What else? Well, he drank sparingly, was kind to animals that strayed onto his property, and was always on cordial terms with his neighbours, even when the Bogle boys were raising all kinds of hell. True, the Bogles had been weird for a little while, especially after their own father had died. They’d had a banner on their porch, FIND THE MIAs – soldiers in Vietnam whose bodies had never been recovered but who might, if you listened to the Bogles, still be held prisoner in remote jungle encampments, more than twenty years after their capture. But so what? The MIAs stayed missing, the banner came down (certainly there was no sign of it now) and none of this had anything to do with his father who, in any event, had always got on with the Bogles. But then, his father had got along with pretty much everybody.
Of course, it was a staple of American mythology that behind the picket fences and neatly painted shutters of a small town like Stillriver lay abiding hatreds, sexual deviation, passionate longings and psychopathic obsessions, all nursed secretly behind closed doors. Michael had seen the films of David Lynch. But if he knew one thing from his own upbringing, and his adolescent years working at the town’s hub of news and gossip (the drugstore) it was that yes, all these feelings existed – no question there – but none of them was secret at all. For a small town was by definition small; over the months and the years, you couldn’t hide anything. If it was privacy you wanted, much less anonymity, you moved to a city, where your secret appetites could be indulged yet stay secret.
So as Michael tried to come up with candidates for the murder, he drew a blank in the neighbourhood. Who then? A former student? Yet his father had never been a tyrant of the classroom, not as far as Michael knew, though he’d never had his father as his own teacher. Henry Wolf had been a fairly formal pedagogue of the old school, Michael supposed, and possibly a little daunting; he had, after all, been a big man, powerfully built with the shoulders (as Michael’s mother once said) of a moose. But the occasional hint of gruffness hadn’t really disguised an essentially warm nature – he had always seemed to like the kids he taught. To get an ‘A’ grade from Henry Wolf was difficult – you had to be smart and work hard. But it was much harder to get an ‘F’. Michael had once heard his father explain to a cousin of his mother’s: ‘You’ve got a nottoo-bright kid with no money and no prospects. Life for him will be a downhill road. Is there any point in my jump-starting the process?’
It was hard to see how anyone – ex-student, neighbour – could have worked up so great a grievance against the man to want to kill him. And Henry himself had been thoroughly nonviolent, despite his hefty physical presence and obvious strength. He wouldn’t even raise a hand to his own children, a rarity in small town family life where spanking, smacking and the odd slap were the staple instruments of parental discipline. Only once in Michael’s memory had his father even threatened violence, and that was only to protect his son.
He left the paint outside in case the swastika needed yet another coat. As he walked round the house by the back door he smelled the acrid fumes of a cigarette – since quitting ten years before he’d grown especially sensitive to tobacco smoke. He moved slowly towards the back porch, suddenly nervous for the first time. Who would go into his father’s house, make himself at home, and light up? He moved cautiously up the porch steps.
‘Don’t worry,’ a voice called out. ‘It’s only me.’
He opened the screen door to find Gary sitting at the kitchen table with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of root beer in the other.
‘You scared me.’
Gary raised his eyebrows. ‘Lock the door next time if you don’t want company. You told me to come round this morning. Where’ve you been, anyway?’
‘In back,’ said Michael, then went and wiped his hands on some paper towel from the holder above the sink. His father’s plate still stood there, dry and clean in the rack. He turned around and put a hand out to shake. Gary shook it but did not get up. ‘You want some coffee?’ Michael asked.
‘Nah.’ Gary gestured with his root beer bottle. ‘This’ll do me fine.’
‘Breakfast, huh?’
Gary shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
Michael pulled out a chair and sat down across from his brother. He hadn’t aged much, and was still skinny, lanky really, shorter than Michael and bonier, more fragile-looking. Where Michael had their father’s brown hair and medium complexion, Gary had inherited their mother’s fair skin and straw-coloured hair. He looked especially pale now, wearing blue jeans, a white T-shirt with the logo of a heavy metal band, and dirty track shoes.
