“I couldn’t flush it and I had to go,” Sandra told him, somewhat defensively, a natural rasp to her voice that Martin liked.
“Try it now,” he told her over his shoulder, not turning away from the window. “We fixed the water.”
“Doesn’t work,” she answered.
“You might have to prime it with water from the kitchen. There is a bucket under the sink.” He did not move, still wondering if he was going to faint. The young lady did not move.
“Do it now.” He had not heard that edge to his voice since Christie ran into the street after her cat. Finally he turned into the room and listened to her plodding steps descending the stairs. He heard the water splashing into the bucket and followed her return. He wondered why she wasn’t sick.
When she stood in the hallway, holding the bucket of water, there was defiance in every muscle and a tremble in her features. She looked lumpy and vulnerable in the pathetic hallway light. A stubborn young lady, Martin thought.
“Jesus, help us,” he moaned. He moved slowly, like a drunk, toward her. His balance was out of whack, and he pitched a bit from side to side. He took the bucket in one hand and covered his nose and mouth with the other. It had to be well over a hundred degrees up here. He and Joe slept on the porch roof on nights like this.
“Lift the lid and I will pour.” His voice was muffled by his hand, but clear enough. The toilet flushed, but no new water came into the tank. The water must be shut off. What had the girl used for drinking water? In this heat, she had to have water. He was sure Tom said she was missing for five days. Saturday morning, Bill said, and this was Thursday. Six days up here: how had she survived?
Martin tried the faucet on the sink for water and it broke off in his hand. He tried the bathtub; nothing there either. He would fix that later. He returned to the window and the girl followed him.
“How do you know who I am?” she asked in a snotty tone that did not hide her desperation. It was Martin’s turn not to answer. He couldn’t talk any more. As soon as he brought his head inside he felt a clamp of heat cover his face and burn in his eyes.
Instead of trying to talk, he looked at the old, stuffed mattress and thought it must be home to countless numbers of creatures both big and tiny. A sleeping bag lay across the top of the mattress. Between the bed and the wall were bundles of supplies and camping equipment. He couldn’t tell what was in the cloth bag bundles, but it satisfied his curiosity as to how she survived.
The hideout was planned. The supplies were stashed. She probably had not realized the stifling upstairs heat in the summer or given proper thought to the lack of hygiene, or understood the rat infestation.
“Hauk is probably searching every camp ground in the whole state, maybe Minnesota and Iowa and Nebraska,” Martin commented, softly, thoughtfully.
To this comment, Sandy covered her face and turned away. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” she said into her hands.
A sudden brisk breeze lifted the siege of heat. “Twenty-four hours ago I was riding the bus in a storm. Weren’t you afraid of the storm?” Martin asked this because he could not understand her sudden change of emotion.
“I was more afraid of the rats,” she answered, again facing him in the near darkness. “I almost went home and told my parents everything, but I couldn’t. So, I kept my flashlight on all night. I remembered to bring batteries.” She smiled. Anyway, Martin thought it was a smile.
“How did you manage?” Martin asked with such a genuine concern that Sandra looked at him, hard.
“I thought I would die and hoped I would, except basketball practice starts in three weeks,” she finally answered. She stood still as a statue, not a muscle moved. Martin thought of bad actors in a play. Neither of them could move. Neither of them knew what to do with their next minute of time.
“Basketball starts in three weeks,” Martin repeated. That struck a chord in him. He remembered counting the days and hours until official practice started. Not an odd thing to say; of course a person could not die with basketball starting in three weeks.
“Joe and I played basketball,” he told her. “Joe didn’t play his senior year. Where was Joe? Joe was dead.”
Sandra took two steps backward, preparing to run. Martin saw her movement, and he forced away his thought of Joe. Not now, not now. “I’ve had a nervous breakdown,” he told her. “But I’m not psycho, and I won’t hurt you.”
He passed by her and started down the steps. She followed him, slowly, tentatively. “I forgot the girls play basketball in the fall in South Dakota.” He tried to make up for his earlier lapse into stress with trivia, but realized he couldn’t and said nothing more.
