Half Life

by Helen Cothran

  Ah, that explains the limp. I glanced around the outdated kitchen, eyes focusing on the coffeemaker, pot full of dark brew.

  Faith noticed. “You want coffee?”

  I affirmed my interest so loudly I actually made the children flinch. Ha! One for Sam Larkin. I narrowed my eyes at the little people, then waggled by brows to let them know I was on to them. They erupted into giggles and fled the room.

  Faith shook her head. “They’ll be back. I’m making cookies, right?” As she poured the coffee, her back to me, I noticed how broad and muscular her shoulders were. Probably from all that yard work.

  Faith plunked a mug full of coffee on the counter and pointed to a sugar and creamer set. “Help yourself. Then we can sit in the living room, where it’s nicer.”

  While I scooped sugar out of a bull’s head and poured cream from a cow’s snout, Faith finished dolloping dough onto the cookie sheets, then shoved them into the oven. With any luck, she would offer me one of those puppies when they were done.

  I watched as she fixed herself some coffee, and while she bustled about I studied her face. It was wide and flat and white, like a full moon. I realized that despite the strength and energy she exuded, she looked dead tired. The skin below her eyes looked bruised, and her bulbous eyes had that glassy look one gets after days without sleep. She looked older than Matthew, but she was still only in her early thirties, too young for her face to get that saggy look that older people get as they lose the war with gravity. Maybe her kids were not so well behaved after all.

  Mugs in hand, we made our way to the living room, which honestly didn’t seem any “nicer” than the kitchen. The sofa and love seat, upholstered in brown and hunter green plaid, had been shredded by some feline, and the material was faded by time. The battered coffee table had seen better days. I sat gingerly on the love seat to avoid ripping through the decaying fabric. Faith plunked herself down on the couch, its ancient infrastructure groaning in protest.

  As we sipped coffee, I examined the room. Several crucifixes hung from the walls, the poor Jesuses looking sad and tormented. A fake wood bookshelf beneath the window held scores of trophies featuring plastic women holding guns; with my usual acumen, I took them to be shooting awards of some kind. Numerous barnyard knickknacks, no doubt relatives of the cow creamers, kept the trophies company. I wondered if the animal figurines were able to sleep at night with all those guns around. A humungous gun cabinet stood in the corner of the room.

  “So, how long have you and Matthew been married?” I asked just to get the ball rolling. Matthew would arrive at any minute, and I wanted to talk with Faith as much as I could before that.

  “Seven years,” she said, her voice forceful, like I was questioning her addition or their commitment to one another.

  Their oldest child looked to be about six, so that meant Faith had gotten pregnant right after the nuptials. She and Matthew had gotten right down to business. “How did you two meet?”

  “Church. Mr. Cornwell introduced us.”

  Ah, so the good therapist had hooked gay Matthew up with the woman in the parish voted most likely not to get married.

  I sipped my coffee. “Planning any more kids?” I asked just to keep Faith talking.

  She plunked her coffee cup on the stained wood coffee table and scrunched up her face. “I want as many as we can get. But Matthew says two is enough. At first we both said we wanted a dozen, but he changed his mind somewhere in there.” She stared down at her hands, which were calloused and muscled. Then she said quickly, “Course, kids are a lot of work. I don’t think Matthew figured on that. Guys don’t always get that part. But it’s not like he doesn’t enjoy being a daddy, he does.”

  I wondered at her defensive tone. Did she think I would judge Matthew harshly for only wanting two children? I thought two was probably all they could handle financially, at least judging by their house. Not knowing what else to say, I told her, “Your kids are so well behaved.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. She jerked her head up to glare at me. “Today’s a good day,” she snapped. “Believe me, they can be a real handful. But they’re just little kids. I don’t mind so much, I don’t work, but Matthew, he works all day. It’s hard coming home with the house in an uproar.”

