“What do you need to outfox the cops for?”
Uncle Stewart snorted at the question, then let out a girlish giggle. “Never hurts to know. Listen to this: in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, the author makes you chase the perpetrator through the plot like a hound on a hunt, keeping you guessing: Who done it? Who done it? But then what does she do at the end?”
“I haven’t read—”
“She changes the game on you and reveals that it’s the narrator who is the killer! Hee-hee! The narrator! And the whole time, she was right there under your nose! So that’s women for you! See what I mean? Sanford? Do you see what I mean? Sanford? Sanford? Do you see what I mean, Sanford?”
“I see! Yes.”
“Oh, I don’t think you do. Because the work of death is hard, Sanford! And when I say that it’s hard, I mean that it is fraught with difficulties! Why, a person needs instruction, or at least inspiration; and if you can’t get either one of those, then you had damn well better have good information! I’m talking about the kind of information that you only get from the best. A genius! There are so many issues. For example, have you ever thought about how difficult it is to get rid of a body? Human body. Your size. Say a hundred pounds.”
“What? No.”
“Don’t shrug it off. Do not! Do not do that! That is not smart! You have to be smart! People are everywhere. Picking things up, looking underneath them, digging around to build things. You put a body somewhere that you can’t imagine anybody ever wanting to go, six months later somebody is putting in a housing development and your little gift gets dug up by the boys on the basement crew and you have to move out of the country. I read these things in stories.”
“Well, I like the stories that An Old Scout’ tells.”
“And besides getting rid of the body—an art in itself, as I say—there is the issue of alibi. Do you know what an alibi is?”
“Some kind of excuse.”
“No! No, no, no! Excuse? No. An alibi is your proof that you were nowhere near the crime at the time. Let me hear you say that. This is important.”
Sanford sighed, but only a little bit so that Uncle Stewart could not hear it. “Nowhere near the crime at the time.”
“That’s it. When you are drowning in the ocean and surrounded by sharks, your alibi is your life preserver. Check any of the great mystery writers. No exaggeration. You can’t just dump a carcass somewhere and go home and put on the radio. You have to ask yourself the same questions that the cops might want to ask you. And you better be ready with good answers if you don’t want to swing for it! Ha-ha-ha!”
“I guess.”
“Oh, you guess?” Uncle Stewart kicked at him again, just hard enough to connect this time. “Wake up! Murder is serious! An art! A science! Any lowlife can crawl up out of the gutter and, you know, just kill somebody, but it is the artist who gets away with it! You have to deal with the body—and let me tell you something, you would be amazed at how fast they go bad on you. And once you deal with the body, why, then you need your alibi! Meaning that you have to have somebody who can vouch for you. If you can’t get that, you have to make sure that you are somewhere alone when everything happens, so that nobody can prove things, you know, tell about your movements, when you come and go, et cetera, et cetera.
“Plus! You have to deal with the problem of witnesses! Best not to have any. I mean none whatsoever. Main reason being that it is only when you don’t have any witnesses at all that you don’t have to worry about getting your story straight! See that? Do you see how it all fits together? With no witnesses, your story is whatever you say it is!”
Sanford replied in reflex. “Maybe if you don’t do anything to cover up, you don’t have to keep your story—”
“Oh yeah! Demeanor! Demeanor is everything. It means that when you are sure that you’ve done your homework, you can stay as cool as a cucumber so you never lose your head. What you want is a Demeanor of Benign Affability. Let me see you do one.”
“What?”
“Demeanor! Demeanor! Show me how you look when you are nice and calm and you’re not thinking about anything and you don’t want any problems with anybody. That’s a Demeanor of Benign Affability, pal. It will be one of the most important tools in your future life. Mark me on that! So show me your demeanor. Go ahead.”
Sanford sighed, realizing that quick cooperation was his only hope at putting an end to whatever this was about. He relaxed his facial muscles into a neutral position and looked straight ahead, imagining that he was walking down a pleasant sidewalk on a sunny day.