He pulled the peanut butter and jelly from the refrigerator. Neither said a word while Martin made sandwiches. Sandra went upstairs and returned with a liter bottle of 7-Up. They sat crossed legged on the floor, passing the warm soda back and forth, and eating without saying a single word.
Chapter Four
Bill was not pleased to see Martin at his front door before the sunrise was more than a vague line of light along the horizon. Still Bill opened the door and gestured for his neighbor to come inside. The gesture may have been a little sharp, but nothing that appeared to disturb Martin.
“Hurry up, Bill.” Martin sounded frantic. He had the look of a man who had not slept or showered or changed clothes. “We have things to get.” Martin pulled a sheet of folded paper from his coat pocket. He began to read from the list.
Martin’s voice followed Bill into his bedroom. As Bill tied his shoes, he heard, “Three pounds of six-inch nails, eight window panes each measuring . . .”
Bill tiptoed in the darkness, trying not to wake Tillie, and then decided that Tillie should be awake to get some clue as to what he was forced to tolerate. Share his misery. He dropped his wallet, banged a drawer, and shut the bathroom door with a bang. When he emerged Tillie had slid her feet to the floor. “I’ll make coffee,” she said.
When Bill returned to the living room, Martin remained standing inches inside the front door. The living room was separated from the kitchen by an L-shaped counter, and Tillie stood behind the counter. Bill did not like that Tillie smiled at Martin. He wasn’t sure why he was bothered by Tillie’s pasted-on smile. The phoniness annoyed him. He said, “Coffee ready?”
Martin had on his coat which was unbuttoned and hung open to expose the wrinkled tan pants. Martin appeared edgy and ready to go, every minute a torture.
Tillie said, “You look good, better even than one day ago.” Apparently she looked past the wrinkled pants and dark circles under his eyes. Bill looked again. He thought it must be lovely to have Tillie’s rose-colored vision. Though on second look, Martin’s skin was tighter on his face. He was not so slack along his jaw.
“Relax, Martin,” Tillie told him. She poured coffee into mugs and pulled toast from the toaster with her finger-tips.
“Cassandra is pregnant,” Martin answered.
Bill, who had moved to stand at the counter and wait for his toast, clenched his teeth. He felt his muscles tighten. “Damn, Martin,” he said. “I’m willing and even glad to help. I owe your family a lot. But I will not tolerate any of your hallucinations. I absolutely cannot and will not handle that.”
Martin cast his eyes down. The only sound was Bill swallowing his coffee in gulps. He stood at the counter with his back to Martin.
Tillie said, “No one has mentioned that thought before. I’m sure she cannot be pregnant. It would be impossible to be pregnant in a town like Wheaton, especially in the summer, without people knowing it. A girl cannot hide a thing like that for long, not the way kids talk.”
Bill told himself he could not be angry at Martin. Martin had an excuse. He was nuts. However, he could be angry with Tillie for her foolish and false encouragement. He tried to catch her eye, but she knew not to look at him.
Tillie said, “That would be the first thing everyone would be whispering about if it were a possibility.”
With delibe
rate slowness, Bill put his cup down on the counter. “Don’t encourage him, Tillie. The girl is not pregnant and that is the end to it. Martin could not possibly know a thing like that. It is ridiculous!” Bill looked long and hard at his wife. She did not know the necessity of denying Martin his ramblings. It just got Martin into a big depression.
“Sandra can’t be pregnant.” Martin said with his eyes still downcast. Then he looked up. He looked straight and square at Bill. “Sorry, Bill. I won’t mention it again. Sandra is not pregnant, but Joe is dead.”
“See what you’ve done.” Bill directed his words to his wife, but he forced his voice to be calm because tears were already gathering around her eyes.
Turning to Martin, forcing his shoulders to relax, Bill said, “Martin, do you have money to buy what you need? Let me see your list.” Martin looked up, pulled the folded sheet from his coat pocket.