‘Haven’t seen you in a long time,’ Michael said, trying to sound friendly.
Gary nodded evenly, and Michael sensed he wasn’t inclined to make things easier. He felt the same irritation with his little brother that he had always felt – since when? Since day one, when Mom and Pop brought the little fucker home from Fennville wrapped in a flannel blanket.
‘Jimmy said the body is in Fennville. At the hospital.’
Gary nodded.
‘I was thinking I should probably go see him.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Do they need the body identified or did you already do that?’
‘There wasn’t much need for a formal procedure,’ Gary said sourly, ‘seeing as I was the one who found him in the first place.’
‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘That was Thursday morning?’
Gary nodded. ‘I came round to cut the grass at about nine – if I cut earlier the Jenkinses complain. As soon as I walked in I knew something was wrong: there was nothing out for breakfast, no coffee. I went upstairs and found him, then I called the police, if you can call Jimmy Olds “the police”. I tried reaching you through your old work number in New York, but they weren’t much help: they didn’t even know which continent you were on. So then I found Sarah’s work number in Pop’s book and I called her. I didn’t have any choice.’
‘Don’t worry about it. She tracked me down all right. Anyway, maybe I should go see Pop to say goodbye. Something like that.’
‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’ He took a swig from his root beer. ‘Not a pretty sight, I imagine. They’ve had to perform an autopsy. Always do in murder cases, apparently.’
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ Presumably all there would be to see was a nice assembly of parts. Michael got up and poured himself a glass of water from the tap. What he really wanted was one of the beers he’d bought, but it was too early. He wondered if there were any more booze in the house. He drank the water and turned towards Gary. ‘So I guess there’s a lot to do.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, the funeral for one thing.’
Gary leaned back and seemed to suppress a yawn. ‘Relax, big brother. All taken care of. The funeral’s on Tuesday. I assume you can stay that long. Family only. No flowers please.’
‘Family only? What, you and me?’
‘No such luck. The GR clan will be here. Said they wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
His mother’s family from Grand Rapids, cousins he hadn’t seen in years. ‘Where?’
‘At the cemetery. Pop’s plot is right next to Mom’s.’
‘I know. He told me he bought two when Mom died. What else have we got to do? What about his will, do you know if Pop left a will?’
Gary shook his head. ‘I did call Steve Atkinson.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He didn’t. He’s away. Can’t be reached.’
‘Can’t somebody in his office check?’
‘He hasn’t got a somebody in his office. And his wife says he can’t be contacted. Seems he’s being dried out in Kalamazoo. Your average twelve-point plan and then some. No visitors, no phone calls, no emails, no messages. Nothing. Zip.’
‘Steve Atkinson? I didn’t know he drank.’
‘Then you’re the only one who didn’t.’
The bush telegraph of a small town. ‘Shit. When’s he due out?’
‘Another two weeks.’
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Michael thought for a moment. ‘Well, maybe there’s a copy here, but I haven’t seen it, and I went through his desk. I’ll look some more. Now what else have we got to do?’
Gary suddenly put his head in his hand. ‘Jesus, Michael, Pop’s barely been dead two days. I’m still trying to get my head around it all.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Michael looked at the clock and saw it was only ten thirty.
‘Even you have to admit it’s pretty incredible.’
‘I know it is. I guess the only way I can deal with it is by doing things.’
Gary smiled. ‘You haven’t changed much.’
Michael smiled back. ‘Neither have you. How’s Beverly?’That was her name, wasn’t it? He had trouble enough rubbing along with Gary not to cause gratuitous offence.
‘I threw her sorry ass out. I’m on my own now.’ He paused and added, ‘She moved to Detroit, anyway.’
‘Season started yet?’
‘Next week. Dig the pits again this year, then line them. I’m a partner now.’
