However, at some point back in June, five or six weeks into the job, my daddy had got to thinking about the profits to be made from marijuana—low-cost, slow burn—versus the profits that might be made from cocaine—luxury product, gone in a sniff—and probably if Pauly liked one he’d be a good target audience for the other. Moreover, wasn’t cocaine a stimulant that was popular with drinkers, a kind of symbiosis made in heaven? Every time he took on Bobby Jensen over another round of George Thorogoods, my daddy made him look slower than pond water, so maybe Bobby could do with a little help from the white lady. Sure, why support just one brother’s lifestyle choice when he might support both?
No doubt it seemed like a capital idea, and one day in June, my daddy headed up for a business meeting with his new colleagues in Kingston. The time had come for a little diversification.
So now my daddy was working at an industrial plant producing large bags of gray powder while also pushing small bags of white powder, not only to two of his employers but also, by all accounts, to a number of coworkers.
Unfortunately this was one enterprise too far for Walt Jensen. Maybe he’d been hearing rumors and keeping an eye on my daddy, or maybe he just stumbled by accident upon the transaction. Either way, on the morning of Friday, July 2, Walt Jensen came across my daddy taking a sly cigarette break out back while, in his company, Walt’s sons Bobby and Pauly were handing over the greenbacks for enough white powder to make their July Fourth weekend go off with one hell of a bang. At which point, the last remaining cement baron of Roseborn fired my daddy’s ass on the spot.
I heard all of this from my mom many years later, who told it to me while sipping away at her third Beam of the afternoon, but my daddy’s next few hours on earth are a part of the story gathered by the police and recounted in print by the Roseborn Gazette. Apparently, the first thing my daddy did after losing his job was drive over to O’Sullivan’s Dive Inn, at which point normal service ensued. However, after starting a bar fight, he was kicked out sometime around two in the afternoon. Reportedly, not long after this he purchased a fifth of Four Roses at the liquor store over on the other side of town, where he was seen drinking straight from the bottle as he gunned out of the parking lot.
However, the police could find no one to tell them what happened after my daddy’s first three jobless hours—or at any point up until the next morning, when his body was discovered by two hikers—but I could have told the police everything, such as where he went next, for example. After hitting the gas and necking his whiskey, he drove home.
* * *
AFTER THREE MONTHS OF HIS doubly gainful employment, I’d become almost accustomed to my daddy being at work until five at the very earliest, so when I arrived back from the Swangums, sometime around four, I didn’t even check to see if his car was behind the pallet pile—which, of course, it was.
The house was quiet when I walked in, and although I suppose there might have been signs that my daddy had returned, I wasn’t looking out for them. From the living room you could see my parents’ bedroom, but you couldn’t see their bed. I guess he was lying there passed out when I arrived.
Maybe I made myself a PB&J or ate some pickles from the jar or watched TV, I don’t really remember, my day was still in its everyday phase. At some point I heard a knock on the door and went to answer it. When I opened the door, Hannah Jensen was standing there.
Damn, she looked cute—and actually I’d been thinking about Hannah ever since my mom had mentioned her visit the day before. I certainly wasn’t going to give up having fantasies about you, Pete, or stop hoping those fantasies might come true, but in the short term this now seemed unlikely. Although I’m not going to say that Hannah had become my plan B—because in some sense, you were both my plan A.
Hey, Hannah, I heard you came looking for me yesterday, I said, before turning and jumping on the sofa. You wanna hang out? I said.
When Hannah stepped inside, I detected a look of disgust on her face, but that didn’t faze me. Sure, we lived in a crappy home full of crappy veneer and even crappier furniture—why wouldn’t she be disgusted? Plus, I knew Hannah lived over in the rich part of town, everyone in Roseborn knew about the Jensen property, that place was supposed to be some kind of palace. So anyway, I didn’t mind the disgust, even though it seemed pretty rude walking into someone’s home with a look on your face like you wanted to gag.
Come on in, I said, sit down.