“Nancy sent me money, and she sent my credit card.” He pulled the credit card from his pocket. A piece of folded paper came with it. Martin smiled as he picked the paper up from the floor. “It’s my instructions from Nancy. She made a list of what I can use the credit card for. I cannot use the credit card for anything that is not on this list.”
Bill staunchly ignored Martin’s regression into child-like speech. He chose rather to take the list from Martin’s hand. While Martin’s thoughts appeared to ramble in a fantasy world, his list was absolutely clean and precise but equally fantastic. “It will take a semi for this stuff, Martin.”
“They deliver,” Martin said.
Bill was aware through Maureen of the weeks that Martin had not spoken at all, not a word. Martin was a long way from weeks of utter silence. Bill decided to accept progress where he could. He returned the list and went for his jacket. The mornings were already cool.
Martin carefully folded the list around the credit card and put it deep in his pocket. “I can get whatever I need for the house. House is on the list. Nancy knows that I know what I need for the house.”
“Nice of her,” Tillie said with some sarcasm in her tone. “After all, it was you who made Nancy a rich woman.”
Bill glanced at his wife, relieved that she had dropped the phony chit-chat and annoying smile. Martin did not appear to have heard her. Instead he accepted a buttered toast on a napkin from Tillie’s outstretched hand.
They would have to take the pick-up to bring home even some of the stuff on Martin’s list. Bill stepped toward the door. He said, “Since Nancy sent you money, you can buy lunch.”
Bill relaxed his muscles to show no sign of tension. He managed what he considered to be a cheerful expression. Dealing with Martin was like the stress of a cattle auction. He had to maintain his auction face. He just wished he had not waked Tillie.
Martin stood studying the list and not moving while cold air rushed through the door Bill held open. “Lunch is not on the list,” Martin said. “I will have to use the cash. I know you like lunch. All you have to do is remind me when it is time.”
Bill could no more help the surge of affection that tightened his chest than he could deny his responsibility before God to help this man. Martin’s dad had once saved him from financial ruin, a long time ago but not forgotten. He told Martin’s dad at the time he would look out for those boys. He didn’t know what made him say it, but those words came from his heart. “Someday,” he told Mr. Webster, “those boys might need me and I’ll help them like you helped me.” He could not help Joe and the grief of that boy’s death still tightened his throat. He would do what he could and all he could for Martin.
Just as Bill thought they were leaving, Tillie decided to try conversation again. She could not help herself. Tillie moved toward the door saying, “Has Sheriff Hauk been to your place yet? He seems to be everywhere, even drove down this road.”
For a second, raw fear crossed Martin’s eyes. She looked questioningly from Martin to Bill and back to Martin. Bill said, “It’s okay, Martin. Tillie just did not want you to be surprised if a sheriff car pulls into your driveway.” He now regretted waking up his wife as much as anything he ever did.
“Don’t worry about Sheriff Hauk.” Bill was now trying to shut the door behind himself and Martin. “He won’t be stopping at your place. He scratched off his list the places Sandra would not be at. Your place is not on his list.” He checked Martin to see if Martin caught his meaning. Bill saw a slight smile of understanding. Martin understood that his house was not on Sheriff Hauk’s list. The Sheriff would not find Sandra there.
“I think she ran off with some man,” Bill prattled on. “No matter what her dad says, parents do not always know, do they?”
“No,” Martin shaking his head almost violently. “Basketball starts in three weeks.”
“The town has never seen a search like it,” Tillie said from the top step. The woman was relentless. “The Sheriff and Carl and volunteers are searching house to house, field by field. I hope they find her, and find her alive. I’m going into town this morning to help with coffee and sandwiches. Is there gas in the car?” Bill nodded.
“Leave your coat here, Martin,” Bill told him.
“No,” Martin answered. He started for the pick-up. By the time Bill climbed into the driver’s seat, Martin was settled in, rope tied. They headed down I-90 to Sioux Falls.