  She seemed to want me to understand that her kids were just bad enough to explain why Matthew didn’t want any more. She certainly didn’t need to convince me—two was two too many, in my opinion. Maybe being married to an ex-gay made her protective of her husband, vigilant to correct any perception that he wasn’t straight as an arrow. I thought not wanting a passel of kids completely understandable, not a sign of shaky straightness. In any case, the subject of kids seemed to set her off, so I changed the subject. “Where does Matthew work?”

  She leaned back in her chair, relaxing now that we were off the topic of children. “He does this and that at the church. Mostly tidying up, arranging events, paying bills, things like that. I myself go on up there if they have a broken pipe or the lawn mower breaks down, I even fix the reverend’s car when it needs it. Stuff like that. Matthew, he’s no good at fixing things.”

  “I wouldn’t know how to fix a broken pipe if my life depended on it. How’d you learn to do all that?”

  She smiled for the first time. Her green eyes lost focus as her thoughts travelled. “My Daddy. He never got the son he wanted. But he treated me like one. He’d let me help him change the oil in the car, put in yard sprinklers, stuff like that. He took me camping, taught me to shoot.” She nodded at the gun cabinet.

  At that moment Matthew entered the room. His slightness seemed magnified as he walked over and stood next to Faith. He wore a pair of old blue jeans and a white polo shirt. He was as good-looking as I remembered, his dark wavy hair wet from the shower, his blue eyes so translucent they looked fake. Matthew flopped down on the couch next to Faith. In a move that seemed oddly automatic, they reached for each other’s hands.

  Faith said to him, “Sam is here to interview you about the mayor’s nuclear waste plan.”

  I smiled in what I took to be a professional way and said, “We met briefly the other day—Dr. Cornwell introduced us.”

  Matthew nodded, looked down at his lap.

  In the ensuing silence, Faith said, “We were talking about my daddy.”

  Matthew looked up at the trophies. “Faith was lucky to have a good relationship with her dad. My dad and I never got along. He liked hunting and fishing, and I hated that stuff. I preferred to hang around the house with Mom. That didn’t go over so well with him. Imagine that.”

  If I’d been telling this story, I’d have told it angry. But he sounded merely resigned. He seemed to have long ago accepted that his father disliked him.

  Now that Matthew had arrived it was time to start my interview. Before I could begin, however, the oven timer started beeping, and Faith limped from the room. The kids galloped from the back of the house into the kitchen, elbowing each other and shrieking. Within minutes Faith came out with a plate of hot cookies and offered me one. I grabbed three. They were heavenly—warm and gooey and oozing with melted chocolate chips. The kids shot through the room, fists full of cookies, and disappeared again. Faith sat down on the couch and grabbed Matthew’s hand again.

  Between bites, I said to Matthew, “So tell me how you got involved in the mayor’s nuclear waste plan.”

  He looked at me, his face expressionless. When he finally answered, it was as though he was already bored by the subject. “Dr. Cornwell asked if I’d help out. It’s not a very popular plan, so he was having a hard time getting volunteers.”

  Interesting that Matthew called Cornwell a doctor. Did he not know that his mentor lacked a medical license? Or did he use the title as a form of respect because Cornwell preferred it? I also noticed that it was Cornwell’s idea that Matthew get involved in the protest. “So what do you think of the mayor’s proposal?”

  Matthew shrugged. “It’s alright, I guess.”

  Faith j
umped into this enthusiasm vacuum. “Mr. Cornwell says it’s an important thing for the town.”

  Matthew did not add his opinion to this, perhaps realizing that what he thought was immaterial. His head hung, his eyes stared down at his hand clasped in Faith’s. I thought about the first time I was introduced to him, how Cornwell’s overbearing and over-friendly presence seemed to oppress him. I didn’t suppose he had always felt so iffy about his mentor—he would never have put his future into Cornwell’s hands if that were the case. Did his diminished feelings for Cornwell explain his lack of enthusiasm for the waste disposal plan? From the first photo I had seen of Matthew and Pete at the protests, I had assumed they were fighting over the proposal. Again I wondered if that first impression had been correct.

