyle?”

  He nodded. “They found his truck.”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  “WAS THERE AN ACCIDENT?” said Kate.

  Dickman shook his head. He sat down and put his hat on the table beside him. “Lyle wasn’t in the vehicle,” he said.

  “Where?” said Calhoun.

  “The janitor noticed that old Power Wagon parked behind the grammar school out in South Riley last night,” Dickman said. “They had a PTA meeting in the evening, and the janitor, guy named Russo, had to clean up, put all the folding chairs away, didn’t finish up till nearly midnight. Taking his time, I expect. Time-and-a-half for those meetings. Everyone else had cleared out a couple hours earlier, but that old truck was still sitting there. He didn’t recognize it, and there aren’t a lot of forty-year-old Power Wagons around, so Mr. Russo called the sheriff’s office up to Oxford County, and they passed on the word to me, which I got when I arrived at my office this morning. I checked the registration. It belongs to Lyle McMahan.”

  Kate looked at Calhoun with questions in her eyes.

  “This janitor,” said Calhoun, “he didn’t recall seeing Lyle’s truck earlier?”

  Dickman shrugged. “I gave you all the news I’ve got, Stoney. Hell, it’s, what, now, ten of six in the morning? I been up since four-thirty, but who else has? I haven’t talked to anybody, and to tell you the truth, I don’t know when I will. I don’t see that we’ve exactly got a crime here to investigate, unless South Riley’s got an ordinance against parking overnight in the school lot. Anyway, I’ve got no jurisdiction in Oxford County. Sheriff Bean o
ver there, I doubt he’s that interested in parking violations. If it’s bothering somebody, they’ll have it towed, so I left a message for them to leave that Power Wagon right where it is for now, figuring Lyle will eventually show up for it, or maybe you’d like to go over and pick it up for him.”

  “How do you take your coffee, Sheriff?” said Kate.

  Dickman glanced at his wristwatch. “Actually, ma’am, I can’t linger, much as I’d like to. I do have a travel mug out in my vehicle that I emptied on my way here, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Fetch it,” she said.

  When Dickman went out, Kate looked at Calhoun. “I’m thinking about Walter,” she said.

  Calhoun nodded. “I’ll talk to him.”

  Dickman was back a minute later. Kate filled his mug and Calhoun walked back outside with him. The sheriff climbed into the front seat of his Explorer.

  Calhoun leaned his forearms on the roof and bent to the open window. “Want to explain something to you,” he said.

  Dickman smiled and shook his head. “Nothing to explain, Stoney. I don’t deal in gossip.”

  “I know that, and so does Kate. I wasn’t worried about that. But we made a promise to Walter. That’s Kate’s husband.”

  “I know Walter,” said Dickman.

  “He knows about us,” said Calhoun. “Kate and I, we squared it with him before we—we started. We are discreet, Sheriff. But Walter, he figured sooner or later someone would—well, drop in, like you did. It’s important to Walter that nobody thinks we’re going behind his back. He knows. It’s okay by him. Walter and I are friends. He’d want you to know that.”

  “You don’t have to explain to me, Stoney.”

  “Kate and I would prefer it was a secret,” said Calhoun. “But it’s never been a secret from Walter. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

  Dickman nodded. “It isn’t any of my business,” he said. “Nor anyone else’s, either.” He turned the key in the ignition. “Meanwhile, I expect you’re gonna take a swing by South Riley this morning.”

  “I expect I am. Lyle’s about my best friend in the world, Sheriff. I’m a little concerned.”

  “Well, if he’s gone missing, Stoney, we’ll try to track him down. You know that. But there’s no evidence of it.”

  “No,” said Calhoun. “Most likely he’s shacked up somewhere.”

  “You let me know what you learn.” Dickman shifted into reverse. “Russo. That’s the janitor’s name. South Riley Elementary.”

  “Got it,” said Calhoun.

  After Dickman left, Calhoun and Kate took their coffee mugs out to the big maple rocking chairs on the deck. Ralph found a patch of sunlight to curl up in. “I’m thinking of building a hot tub out here,” said Calhoun.

  “That would be fun,” she said.

  The ground sloped away to the little spring creek, which funneled through the narrow place at the site of the burned-out bridge. In the slanting rays of the early sun, Calhoun could see a cloud of mayfly spinners swirling and glittering over the stream. They’d fall to the water soon, spent and dying after their reproductive efforts, and then the trout in the downstream pool would sip them from the surface.

  “I don’t get it,” said Kate after several minutes.

  “Get what?”

  “Lyle. Why would he leave his truck in back of a school?”

  Calhoun shrugged. “Maybe he was planning to pick it up after fishing on the way to Penny Moulton’s place.”

  “But that was two days ago.”

  “That’s a fact,” said Calhoun.

  “So why didn’t he pick it up? Where was Lyle all day yesterday?”

  “It’s a mystery, all right.”

  “She lives where? That Penny Moulton?”

  “Standish.”

  Kate shook her head. “Makes no sense.” She turned and put her hand on Calhoun’s arm. “Why would they leave Lyle’s vehicle and not Mr. Green’s? They stowed all the gear in the Power Wagon, right?”

  “Yes, honey. I watched them do it.”

  “You think they parked behind that school, transferred all their stuff into the other vehicle? What kind of car was that Fred Green guy driving, anyway?”

  Calhoun shut his eyes, trying to see it, to remember the glimpse he’d had of Fred Green’s car through the shop’s window as it followed Lyle’s Power Wagon out of the lot two days earlier. “White,” he said slowly. “New sedan. Ford Taurus with Maine plates.” He opened his eyes.

