A Show of Hands

by David Crossman

  “You think so?”

  “No doubt,” Leeman replied. “I mean, think about it. If you was just locked in there, that’s one thing. You can put the fear of God into someone that way. But they turned on the generator. Yessir. They meant to kill you.” He snapped his fingers. “Yessir. You must’ve been gettin’ close to somethin’.” There was a time Crisp had thought so, too. Now he was beginning to wonder if he was close enough. “Did you?”

  “I’ve found out a few things,” Crisp replied.

  “I knew it!”

  “Now, that’s just between you and me, Leeman. Right?”

  “Right,” Leeman affirmed solemnly. How good that word would be remained to be seen.

  “Can you help me out?”

  “You bet,” said Leeman. “You name it!”

  “I want you to find out if Neddy McKenniston has a blazer . . . or a sports jacket—”

  “ ’Course he does. Them kind of people got hundreds.”

  “That may be,” said Crisp. “But this one will have buttons missing. I shouldn’t be surprised if it’s navy blue.”

  Leeman thought for a moment. “It’s important?” Crisp nodded. “Evidence?”

  “Could be.”

  “I don’t s’pose you’ll tell me why.”

  “Not yet,” said Crisp. “Not ’til I’m sure. Can you do it?”

  “Sure I can.”

  “Thanks.” Crisp patted his new apprentice on the arm. “Let me know as soon as you find out anything.” Leeman got up to leave. “And thank the ladies for me.”

  “Ladies?”

  “For the flowers.”

  “Oh, the girls. Sure I will.”

  Thirty minutes later, Matty still hadn’t come home. Crisp had dressed; that is to say, he’d pulled on his slippers and tugged his favorite cardigan—the one Matty hated so intensely—over his pajamas. He was sitting in the cane rocker by the window, watching three ladies from the Eastern Star putting little flags around the quadrangle in preparation for Memorial Day observations. He couldn’t make out who they were.

  A cold, steady, mist-heavy wind tore at the red, white, and blue banners, making them seem like butterflies pinned to a board. Another lady removed a year’s worth of beer cans, rocks, gum wrappers, and other debris from the mouth of the cannon. Wouldn’t do to litter the landscape with rubbish when they touched it off at the conclusion of “God Bless America.”

  That cannon would be a nice place to be, thought Crisp. To have his head tightly wedged in it when it went off. Boom. All over. Just like that. No more pain. Just crisp little pieces of Crisp raining gently over the island and blowing out to sea.

  Where was Matty?

  He hobbled to the nightstand and, after a brief battle with his inner man, picked up the little brown bottle, opened it, and poured two pills into his palm. He took them without water, chewing them to a fine paste on his tongue. The taste almost made him vomit. It was his way of atoning for weakness.

  Almost at once the familiar tingle surged across his shoulders and up the back of his neck, the welcome harbinger of blessed relief. But it didn’t come without a price. It demanded the sacrifice of reason, for a time, the erasure of that fine line between sanity and madness.

  He didn’t want to stay in the room; the ghosts were crowding in—Timothy Hall, Amanda Murphy, Mostly Sanborn, Sangé Timor, and a host of others. The longer he remained there, under the influence of the drug, the more corporeal he knew they’d become. He pulled his robe over his shoulders and started down the stairs.

  “Professor!” The voice came from the far end of the hall. It was Nate Gammidge. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” He was talking with his mouth full. Apparently he’d started his search in the kitchen.

  With both hands on the banister, Crisp continued his descent. Nate was now at the bottom of the stairs. “Nate?” he said. He was having difficulty focusing; the medicine seemed to set his eyes adrift in their sockets.

  “I just found this little piece of apple—” Gammidge’s eyes settled on Crisp. “Winston! Do you want some help?” He placed the pie plate on the radiator and ran up the stairs. “Should you be out of bed?”

  “Should I be out of the grave?” Crisp whispered hoarsely. Keeping one hand on the banister, he wrapped his other arm tightly around Gammidge. “I’ll be all right,” he said. “It’s the medicine they gave me . . . makes me a little foggy.”

  “How long ago did you take it?”

  “About thirty minutes.”