  It was pure speculation on my part, but I also wondered if they had been fighting over Matthew’s claim to be “cured.” Pete easily could have identified Matthew as the ex-gay Cornwell was touting around town, and Matthew would probably have had no trouble identifying Pete as gay. I could imagine the instant friction between them. I could see how that antagonism, that heat, could transform into passion. Who would have made the first move? Pete, definitely. Matthew would have denied the attraction, stamped down the desire. But Pete would have been persistent and persuasive, excited by the idea of “unconverting” Matthew. Pete was an activist, after all. Matthew would have resisted, but I suspected his same-sex attraction was never far below the surface. He had let Cornwell convince him to go straight—probably because his religion told him homosexuality was wrong, that’s usually the catalyst in these cases—and he had married Faith to seal the deal. But he himself, Matthew Thornton, had never really changed, I would bet on it. And along comes vibrant, passionate, handsome Pete. Talk about temptation.

  I decided to test my hypothesis that the initial conflict between Matthew and Pete was not about their differing views on nuclear power. “So, Matthew, what do think about nuclear power, given the current waste disposal issues?”

  He shrugged. At this rate, he was going to tear a rotator cuff. “I guess the waste worries me, to be honest. People can get cancer when exposed to radioactive waste. I think about my kids. But,” he rushed to say, “Dr. Cornwell says that’s why we need to store it correctly. Then it can’t hurt anyone. It makes sense.”

  “But why here in Desert Rock? We don’t even use energy from nuclear power.”

  He sat quietly, thinking it over. “Dr. Cornwell says it’s our duty. We have all this empty land. He said we should do it for the greater good.”

  I pushed a bit harder. “But what do you think? Surely you have a strong personal opinion on the subject. You’ve been helping the mayor after all.”

  He shrugged again. Answering my questions taxed him, his fervor for the issue apparently nonexistent. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “We need energy, don’t we? And all energy sources cause problems. Using gas in your car causes smog. Those windmills out by Thomas Pass aren’t anything great to look at. Nuclear power is no different.”

  This tepid speech made me fairly certain that Matthew’s passion in that first photograph was not about nuclear waste. I decided to bring up Pete, see how he’d react. “I’ve been following the protests in the paper. I saw a couple photos of you. In one of them, you’re arguing with a guy named Pete Castillo. Then there was another photo of the two of you, but in that one, you looked more like friends. Did you guys simply agree to disagree about the proposal?”

  As I spoke, Matthew sat bolt upright and pulled his hand away from Faith’s. He had gone as rigid as a corpse.

  Well, well, well.

  Faith glared at me, green eyes livid. What did she know, or suspect, about Matthew and Pete?

  Eyes wide and unblinking, Matthew sputtered, “I know what photos you’re talking about . . . I knew that guy, but I didn’t know him, you know what I mean. We were just at the protests, on opposite sides, I didn’t know him personally, I didn’t even know his name. Until you told me just now.”

  The past tense was interesting—it was as if he knew Pete was dead. Also interesting was the lie. How could Matthew not know who Pete was? It’s not like we lived in some huge metropolis. He admitted seeing the photos in the paper—how could he have failed to see the captions as well, which identified Pete? And why was he practically stammering?

  Not one to beat around the bush, I said, “You obviously do know Pete. Why would you claim otherwise?”

  Faith hissed, “I thought you said you were a writer, researching a book on nuclear waste. Why are you asking about this Pete person?”

  Faith was not going to be flustered like Matthew was. Think fast, Sam. “Sorry, got off track a little there.” I thought I’d better try to back it out, mumble something conciliatory, but my big mouth opened wide and said, “The reason I’m curious is because Pete’s been missing for two weeks. The sheriff’s department thinks he was murdered.”

  It grew so quiet I could hear Faith and Matthew breathing, and they were breathing hard. Tot-level arguing could be heard in one of the bedrooms at the back of the house, something about a dinosaur in a dollhouse. The sweet rich scent of baking cookies, which had smelled so delicious before, now seemed cloying.

  “What does this have to do with us?” Faith spit, anger making her voice tight. She grabbed Matthew’s hand, and I could see that he was trembling.

