“You’ve been busy. That’s the job.” Meryl came and sat down at the table as the coffee percolator took the flame. “She’s still in her room. On the phone, I think. One of her friends—Beverly—she called twenty minutes ago.”
“A little early for phone calls, isn’t it?”
“Not that early. It’s ten o’clock,” she said. “It’s fine. Just a couple girls gabbing about boys. You didn’t sleep enough. You’re cranky.”
Corbin rolled his eyes, then leaned forward on his forearms. “Boys? What does she care about boys?”
Meryl let out a sniff of laughter, as if to say: Oh please. Where the heck have you been? But what she actually said was: “She’s fifteen, Corbin. Don’t you remember what we were like at that age?”
He did, and it made him dislike the idea of his daughter caring about boys even more. He didn’t even want to consider what it meant on so many different levels.
He pushed back from the table and patted his belly, even though he had hardly eaten a thing. He didn’t want Meryl to worry about him. “Maybe you were like that. Not me. I was a damn saint. A virgin ’til our wedding night. Anyone tells you different, and they’re lyin.” He winked at her as he stood and grabbed his hat off the back of the chair.
“You have to go already?” she said, her eyes following him up.
“Duty calls… and calls and calls,” he said jadedly, putting the hat atop his head and tipping the brim, a wide, tired grin painted across his face. He could feel himself trying to mask his own uneasiness with humor. He knew Meryl could see right through it. But she would be kind enough not to say anything about it, for the same reason she hadn’t called him out for not really touching his breakfast.
“Want me to bring lunch down to the station later?” she asked, grabbing his plate and taking it to the sink. “Better than junk on the go. Besides, you can’t eat greasy food every day. It’s not good for your stomach.”
“Tuna salad sandwich?” Corbin asked.
“Tuna salad it is.”
He went to his wife and gave her a kiss. As he turned around to leave, she patted his bum gently. Then he was standing outside in the driveway, listening to a lone cicada buzz somewhere off in a treetop. He looked over his shoulder at the house… at his home. He needed to head to Elhouse Mayer’s farm to have a talk with him about Danny Metzger’s car accident—and possibly more. He sensed that it was going to be a dark day, but he needed to start somewhere.
His eyes wandered up to his daughter’s bedroom window. Thinking about her made the corner of his mouth twitch with a faint smile. She always made him feel better. She really was a great girl. He had certainly lucked out in that department. When Grace had first been born, all of his friends had joked with him about how much of a handful she would be, especially when she became a teenager, and he had always suspected that their predictions would probably come true. But it simply never happened. There was the occasional argument, sure, but more times than he cared to admit, the fault was his own.
As far as he was concerned, God had given him a good one. And if today was going to be a dark day, he thought maybe he should brighten it a little first.
13
“He almost killed them,” Grace Delancey said into the phone. She was lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows with her legs crossed behind her at the ankles. She moved them back and forth slowly in time with the cadence of the conversation as she doodled on the notebook in front of her in pencil. She was drawing a flower—a daisy.
Beverly was on the other end of the line. Her voice came through reedy. “He was just playing around. Ricky’s a good driver. He never would’ve hit them. It was just a gag, Grace. You really let him have it downtown, jeez. I’ve never seen you so mad.”
“Ricky’s crazy… and he was drunk,” Grace said. “It could’ve happened by accident, even if he is a good driver. Anyway, I don’t know why you like hanging around with him and Chris. All they do is smoke cigarettes, hang out at the lake, and see who can burp the loudest.”
“I kinda like Ricky,” Beverly said, her voice taking on a guilty tone. Then it switched to one of secret excitement. “There’s something… I don’t know… dangerous about him.”
Grace recalled the look that had come over Ricky’s face when he spotted the couple walking down the road as they were driving back toward town to get more beer. An intense storm had formed instantly on his face. His features had darkened, and his eyes had glassed over. He grinned a clownish smile. Watch this. I’m gonna make them shit their drawers, he had said as he stomped on the gas pedal and pointed the car at them. The rest had happened so fast that it was all a blur. She just remembered Ricky’s hyena laugh as they drove by, and Hooch throwing a beer can out the window.