  “Well, don’t take this the wrong way,” said Gammidge. “But you look like hell on a bad day.”

  Crisp smiled. It came easy with a head full of helium. “That seems to be the consensus.” Billy Pringle would understand. Further conversation was suspended until Gammidge had installed his charge in the porch swing.

  “There, now. How’s that? Better?”

  He had no idea how much better. It dawned on Crisp that, with the exception of being shuffled back and forth between cars and ferries, he hadn’t been out of doors in nearly three weeks. He took a long, deep, satisfying breath.

  The air still had a sharp edge to it, burdened by brine, pine, juniper, and sweet grass. He exhaled and breathed again. More than sight, sound, touch, or taste, smells seemed to stir up a cauldron of dormant memories. Friendly ghosts awoke and looked about, laughing a distant though familiar laughter, singing songs with words he’d thought forgotten.

  He was glad to be alive, at least for the moment. He wanted to sing, or laugh. He did neither. If someone had played a jig, though, he doubted his capacity to resist a turn or two about the garden.

  “Much better,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “Pleasure,” said Gammidge. He sat in the wicker chair opposite Crisp. “Professor?”

  “Nate?”

  “I’m here on business.”

  Business, his own or anybody else’s, was the farthest thing from Crisp’s mind. “I see,” he said dreamily. “Well . . .” There wasn’t anywhere to go. “Well, I see.”

  “You’re sure you’re all right?” Gammidge had dealt with a lot of drunks, and Crisp was doing a perfect impersonation.

  “I’m fine,” said Crisp. He smiled a stupid smile in affirmation.

  “Maybe too fine,” said Gammidge under his breath.

  “Pardon?”

  “Somebody’s been leaking information to the press,” Gammidge said bluntly, realizing that anything approaching subtlety or finesse was out of the question, given Crisp’s present state of mind. “Hanson wants to know if it’s you.”

  Crisp’s head bobbed up and down and side to side. He knew that Gammidge had said something important. Something crucial. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Me?”

  “Did you leak to the press?” said Gammidge flatly.

  “Take a leak?” said Crisp. “Not right now, thanks.” He knew he wasn’t making any sense. But it was amusing to hear how things came out.

  “Winston,” Gammidge continued earnestly, taking Crisp by the shoulders and looking him in the eye. “I’ve got to know. Did you tell the press about”—he looked around and lowered his voice—“about the fingerprints being on those buttons . . . anything about fingerprints?”

  Crisp shook his head as if to dislodge the fog that had taken up residence in his brain. “Didn’t tell,” he said with great effort. “Said nothing. Why?”

  “Because they’re asking questions. Somebody’s talking, and there aren’t that many who know.”

  It was hard not to smile. Crisp felt happy. He wanted to write a poem about happiness, about dancing with gossamer-clad sirens and tripping down alpine hillsides festooned with edelweiss. Something told him he shouldn’t ask Gammidge to dance, but he wanted to. It was at that moment he saw a trail of blood on the floor. He knew whose it was. He knew where it would lead if he followed it.

  He didn’t want to follow.

  “Amanda,” he said softly. The smile dissolved from his face like sugar in bitter tea and,
with it, happiness. His eyes brimmed with tears, and they flowed freely down his face.

  Nate wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Professor,” he said gently. “Winston.” He placed his hand on Crisp’s shoulder. How much of this imbecility was the by-product of the medicine and how much was attributable to the recent strain, it was impossible to tell. However, if the old Crisp was in there, he had to be found. Gammidge shook him lightly. “Winston, if the press finds out half of what’s been going on—”

  “Winston!” It was Matty’s voice.

  “There you are!” she said as she flung open the French door. “What on earth are you doin’ down here? Hello, Mr. . . .”

  “Gammidge.”

  “Gammidge, that’s right,” Matty replied. “Well, how in heaven’s name . . .” She proceeded to straighten Crisp’s robe about him. “I’ve just been next door havin’ a little chat with . . . You’ll catch your death out here, Winston. Did you take your eleven o’clock? Never mind, I see you did.” She turned to Gammidge. “His medicine takes away his senses. The pain, you know. It’s too much. His eyes get all glassy, like a stuffed animal. What can we do for you, Captain?”