‘Congratulations,’ Michael said, meaning it but seeing right away this spoiled it somehow for Gary. Whatever he said Gary would feel patronized.
‘Some partnership. Fifty per cent of a trading loss.’
‘Cherries still that bad?’
‘They’re coming back. At least people are replacing orchards when the old trees die. For a while they were actually digging good ones up to plant asparagus.’
‘Where you living?’
‘You remember Sissy Farrell? Next door to her parents. The bungalow, where nobody ever lived. ’Til me.’
‘This place looks in good shape,’ said Michael. The fruit business shut down from November until May, and Gary’s money never managed to last until spring. Their father provided subvention in return for small repairs the old house increasingly required.
‘Windows are going. I was going to do them this fall.’ The was hung in the air between them.
‘Might as well do them.’
‘Let the next owner do it.’
‘Who knows? You might want to live here yourself. And if we do sell it, you’ll get a better price if the window frames aren’t falling to pieces.’ When Gary still looked doubtful Michael realized what the problem was. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get paid. It can come out of the estate.’
‘So I’d be paying myself?’
He suppressed his irritation. Remember, he told himself, this must be harder on him than on you. ‘It can come out of my share. Okay?’
Gary nodded. After a moment’s silence he said, ‘Did Jimmy ask you about Pop?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Like who would have done this?’
‘I didn’t have much to contribute. He always seemed to get on with everybody pretty well, wouldn’t you say?’
Gary shrugged. ‘It could be anybody. Some nut. And I don’t mind admitting it – I’m scared.’
‘Why are you scared?’
‘What do you mean, why am I scared? What’s wrong with you? How do I know they won’t kill me, too? It could be anybody,’ he said again. ‘The whole town’s freaked out.’
‘Well, it’s not Mrs Decatur. And the Mean Man’s dead too.’
Gary didn’t smile. ‘His son’s there now. He’s about as friendly.’
‘I don’t think it’s the Bogle boys. They liked Pop.’
‘Yes, they did.’ He briefly pursed his lips. ‘The thing is, the police won’t leave me alone.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said with agitation. ‘I gave a statement to Jimmy, then a detective from Muskegon came and went through it with me, and now they say they want to go through it again.’ He started to say something else but stopped, looking so miserable that Michael was moved to reassure him.
‘That’s just the way they are, Gary. Don’t let it bother you. I’ve got to see them again, too, and I wasn’t even in the country when it happened.’ He paused. ‘Jimmy did ask me one thing. He wanted to know if Pop was a Jew.’
Gary looked startled. ‘What? That’s crazy.’
‘Well, if he was, it’s sure news to me. I think Jimmy was asking because of the swastika. You saw it, didn’t you?’
Gary nodded. ‘Pop always said he was an American. That was enough for him.’
‘I guess so. Though Sarah once asked me—’
Gary’s voice rose. ‘What would your wife know about anything west of . . . what’s it called?’
‘Bloomingdale’s?’ said Michael, then added, ‘My ex-wife.’
‘Big difference.’
‘It is, actually. She’s got remarried.’
‘She has?’ Gary looked briefly contemplative. ‘Man, it has been a long time. Last time you were here you weren’t even divorced yet. Who’d she marry this time?’
‘Some guy she grew up with. She probably should have married him in the first place. He’s a banker.’
‘So he’s rich?’
‘Colossal.’
Gary guffawed. ‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Whatever makes her happy.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Have you painted over the swastika?’
Michael nodded. ‘Can’t say I understand it. The only Nazi sympathizers I ever heard of in Michigan belonged to the Militia. But I thought they’d disappeared.’
‘It’s not called the Militia any more,’ said Gary sharply. ‘And they’re not Nazis. They’re just against the government. Who isn’t? Why should Washington tell us what to do.’
‘I didn’t know it did,’ said Michael gently.
‘Ninety per cent of what I pay for gas goes to the federal government. And then where does it go? Harlem? Detroit? It doesn’t come here, I tell you. And if you want to see real poverty take a drive out east of thirty-one. Just because nobody’s rioting doesn’t mean they have enough to eat.’