  She was shaking her head. “You are spooky when you do that memory thing. I mean, you can’t remember your own parents, but you can remember a car you weren’t even looking at.”

  “I looked at it,” said Calhoun. “I just wasn’t thinking about it. But I’ve got the picture here.” He tapped his forehead with his forefinger.

  “So what about the plates? Can you read the numbers?”

  He closed his eyes again, then shook his head. “No. But it must’ve been a rental. All those rental cars are white, and there’s Mr. Green, up from Florida, driving a car with Maine plates.”

  “Okay,” said Kate. “So you’re telling me that Lyle and Mr. Green decided to drive that brand-new rented Taurus sedan over old potholed dirt roads to some remote trout pond instead of taking Lyle’s old Power Wagon that already had their fishing gear in it? Could they even fit two float tubes in the back of a Taurus sedan?”

  “I wasn’t tellin’ you that, Kate,” he said softly. “It doesn’t make much sense. But I expect Lyle will have an explanation.”

  “Well, damned if I can think one up.”

  Calhoun shrugged. “So Lyle’s got himself a lady in South Riley. Maybe some pretty first-grade teacher. Met her there after school and they drove to her place in her car, shacked up for a couple days.”

  “He had a date with that Penny Moulton in Standish, didn’t he?”

  “Well, Penny Moulton sure thought so,” he said.

  “It isn’t like Lyle to break a date.”

  “Now, Kate, honey, you don’t know that. Lyle’s a good boy. But he is a boy.” He drained his coffee mug and stood up. “How about some pancakes?”

  “What about Lyle?”

  “I’ll go look for him,” said Calhoun. “But not on an empty stomach.”

  A little after eight, Kate gave Calhoun a long, hard hug, bent down to scratch Ralph’s muzzle, climbed into her Blazer, and headed back to Portland.

  Calhoun piled the dirty breakfast dishes in the sink, and then he and Ralph climbed into the truck. Ralph rode shotgun beside him. Calhoun had tried to persuade him to wear a seat belt, but the dog wouldn’t hear of it. He liked to move around, poke his nose up at the crack in the window, stand on the seat making wet-nose smudges on the windshield, or curl up with his chin on Calhoun’s thigh, making it damned awkward to shift gears.

  It took about half an hour over the back roads to get from Calhoun’s little house in the woods in Dublin to South Riley. He found the elementary school north of the village.

  The small parking lot out back held a couple dozen vehicles—Isuzu wagons, Jeep Cherokees, new-looking Toyota and Ford pickup trucks, and one sexy little red Mazda. Calhoun figured they were paying schoolteachers more than they used to, even in this little town in rural Maine.

  Lyle’s Power Wagon looked like a mutt in a dog show, big and cumbersome, muddy and rusted and pocked with dents. It was parked at the end of the row with its nose facing the playground.

  He pulled up beside it, told Ralph to sit tight, and got out.

  The first thing he noticed was that all of Lyle’s fishing gear—his rods and waders and float tubes and vests and lunch basket—were not inside. This suggested that they had moved everything into Fred Green’s rented Ford Taurus and had not returned. If they had stopped here after a day’s fishing, Lyle’s gear would be in the back so he could return it to the shop.

  He walked around the Power Wagon. It was mud-spattered, as if it had recently plowed through puddles. Calhoun recalled that they’d had a th
understorm the night before Lyle had set off with Fred Green. The rain would have washed off old mud, and it would’ve made new puddles. So Lyle’s truck had driven back roads after leaving the shop two days earlier. There were no back roads between Portland and South Riley, which meant they must have taken Lyle’s Power Wagon when they’d gone exploring for Fred Green’s secret pond.

  Puzzling.

  He tried the driver’s door and found it unlocked. He bent in, reached under the seat, and found Lyle’s DeLorme Atlas & Gazetteer, the big eleven-by-sixteen paperback book that contained topographic maps of every quadrant in the entire state of Maine. It was Lyle’s Bible. On those maps, Calhoun knew, Lyle had marked his prize grouse and woodcock covers, his secret trout ponds and streams, the hidden swamps and field edges where he knew he could find deer, the deep holes and the mussel beds and sand flats on tidal creeks and rivers where striped bass lurked on certain tides. Lyle circled those places on his maps with a black felt-tipped pen and gave them his own names—Stick Farm and Hippie House, Red Shoes and Arnold’s Pasture, Suck Hole and Pipeline.

  You could read Lyle McMahan’s hunting and fishing life off those maps, and Calhoun knew that he treasured that gazetteer.

  “This your vehicle, mister?”

  Calhoun bumped his head on the roof of the Power Wagon as he whirled around.

  A woman wearing a gray shirt and matching trousers stood there frowning at him.

  “Jesus, ma’am,” said Calhoun. “You startled me.” He rubbed the top of his head.

  She was nearly a foot shorter than Calhoun, a sturdy woman with iron-gray hair cut like an upside-down bowl, dark eyes, and a lumpy nose that looked as if it had been broken a few times. “Didn’t mean for you to hurt yourself,” she said. “I been watchin’ for you. This ain’t a public parking lot, you know.” She dug her hand into her pants pocket and came out with a ring of keys. She held them to Calhoun. “Here. You oughtn’t to leave ’em in your ignition, you know. Not unless you want someone to steal it. Which might not be a bad idea, come to think of it, considering the condition of that vehicle of yours.” She jerked her head at Lyle’s Power Wagon. “We ain’t got crime, not like Portland or Bangor, but even out here in the sticks there’s plenty of kids’d be happy to take your old truck for a ride, run over a few cottontails, see how many potholes they can hit before the bolts start poppin’ out of it and the muffler falls off. Lucky for you I noticed it last night.”