“Hey! That’s it!! Ha-ha-ha! There you go! See? You knew what I meant all along, you sly devil! Let’s hear you say it.”
“The whole thing?”
“Damn it, Sanford!”
“Okay! Demeanor of baff—”
“Baff? Demeanor of baff? No, it is not a demeanor of baff! It is a demeanor of benign affability! Now say it!”
“Jesus, Uncle Stewart—demeanor of benign affability. All right?”
“Yes. All right. That’s what I’m talking about. You mark my words, my little budding criminal, that trick will serve you well in the future.”
“I don’t have any plans of—”
“Now! As far as getting rid of the body, and by that I mean as far as how important it is to do it properly, it is just this simple, my friend: cops can’t do a thing without a body.”
Uncle Stewart was in such an effusive mood that Sanford felt bold enough to voice the fear that was eating at him. “Uncle Stewart?”
“What.”
“Is that… is that where you were today?”
“Is what where I was?”
“Were you out getting your story straight?” Sanford’s stomach seemed to drop through the floor. His dread was so deep that he nearly lost control of his bladder and still he could not keep from asking.
Uncle Stewart spun to him with a glare, and Sanford knew that he had just overstepped his bounds. But to his surprise, a moment later the flash of rage dissipated and the grin returned. “I feel so good tonight that not even one of your stupid questions is going to spoil my mood!”
“I wasn’t trying to spoil your mood, I’m just … I was just worried.”
Uncle Stewart’s face actually softened at that. “All right, all right, I understand now. Are you trying to ask me what happened to the boy?”
“Well, yes. But I don’t mean to—”
“I told you, I understand. After all, he was here for a while, and you are aware that while he was here I screwed him for everything he was worth. Aren’t you? Say yes.”
“Yes.”
“And now he’s gone. So you’re worried.”
“Right. I just mean….”
“You just mean that you want to know what in the hell happened to him. Don’t you, Sanford?” Uncle Stewart was still standing within kicking range, but his face remained calm and his manner easy. “Because I’m telling you, I am confessing this to your face right here, my dick is so sore from doing that boy’s brown butt that I can barely hold it! If I need to pee, I’ll have to just drop trousers and let it swing like a monkey. Ha-ha! You realize that? Ha-ha-ha!”
“But it would be good if he just went off somewhere … I mean, if you let him go off somewhere … if you realized that he’s not going to want to speak about any of it.”
“Because you aren’t inclined to speak about any of it?”
“Well, I guess so.”
“Does that mean you’re not inclined to speak of it?”
“I guess it does.”
“You guess it what?”
“Does. It does.”
“Oh! That’s what I thought you said!” Uncle Stewart suddenly smiled at Sanford with a level of affection he had never shown before. He seemed nearly close to tears. “Sanford, you’ve got heart. God damn it, I will say that much for you. I will say it to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph on your Goddamned behalf!”
“I just—”
“Because you aren’t sitting there asking me anything for yourself! No! You just want to know what happened to some boy you never saw before. Some boy you’ll never see again.”
“Yeah, but just to know that he’s, you know, everything is all right.”
Uncle Stewart kneeled next to Sanford and gently kissed his cheek. “It’s a good question. I’m proud of you for asking.” He stood up again and looked back up to the sky, then did a little more deep breathing.
“So the answer then….” Sanford pressed.
Uncle Stewart put one hand on his hip and thrust it in Sanford’s direction, announcing with a devilish grin, “My lips are sealed!” He made a gesture that Sanford had seen before, pretending that there was a zipper on his lips and that he closed it and turned the key and threw it away. Then he spun on his heel like a smart-alecky girl and headed off for the tent, calling back over his shoulder. “I’m going to need the tent to myself tonight, so you can sleep in the henhouse. Take the lantern if you want to read some more. I don’t need it.” He lifted the tent flap and turned back to Sanford. “Don’t wake me up until coffee and eggs are ready, say six A.M. while it’s still cool.”