The only place left to sit was the armchair, which was bandaged up with duct tape to prevent the stuffing spilling out. Hannah walked over looking all prim, like she was afraid of catching cooties, and sat down in a way that left as little of her body in contact with the chair fabric as possible.
I found this cute as well.
Then it occurred to me that maybe she wasn’t disgusted by the furniture. I gave her a second look, perched at the edge of the seat with her arms folded like she needed to keep herself warm. Wait, perhaps she was just nervous.
Hey, what’s up, Hannah? I said.
You know it’s not right, she said.
What’s not right?
It’s illegal.
Hannah saying illegal kind of turned me on—it meant she had come to my house for more than a kiss. Now wasn’t that something to think about. I got off the couch and went over to her.
Hannah scooted back in the chair.
Still thinking she was just nervous, I knelt down and put my hands on the arms of the chair, leaning forward to kiss her, thinking that’s what she wanted, the precursor to something excitingly illegal. So what happened next came as a complete shock.
Hannah screamed.
It’s OK, it’s OK, I said, trying to sound reassuring.
Her face was all twisted up, as if she couldn’t decide whether to kiss me or spit in my eye. I didn’t understand—at least, not for another few moments.
That’s when she yelled it right in my face.
You’re disgusting, Matthew. Disgusting! I saw what you did with that man!
What? I said, feeling something drain out me. What man? I said.
Now that Hannah had released this secret of hers, all of her words came flying out fast. I saw what you did, she screamed. You went to his house and I saw him undress you, I only came here yesterday because I thought you liked me and I thought I liked you, but I don’t like you, Matthew, you’re disgusting.
Wait, Hannah, I said, what are you talking about? It wasn’t like that.
Liar, she said, her eyes flashing with fury. I saw you, she shouted, I saw you with my own eyes.
Really? I said, becoming angry myself now, leaning forward so that soon both of us were up in each other’s faces. What did you see? What exactly did you see, Hannah? What?
How often since then have I tried to make sense of her answer, tried to imagine looking in from the outside, from Hannah’s sliver of window? You pulling the T-shirt over my head and reaching for the bruises on the far side of my body, you falling back in your armchair, me burying my face in your lap and my head starting to move. How long did Hannah stay there before she ran from the window, her head full of fiction, and how many times did she think it through, the picture building and building overnight, her mind sketching in lines that her eyes hadn’t seen, fueling the lie that would change our lives forever?
She screamed it loud.
I saw you take him in your mouth. I saw you give that disgusting old pervert a blow job!
That was the precise moment my daddy came out of the bedroom.
* * *
WHAT THE FUCK YOU SAY?
She twisted around as he teetered out, Hannah’s body turning instantly stiff.
I said what the fuck you say, girl? My daddy was advancing on Hannah with a demeanor I knew only too well. I stood up to block his way, but a split second later I was staggering backward, struggling for breath, the recipient of an expertly placed punch to the middle of my torso.
My daddy took Hannah by the hair and damn near lifted her out of the arm
chair.
What the fuck you say about my boy? You say it again. Again.
Hannah’s body was shaking, her lips trembling and her mouth sputtering. She couldn’t say a word.
My shoulders were up against the wall and it was taking me a while to recover, but when finally I was able to breathe again, I sniffed hard, wiped my lips with the back of my hand, and ran at my daddy, a low growl coming from my throat.
He let go of Hannah, made a quick turn, and caught me by the neck with both hands, choked me a while and then kneed me in the groin before tossing me easily to the ground. I lay on the carpet moaning in agony and gasping for air.
Now Hannah was quivering as if she were being jabbed at with a cattle prod, tears streaming from her eyes, her knees clenched together. My daddy leaned in at her until the tip of his nose was almost touching her face and said, Little girl, did I actually just hear you accuse my firstborn of bein a homo? Is that what you said fore I came in the room? Did I hear blow job? Say it again, girl. Again.