Inwardly Michael sighed. There wasn’t much point discussing this kind of thing with Gary, who had always been quick to fall back on the adages of the disgruntled: If you outlaw guns only outlaws will have guns, etc, etc. There was always a hint of grievance, a slightly paranoid view that others were profiting by gouging him – him, and of course the ‘little man’, the one who didn’t have fancy lawyers on call or a sweet-talking manner . . . this sort of stuff was actually produced as an argument. Even his father, always protective of his younger son, would grow tired of Gary taking this kind of tack.
‘Cheer up, Gary. Where I’ve been living, gas is six dollars a gallon.’
‘You don’t look like you’ve been suffering.’
Oh, not that too, thought Michael. The sibling refrain had begun really only when they’d both grown up – Michael had been to college, Gary hadn’t; Michael got married and Gary didn’t (lucky Gary, thought Michael); Michael made a pretty good living, Gary scraped and took backhanders from their old man; Michael had got out, Gary hadn’t. On and on, in a brew of competitive bitterness, which was part true, part fantasized grounds for some larger, unspecified resentment. Yet it was Gary who had been the apple of their father’s eye. Some apple, thought Michael. Go easy, he told himself again, struggling not to rise to the bait, and he heard his mother’s voice from years before, telling him to be nicer to the awful youngest Bogle boy, because he hasn’t had your advantages.
So now with a show of mock-emotion he said, ‘My suffering’s all inside.’ To his relief Gary laughed.
‘Say,’ Michael added, ‘who is Patsy?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Pop was writing a letter but he’d only just started it. It’s in his desk. Says “Dear Patsy” but that’s about all.’
‘He didn’t know any Patsy, not that I’m aware of. Patty Betts works at the Dairy Queen, but since she’s about sixteen years old I don’t suppose he was writing to her.’
‘No. Well, that’s one more mystery to solve.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Have you been out to the Half?’
Gary shook his head. ‘No
t in ages.’
‘Is Sheringham’s open for the season yet?’
‘Yeah,’ said Gary, ‘but just asparagus.’
‘I was thinking I might drive out to the Half, then go by there. Get out of the house for a while. You want to come?’
Gary shook his head. ‘I’ll come back at suppertime, unless you’ve got plans.’
‘Hardly.’
Gary stood up to go but then hesitated. He looked slightly embarrassed. What is it now? thought Michael. ‘Say Michael,’ said Gary awkwardly.
‘Yeah?’
‘Could you maybe lend me a little money?’ He looked like he would almost rather have starved than ask. Almost being the operative word. ‘You see, Pop was going to pay me . . . honest, Michael, he hadn’t paid me yet.’
Michael thought of the money remaining in his father’s wallet upstairs – that’s why he had so much cash. Suddenly Michael’s cynicism melted away. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Will a hundred do you for now? I didn’t change that much money. I’ll go to the bank after the holiday and get some more.’ He couldn’t bear the thought of taking money from his murdered father’s wallet.
3
HE DECIDED TO go for a walk before driving anywhere. He went out the back door and through the yard, between the two maples with their bark scars where, with his father’s permission, the Bogle boys would tap the syrup each winter, along with the three maple trees in their own backyard and any others they could get away with, out in the woods east of the interstate.
He looked across the street at Mrs Decatur’s small bungalow, now inhabited by her grandson. She had been a small, quiet woman, ancient even in his childhood, memorable only for her insistence on cutting the grass with an old-fashioned push mower well into her eighties. Across the street, kitty-corner from his father’s home, a mass of dark foliage and thin hardwood blocked out the house sitting back from the road. He couldn’t remember the owner’s name – he and Gary had simply called him the Mean Man. Their own father had warned them: ‘Stay away from there and don’t play on that side of the street. I don’t want your ball ever going in there. Understood?’
Stillriver Page 3