He disappeared inside the tent for another moment, then popped his head out a second time. “Oh, and I know all about how to get rid of a body and how to make somebody disappear. So as far as you being inclined to speak of it, if you ever say one word to anybody about anything that happens here—let me hear you repeat anything—”
“Anything.”
“—Anything at all, you will find out exactly how much I know on how to get rid of a body. Say that you understand.”
“I understand.”
“Good night, then!” He dropped the flap again, and this time it stayed down.
Sanford picked up his blanket and the lantern. Now that it seemed safe to let his guard down for the moment, his true level of fatigue hit him. The open sky was inviting. He had no desire to venture back into the tent to get his book. Instead he walked away a dozen yards or so and then smoothed out the blanket on the ground. He lay down and rolled himself up in it.
A couple of months after Sanford left with Uncle Stewart, as soon as Jessie was old enough, she arranged to move away from home, lining up temporary work and a place of her own. Her world was not one where a young woman waited around for marriage and motherhood. Even though Jessie’s family had no money or status, she had grown up in a time and place where life challenged most women to be independent and capable, regardless of their background. She had no interest in the demure female stereotype.
Still, Jessie also understood that throughout the years in her family house, her gender had protected her from activating the same levels of craziness in Winnie that Sanford and their father did—and which young Kenneth and the youngest, Eddie, were likely to do when they got older. Jessie grew up with her self-esteem essentially intact, so she was strong enough to keep her back straight and her gaze level in the presence of intimidation. The only reason that she had kept her anger to herself when Sanford was first sent away was because she wondered if he might be better off outside the reach of Winnie’s relentless browbeating.
Even so, Jessie thought there was something very creepy about Uncle Stewart. She could not stop herself from wondering if her brother’s life could actually improve under their uncle’s care. So Jessie had watched the mail while she was in her parents’ house and from time to time stopped by to ask her mother or father whether they had heard from Sanford. She did not expect frequent letters; she had never seen him write anything more than a couple of lines for school. But as time went on with no correspondence at all, she wondered if he was so angry that he wouldn’t write. Jessie could still see his forlorn expression on the day they’d had to say their good-byes. But her deepest intelligence told her that a budding young boy should not be exposed to relentless disrespect such as he got at home. Practically any other situation seemed better for him. Even if her brother was down in California complaining to himself about not being at home, he was still better off finishing his growing-up away from Winnie, wasn’t he?
After she reasoned her way through it, she began to feel that what she needed to do was to stop being so maternal about the whole thing. If Sanford was still angry, perhaps the modern thing to do for a growing young man would be to let him discover the value of the family himself. After all, Mama Winnie seemed perfectly willing to forget that Sanford was even alive, and Papa John was not inclined to push the issue at all. Even if he did, Jessie knew, he would only face the same penalties that he generally paid for coming out of his silence.
So Jessie kept quiet about it, but Sanford’s time away from home dragged on for her. She began to feel like she would give anything to be able to talk directly to him. Well-to-do people had a telephone in their homes and some ordinary people in the city supposedly had them, but she didn’t personally know anyone who did. The real obstacle was that even if they had a telephone station right next door, Uncle Stewart surely didn’t have a telephone at home. She snickered at the idea of the Northcotts going to such an unnecessary expense for a luxury like that. In truth, she could hardly blame them. She wondered how often a person really needed to speak with people who were far away, when there was always so much to get done right there at hand. True, the pair was down in America, and things were supposed to be different there somehow; but, still, telephones cost money and a lot of people were not used to the idea of spending just to talk. She and her parents, like most others, got their family news by mail.
On the other hand, Jessie was slim and energetic and her muscles were just as strong as her sense of determination, and so there was just no way for her to leave it entirely alone. She put on her comfortable shoes and made her way downtown to the main office of the telephone company. She took the long walk on a hunch that it would all somehow work out, without knowing what the procedure would be for finding out whether another person had a telephone, and if so, how to contact them.