Hannah closed her eyes and shook her head, a high and terrified sound coming out of her throat, and then suddenly my daddy leaped away from her, bounding over to me instead. Before I knew it, he was sitting on my thighs, pinning me down by the shoulders. Who is he? he yelled.
Fuck you, I said.
My daddy punched me in the ribs. Who the fuck is he?
Fuck you, I said.
This time he punched me on the other side, working my liver.
We repeated the procedure a few more times before my daddy got up and started pacing around the room, rubbing his face and running his hands through his hair. Hannah was curling herself tighter and tighter in the armchair, and then my daddy strode over to her and in a loud whisper said, Don’t you dare move one goddam fuckin muscle, girl. I’ll kill you both, that’s God’s word.
I started to claw my way across the floor toward Hannah, but I wasn’t able to move all that fast. I could hear the sound of several drawers rattling and slamming, and soon a victorious cry, There you are, bitch, before my daddy came back in the room pushing a silver magazine into the heel of a black pistol I never even knew he owned.
I just assumed he was going to shoot me, and right then I was hurting and gasping so hard, it didn’t seem like the worst idea in the world, but I caught my breath pretty fast when he went and stood beside the armchair, lifted the pistol, racked the slide, and pointed the gun straight at Hannah’s head.
Hannah closed her eyes and started to make a really high-pitched sound, her body about ready to shake itself to pieces. My daddy just slapped her hard across the face, and she shut up right away.
I didn’t even wait for him to ask me again. His name’s Pete, I said.
Pete, said, my daddy. Sounds about right for a faggot. And what’s this homo Pete’s last name?
I don’t know, I said.
My daddy gave Hannah’s temple a little push with his gun, and then showed me three fingers, two fingers, one …
I don’t know his last name, I yelled, waving my hands. I promise I don’t know, I said, but he works for the Conservancy.
My daddy let the gun drop from Hannah’s head. Well, in that case, he said, pushing it into the waistband of his jeans, you and I are about to go for a little ride, boy.
ROSEBORN, NEW YORK, 2008
Matthew crouches to tie a shoelace, twenty feet of gravel and dust between them, pausing to get a better look at Patrick, some indefinable air of sickness about him, as if the drive up has made him queasy. Does Patrick know where Hannah was this morning?
Maybe he shouldn’t bring this up right now. Later, perhaps. He pulls the shoelace tight and thinks, But before we go any further, I should level with him. Matthew stands up, wiping his hands on his shirt. Patrick, there’s something I need to tell you, he says.
What? says Patrick, looking somehow lost, as if their boyhood landscape is alien to him.
I know that you and Hannah are married, says Matthew.
Patrick’s body turns stiff, Matthew raising his hands, as if to hold him back. But I promise you I had no idea when I first contacted you, he says. I found out later on, sometime after our brief meeting at Le Crainois. And I stuck to the promise I made you that day, I haven’t tried to get in touch with you since. All I’ve done is reply to your messages.
A truck blows by headed east, a car going west. Patrick is toweling his face with sweeping hands.
There’s something else, says Matthew. You remember Randy McCloud?
Sure, says Patrick, taking his hands from his face, looking immensely agitated, as if he might leave.
But Matthew keeps going, because everything can still be resolved, he truly believes that. This is where it happened, he says. This was the orchard where they found Randy dead next to his truck.
So what? says Patrick, the sense of agitation appearing in his voice now as well. What’s the point of all this, Matthew?
The point is that the police never worked out who killed Randy, says Matthew. But I know who killed him. Matthew waits until Patrick looks him in the eye. It was my father, he says.
Something seems to drain out of Patrick as he looks down at the ground, then up again. OK, so you never shared your big childhood secret with me, he says.
Right, says Matthew. Well, it never came up.
A pickup drives by, and for a moment Matthew thinks he recognizes it, Pete’s pickup truck, but it is just a green truck.
Why are we doing this now? says Patrick, squeezing his brow and closing his eyes for a moment.