  Gammidge wasn’t sure how he’d come by the promotion, but he decided it might be expeditious not to argue the point. “I just wanted to see him,” he said, not altogether untruthfully, “and talk about a few things.”

  “Oh, no point in that,” said Matty. She’d produced a quilt from somewhere and was arranging it in Crisp’s lap. “Not when he’s on his medicine. Takes away his senses, like I said . . . I said that, didn’t I?”

  “Yes,” Gammidge confirmed.

  “See, I’m not as silly as they say.” She smiled at her hands, which were busy doing something. “No Gammidges on the island, are there?” she asked conversationally.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” said Gammidge. “Quite a few.” He’d had enough experience with islanders to know that talking to them would be easier if he could demonstrate a relationship, however distant, with a native.

  “Really?” said Matty, looking at him squarely. “You don’t say? Now, how is it I—”

  “They’re over on East Haven.”

  Matty’s lips curled at the corners. He didn’t understand. “Oh. East Haven. Well, that’s not the same, is it?”

  “It isn’t?” said Gammidge weakly.

  “Of course not,” said Matty with a little wag of the head. “Do you get out there much?”

  Gammidge was deflated. “No,” he said. “Hardly ever.”

  “Not close family then,” Matty guessed.

  “Not real close,” said Gammidge. He didn’t even know any of their first names. “Not really.” So much for the presumption of affinity. “My wife and I have vacationed out here a few times,” he said, wishing at once that he hadn’t mentioned it. “She has family out here.”

  Matty bustled from the porch for a moment, but that didn’t stop her from talking, which she did steadily in a chirpy singsong until she returned with the half-eaten pie and a cup of hot tea. “Did you ever go up there? . . . Tea, wasn’t it? This is yours, isn’t it? I’ve warmed it.”

  “Tea, yes,” said Nate, juxtaposing the answers as he took the cup. “Thanks. Yes, that’s mine. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not a’tall,” said Matty, who was rather more flattered than offended.

  “What was your question?” said Nate with his mouth full. The pie was even better warm.

  “Did you ever go up there to the dance?” said Matty. She placed a cup on a little tile-topped table beside Crisp. She doubted he’d take any tea, but she would keep an eye on him just in case. He’d need help. “Didn’t you hear what I was sayin’?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Gammidge. “I was—”

  “I was talkin’ about the time I went up to East Haven, back in the thirties. There was a dance at the yacht club. This young man asked me up there. I can’t for the life of me remember his name. Well, you wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but . . .”—she blushed a little—“well, there was a boy or two who looked my way in those days.”

  It was Gammidge’s turn to smile. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

  Matty smiled coyly. It fit her. “Well, I don’t recall exactly how we met, but . . . oh, yes I do, come to think of it. Lanky Pinkham introduced us. They was havin’ a play at the Memorial Hall . . . or a concert . . . somethin’ like that . . .” Matty sipped her tea. “Of course, come to think of it, I don’t know how Lanky came to know him.” She brightened. “Anyway, I wasn’t more than fifteen or sixteen, and he asked me if I’d go to the Labor Day dance up at the yacht club. Well, I tell you . . . there were stories about them dances!” Matty flushed slightly but plowed bravely forward nevertheless.

  “ ’Course, I wouldn’t have gone alone . . . just me and him, I mean. But there was generally a wagon load of kids went up there from here. Let me tell you, that was a sight! We all had to wear pink or yellow gowns—chiffon mostly, in them days—and the boys all wore white pants, muslin shirts, and blue blazers—”

  “Blue blazers!” said Crisp. The word had poked through his muddled consciousness like a needle.

  Matty and Gammidge watched him for a moment. Matty’s expression was one of forbearance and understanding; Gammidge looked worried and confused. Nothing else was forthcoming.

  “He does that sometimes,” said Matty. “Calls out like that when he’s under the medicine. Don’t mind him. Anyway, where was I? Oh, blue blazers and white sailor hats—that was the tradition up there. Still is, I hear. That’s what I mean about there being a difference.”