When she arrived downtown, she inquired with the telephone office’s reception secretary, who informed her with no small amount of pride that a person could place a call right there from the downtown telephone office to the “Information Operator” in another town or province—or even in the United States—and the telephone company did not charge one single penny for the telephone call! Jessie was ecstatic. She could just reach out over a vast network of wires and find out whether or not somebody down in another country had a telephone. It was a marvel that this new machine could provide such information, and so quickly.
So she was able to confirm that there was no telephone anywhere in the state of California registered to a Gordon Stewart Northcott, nor to a George Northcott or a Louise Northcott, either. She hit a snag when the information operator informed her that a telephone owner could pay an extra fee and have their phone number withheld, which was called being “unlisted.” The worst part about it was that the company could not even confirm that such a person had a telephone, let alone what the phone’s number might be. Jessie’s consolation was that it cost extra to be “unlisted,” and she remembered the Northcott family well enough to know that their style was too austere for personal luxury. They were unlikely to indulge in the expense of a personal telephone in the first place, but they certainly would not agree to the extra cost of keeping their telephone unlisted.
That was as far as a telephone inquiry could take her. She started the long trip home and again skipped the bus. There was no reason for her not to be satisfied that she had gone above and beyond on the matter of contacting Sanford; nevertheless, she walked away carrying the persistent sensation that things were not right. It bothered her like a stubborn itch. Her concern was a matter of long habit. Being four years older than Sanford, she had stomped on bullies who tried to mess with her brother on more than one occasion. Now when certain thoughts flashed through her head regarding what she would do to Uncle Stewart if he ever allowed any harm to c
ome to Sanford, Jessie flushed with guilt and felt ashamed of the contents of her heart.
Four
It only took a couple of weeks to complete the farm’s basic ranch house, a simple rectangular box carved into two small bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen. George Northcott came out on Sundays, after putting in a full week at his own contracting business. He was always able to keep things moving along, in spite of his small physique. They had all the main components assembled for a working chicken ranch before the month was out. They threw up one particular shed that was completely covered with wood planks to keep it dark inside, and set up candling tables to check the eggs once they began to come in. They would then pack them into soft egg crates and get them ready for the market truck. They could put up two chicken coops per day if they pushed it, made of wooden slats over simple two-by-four frames with chicken wire and partially open rooftops, but after doing a few of those they began to just add on to the largest coop by expanding its far wall forward so that the simple coop could grow longer every time they needed more room for equipment or stock.
The place was soon stocked with hundreds of laying hens. They dug a shallow duck pond and brought in a stock of squab and a couple of goats to keep the lot weeded. The bungalow’s inside walls were nothing more than the framing studs and the horizontal lath boarding, but Uncle Stewart said that plastering would make a perfect indoor project for Sanford during his off-hours.
When nobody was around, he took to referring to Sanford as “my new darling,” which was how he addressed him every time he warned him not to talk to anybody. He liked to deliver the message after locking both hands around Sanford’s neck in a death grip and whispering to him, “I will grab you like this and keep on squeezing until you’re all the way gone.”
In keeping with Uncle Stewart’s love of secrecy, he never raped or beat Sanford when Grandpa George was around. Sometimes if the indoor radio was hooked up to the car battery and Grandpa George was in the other room, he would use the music to cover the sound of thumping Sanford’s head with something. Or sometimes he would employ a special little trick that involved his holding a glass tumbler with a thick bottom while he was lecturing and gesturing his arms around until he “accidentally” swept it past Sanford’s head so that the heavy glass caught him square in the temple. It hurt like hell, but Sanford knew better than to say anything to Grandpa. At times when Uncle Stewart didn’t have the radio for cover, he might fling a piece of scrap wood at him for making a mistake, maybe throw a single punch, but as long as Grandpa George was around, that was usually the extent of it. Sanford figured it was not all that bad, considering. Or that he ought to be able to put up with it.
The Road Out of Hell Page 6