Martin did not tire in his pursuit of each item on his list. Bill stepped in only when Martin had problems communicating. He watched Martin measure each window before it was loaded, and weigh items in his hands, mimicking the scales of justice. He counted 2x4’s and scheduled deliveries and made notes. He left indelible marks on the psyches of lumberyard workers who had never encountered such precision.
The one thing Martin did not do was check the prices. He barely glanced at the charge receipts before he signed them. Bill checked it all for him. Martin was spending a lot of money, but the clarity and precision of Martin’s buying could not be denied. He was a fish in water.
“Past time to eat,” Bill told him.
“I need to stop at Sunshine,” Martin answered.
Bill went into the café to order their food while Martin pushed his cart through the aisles of the market. Bill had never followed Tillie through a grocery store, and he wasn’t about to follow Martin. At last, Bill saw Martin counting out cash to the clerk. Food must not be on the list, he thought.
Back in the cab of Bill’s pick-up, two grocery sacks squeezed between Martin’s feet. Martin adjusted himself without taking his eyes from his list. With one hand he lifted the rope; with the other he held the worn piece of paper. He nodded at each check mark.
As Bill turned the key, he glanced toward the sacks. On top of one of the sacks was a box of Newborn Pampers. Bill felt sick at seeing it. He struggled with himself to just let it go. But he couldn’t. It was too much like seeing birth control pills in his daughter’s purse.
“Martin.” He made his voice as calm as possible while talking through clenched teeth. “Why did you buy diapers?”
“You don’t want to know,” Martin said, even more absorbed in checking his list.
“Yes, I do.” Bill blindly hoped that Martin’s daughter had a Cabbage Patch Kid.
“I bought them because basketball practice starts in three weeks.” Martin put the list in his pocket and looked straight forward. The wind through the window muffled Martin’s words, but Bill heard him. He could not let it go even though he knew he should.
“How is basketball practice related to those Pampers in that sack?” Bill pointed at the Pampers with a stiff, forceful finger.
“You won’t believe me.” Martin sat stiff and stubborn.
“I might not believe the facts as you see them, but I believe you. I mean, you are not lying.” Bill frowned. He hated conversations like this.
Martin said, “Sandra wants to play basketball, and she’ll need the Pampers. Joe did not get to play basketball his senior year. That was somehow my fault. Every day I know more about it. I remember more about it. It was my fa
ult Joe didn’t play basketball that last season. So, I want to help Cassandra.” His hands rested still on his knees. He appeared to have made up his mind. He appeared to be at peace with it.
Now Bill dropped it. He regretted telling Martin about Sandra Peters. The crazy fool had somehow linked Sandra to his brother. Bill could tell Martin what he knew about Joe’s accident. But the truth was, Martin and Joe were alone at the time. Only Martin knew exactly what happened in that barn.
Bill was not big on praying, but he prayed now. When he was utterly helpless, he prayed. The words memorized in his childhood always came back when he wanted them. The wind swirling through the cab, the back-end weighing down too far on his tires, Bill drove slowly, and he prayed.
It was after six in the evening when Martin and Bill finished unloading the pick-up. “That should do it,” Bill said, meaning that Martin would not need anything more today.
“Just about,” Martin answered.
To Bill, that was the single largest symptom that Martin was out of whack. The man didn’t notice mealtime. There was nothing more unsettling to Bill’s internal clock than unscheduled meals.
“What?” Bill asked and the frustration showed in his voice. Martin asked for the old dining room table and chairs stored in Bill’s chicken coop. The old dining room set in Martin’s house was no longer there. Bill told Martin to walk over after supper. They would load the table and bring it to Martin’s.
Then to his astonishment, Martin walked behind him almost on his heels. Bill turned to face him trying with near desperation to stay calm. “What?”
When Martin only looked abashed Bill again went for his truck and climbed into the driver’s seat and considered rolling up the window. Martin ran after him, he put his hands on the window and looked in at his neighbor like a big puppy.
Martin, Crook, & Bill Page 4