  Gammidge, not nearly as adept at following the thread of Matty’s conversation as Crisp, was shaking his head, trying to sort things out. “Difference?”

  “Between the islands,” said Matty cheerily. “That kind of thing would never happen here. We’re a fishin’ town. East Haven . . . well”—she leaned closer and lowered her voice—“that’s for summer folk, don’t you know?” She lowered her voice a little more and leaned a little closer. “They’ve got a golf course up there, you know.” She lowered her head gravely and stared at him over the top of her glasses.

  “I see,” Gammidge said. He was beginning to. “So, that was quite a treat?”

  “Oh!” said Matty with a high, tinkling laugh, “I should say so! I never forgot it all these years . . . though I can’t for the life of me remember that boy’s name . . . but oh, my goodness, I should say it was a treat! Dancin’ ’til one o’clock! The food! You wouldn’t believe!” She lapsed into a moment’s silent reverie. “Never did get up there again.”

  “Never?”

  Matty shook her head. “Once is enough. Spend too much time in that kind of life . . . well, you start thinkin’ more of yourself than’s proper.”

  Crisp couldn’t tell if his eyes were open, but he was seeing both Matty and Gammidge as well as a roomful of young women in pink and yellow chiffon dancing with straight-backed young men in white slacks and blue blazers. And threading her way through the dancing couples was Amanda Murphy, radiant in her black body stocking, billowing multicolored skirt, and flowing red hair. Her back was always to him now. Always walking away, never responding to his calls.

  His consciousness was trying to rally from the quagmire of his thoughts. “Buttons,” he said. “Labor Day dance . . .”

  “Did you hear that?” said Matty. No young mother could be prouder of her infant’s first words. “He picks up bits and pieces of what we say. Who said anything about buttons?” she asked herself aloud. “Will you be stayin’ to supper?”

  The phone rang and Matty rushed off to answer it.

  “Don’t leave me now,” said Gammidge. He shook Crisp gently by the knee. “The water’s too deep for me.”

  All of a sudden the dancers were up to their ankles in water. The music played on, but Amanda ran toward the door, screaming. He called out to her. “Stay where you are! I’m coming!”

  Of course, she was already dead. Someone else would h
ave to save her now.

  “That’s Mr. Hanson on the phone, Mr. Gammidge,” said Matty. “He wants you.” Crisp convulsed slightly. His mouth was moving, but he only groaned. “He’s havin’ one of his dreams,” Matty explained.

  Gammidge rose slowly and made his way toward the hall. “Does he do that often?”

  “A lot lately,” Matty replied. “Ever since they found that girl up at the quarry. I’ve never seen him so upset.”

  Matty sat down, emptied a small bundle of fiddleheads into her apron, and began removing the stems. She couldn’t make out Gammidge’s end of the phone conversation, nor did his responses give much away. Not that she was listening intentionally. That would be eavesdropping, so she listened unintentionally.

  She heard the phone replaced in its cradle and anticipated Gammidge’s footsteps, but they didn’t come. He must be just standing there, she thought. Doing nothing. The longer he did nothing, the more she wanted to find out why. “What do you suppose he’s up to?” she whispered to Crisp. She rose halfway and craned her neck toward the kitchen door. “Can’t see anything.”

  All at once she heard his footsteps approaching. “Here he comes!” She sat down a little too promptly, spilling a handful of fiddleheads onto the floor. “Oh, now there, I’ve done it!” Folding her apron carefully around the fiddleheads still in her lap, she got down on her hands and knees and began retrieving the escapees.

  Gammidge helped her. “When does the medicine wear off?” he asked. His face was flushed, his tone insistent.

  “Well, that depends when he takes it,” said Matty. She resumed her seat, cradling the young fern fronds in her lap.

  “No, I mean how long does it usually take to wear off? You know, the . . .” He tapped his forehead with his forefinger.

  “Oh,” said Matty, “he’s usually himself in three to four hours. That’s how long it seems to last. Hard to get him to take it durin’ the day, the way he’s s’posed to. I usually have to get after him somethin’ fierce. He must’ve been hurtin’ bad.”

  “He took it about a half hour ago.”

  “He’ll be out like Rip van Winkle for a while now,” said Matty.