You’re right, you’re right, says Matthew. I guess we’re doing this now because I wanted to tell you everything, he says. But now I realize, I don’t think I can.
Everything? says Patrick. Really? Why not?
Matthew wants to say, Because you’re married to the rest of it. Only it feels like a bad idea to talk about Hannah again, something odd about the way Patrick reacted to her name. Matthew pushes his hands deep in his pockets. Look, he says, nodding sideways, I have something to show you, remember? And then we can talk after that if you like. You want to see what it is? he says, taking a few deliberate steps toward the orchard. The actual entrance is farther up the road, he says, but this is the best way to see it.
Patrick glances across at his car, then up at the orchard. Fine, he says. After you, then.
The orchard is set on a steep slope. Matthew heads up the hill, pulling an apple from a tree and taking a bite before throwing the fruit away. They need another week or two, he says, looking over his shoulder, Patrick keeping his distance.
The day is absent of breeze, the air troubled only by the sounds of insects and traffic, cicadas and car engines, the growl of a motorcycle. Matthew stops at the brow of the hill, putting his hands on his hips. When Patrick reaches him, standing almost alongside, Matthew points down into the valley.
This is what I wanted you to see, he says.
The land drops away before them, the Swangum Ridge blotting out the horizon, and in the valley below, in an apple-fringed clearing, paint peeling from its weathered boards, there stands an old red barn.
We completed a few months ago, says Matthew, but I decided to hold off for a while before starting work. I own the barn along with most of the land you can see on this side of the road, including this orchard. More than enough apples for several kitchens. And the soil is incredible, glacial till, you can grow just about anything here. Plus it’s a great location. Look at that view of the Swangums, imagine sitting outside at a wooden picnic table, watching the sun set behind the ridge. Not much competition from other restaurants, plenty of city folk at the weekends—climbers, hikers, second-homers … Throughout fall you could pull in the apple pickers and the leaf-peeping crowd. Weekdays and off-season, there are enough locals with money to sustain the business, this whole area’s much wealthier now than when we grew up here. What do you think?
When Matthew turns to look at him, Patrick pulls his hand quickly from his eyes. I didn’t realize the food supply busine
ss was so lucrative, he says.
It’s just an old barn, says Matthew.
Plus all the land, the orchard, the huge loft in Tribeca …
I’ve been lucky, says Matthew. Most of my money comes from investments rather than the business.
You should give me the name of your broker, says Patrick, his voice almost suggesting there is something to laugh about here.
I use a few different places, says Matthew. There’s a great guy called Levine I could hook you up with. The returns are modest, but I like him—he has a country home in the Poconos where he cold-smokes his own salmon. But if you want something riskier with higher potential returns, the place I’d most recommend is called Idos Investments. Apart from having to deal with an asshole called Don Trevino, I have nothing but good things to say about them. Remind me when we’re done here today and I’ll put you directly in touch, the VIP treatment, you don’t want to have to go through the minions.
Patrick only stares at him, his lips pale and stiff.
Is something wrong? says Matthew.
This was your plan? says Patrick. Just this?
I was in the middle of completing the purchase when I invited you to Le Crainois, says Matthew. I was going to bring you up here after our lunch. I only found out about Hannah later on, like I told you. Honest mistake.
Patrick doesn’t say anything, just looks away from Matthew and stares down into the valley at the rickety barn.
Look, I know there’s a lot we should talk about, says Matthew. And after this we’ll go somewhere and talk everything through if you like, but why don’t you just come take a look for now?
Matthew begins heading downhill, looking over his shoulder to see if Patrick is following. Patrick wipes his nose with the back of his hand and then starts to walk.
Work gets under way in a week, Matthew calls out over his shoulder. Some light landscaping to begin with, he says. We’ll need a parking lot. The shell needs shoring up and eventually a new lick of paint. We basically need to gut the inside and renovate. We’ll make everything from reclaimed barn wood—the bar, tables, flooring—and we need to build an addition at the rear for the kitchen.
Grist Mill Road Page 27