  If I didn’t smooth things over fast, Faith was going to get one of her daddy’s guns and put a hole through my head. “I, uh, just find the protest so fascinating, you know, the human interest part. I could see in the photographs how passionate Matthew and Pete were. I was interested in talking with both of them, putting quotes from real people in my book. Readers love that. But when I tried to set up an interview with Pete, I was told he was missing. That’s why I asked Matthew about him. I wondered if he might know what happened to Pete. I’m sorry if I sounded rude. I get carried away with my work sometimes.” I smiled, hoping my dimples would make me look sincere.

  Matthew said nothing. He tried to pull away from Faith and retreat into himself. Faith actually yanked him back to her, whether to control or comfort him was hard to tell. “We don’t take kindly to people coming into our home and calling us liars,” she said.

  Actually, I thought, I had accused only Matthew of lying. Wisely, I decided not to point that out. “Again,” I smiled to make my dimples deepen, “I’m really sorry.”

  Faith wasn’t buying it. I swear I felt a thrumming emanating from her person, a low-level electrical hum presaging fiery cataclysms. “I think we’ve said all we’re going to say to you.” She stood up, leaving Matthew sitting alone on the sofa. He looked straight ahead, not meeting my eyes.

  I got to my feet with fake nonchalance. “Well,” I said in a chirpy voice, which I hate to admit cracked right at the end. “I’d best be off. Thank you for the information. It was nice meeting both of you.”

  I forced myself to walk to the front door at a normal pace, though my body itched to be out of there. Faith followed behind me, her body so close I could feel her breath on the back of my neck. When we got to the front door she reached around me, her body jostling mine, and yanked open the door. I turned to mutter goodbye and saw her towering over me, face stony.

  “Sorry about the misunderstanding,” I said, trying one last time.

  Faith put her hand on my shoulder and gave me the tiniest shove. “Goodbye,” she said, her tone saying that this goodbye meant forever.

  16

  After I left the Thorntons I went to see Trent on the chance that he would be working on a Saturday. To hedge my bets I stopped by Donut Haven and bought six donuts and two cups of coffee. What the heck, I’d only eaten three cookies at the Thorntons.

  When I entered the sheriff’s department, I found Deputy Wise at his usual post behind his desk pushing papers.

  He looked up at me, started to smile, then his mouth dropped opened.

  Before he could ask, I said wearily, “My dog broke it.” My God, how long wou
ld the stupid thing take to heal so I could stop explaining that ridiculous incident?

  Trent gawked at me like I had sprouted a second head. Then he noticed the donut bag and lost all interest in my nose. We exchanged pleasantries while chowing down, then I got to the purpose of my visit. “Any developments in the Castillo case?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No new evidence or leads. Our number one suspect has been beating people up again, though.”

  “Raul Castillo?”

  “Yep.”

  “Whoa, now that’s interesting. Do you think his latest antics have anything to do with Pete’s disappearance?”

  Trent took a gulp of coffee before he answered. “I don’t think so. Just another drunken bar fight. The owner of Cactus Sam’s told Raul that that’s it, he’s not allowed in the bar from now on. The guy’s a bully and he drinks too much.”

  I wondered if I should tell Trent about Raul threatening me. I didn’t want him to decide that my involvement in the case was too dangerous. On the other hand, I would probably feel safer if I told him. Hearing about Raul’s latest pugilistic activities had not made me feel any better about our unpleasant encounter. Besides, I concluded, I had promised Trent that I would keep him informed.

  “Just to let you know,” I said as nonchalantly as I could, “Raul came by my house and threatened me.”

  Trent’s jaws stopped moving mid-chew.

  I hastened on. “He didn’t hurt me or anything. Just told me that if I didn’t keep out of his business, I’d be sorry. It was ridiculous, really. Then he got scared off by Lacy, if you can imagine. You’ve met the dog, she’s as threatening as a baby—and not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Hardly a savage watchdog.”

  “Sam, this is serious. What exactly did Raul say?”

  I told him. Trent did not look pleased.

  “Did he touch you?”

  “No,” I lied.