Grace blinked, pushing away the memory. Something about it made her stomach sour. “You can say that again. He could’ve really hurt someone yesterday. Running people off the road into a ditch isn’t what I call a gag.” She paused. “Do you think anyone saw our faces? I think my dad knows that guy.”
“Your dad’s the chief, he knows everyone. Don’t worry so much.” There was silence for a moment, and then Beverly giggled. “He’s cute, don’t you think?”
“Eew, yuck! Ricky Osterman? Cute? He smells like an ashtray. And his teeth… Does he even know how to use a toothbrush, you think?”
“They’re not that bad.” Beverly sounded defensive, borderline offended. “Everyone who smokes looks like that.”
“So what?”
“So I think I want to start, actually. I’ve been practicing, stealing my mom’s. We should get a carton and hide them somewhere. We can split it.”
“Double yuck. Cigarettes are so gross,” Grace said. “Why would you want to smoke?”
“Little Grace Delancey, she likes the rules,” Beverly mocked. “Just because dear old dad is police doesn’t mean you can’t have fun every once in a while.”
“How is driving around getting drunk and smoking cigarettes fun?”
“God, you’re such a square, Grace. Lighten up, or boys will never like you. Next year is high school, and I don’t plan on being left out.”
“Why’re you being so nasty?”
“I’m not. I just don’t want people to think I’m boring. Is there anything worse than being boring?”
“Dating Ricky Osterman or Chris Collins.”
The girls both laughed.
“Okay, okay. I didn’t mean to be a jerk. Forget I said anything,” Beverly said. “Ice cream later?”
“That sounds nice. Just you and me?”
“Promise. No boys. Ricky and his friends can get their own milkshakes,” Beverly said.
“Can you believe the summer’s almost over?”
There was a bang, then a hollow clatter outside her widow. Grace slid to the edge of her bed and saw her father’s face appear outside her window. “I’ll call you back.”
“Okay.”
Grace hung up the phone. “Dad? What’re you doing out there?”
“Hi, baby,” her father said. “I brought you flowers.” He held up a sagging bouquet of dandelions and smiled her favorite smile. “Can you spare a moment for an old man like me? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”
Grace laughed, then went to the window and opened the screen. “Of course I can.”
Her father handed her the dandelions and leaned forward on the windowsill. “Who was that on the phone? I didn’t mean for you to hang up. I just wanted to say hi.”
“It’s okay. It was just Beverly,” Grace said, smelling the dandelions. They had a sweet, bitter smell she didn’t mind.
He raised his eyebrows and nodded, making a funny face. “Oh. Okay then.”
“I know you don’t like her.”
“I didn’t say that,” her father said, showing her his palms.
“You didn’t have to.” Grace went to her dresser and set the dandelions down. “You’re a terrible liar. I hope you know that.”
“Well, I don’t have a
lot of experience in that area, so I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment. What’re you doing today?”
“Finishing up some summer reading. I might grab ice cream later.”
“Okay, well, be safe,” he said, then hesitated. “I was thinking maybe you and I could catch a movie sometime before school starts? The drive-in over in Heartsridge. You choose the movie, and I’ll treat. We’ll even bring your mother, if she’s nice.”
Grace sat down at her vanity and started combing her hair, watching her father in the reflection of the mirror. He was drumming his fingers nervously on the windowsill. “Sure, Dad, I’d like that. Fantastic Voyage is coming out. I bet it’ll be super.”
“Never heard of it. Love story?”
“Science fiction.”
“Oh. Aliens. I didn’t know you liked that stuff. But even better.”
Grace shook her head, amused. “You going to work?”
“Affirmative. Duty calls. I just wanted to say hello and bring my special gal some flowers.”
“Some weeds, you mean?” Grace laughed.
“I always heard it was the thought,” her father said. “Buncha nonsense, huh?”
“They’re wonderful. Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he said. “I’ll see you later. Shut the screen so the flies don’t get in. Love you.”
“Love you more, Dad.”
Her father descended the ladder and pulled it away from the house. Then she heard his cruiser start up, followed by the sound of him backing out of the driveway and heading up the street. She listened until she couldn’t hear him anymore.
As far as fathers went, she had a good one.
14
Ricky Osterman checked the oil and then dropped the hood of his car. It latched shut with a solid clunk. The black Chevrolet Biscayne was powered by a 409 big-block V8 he had salvaged, rebuilt, and installed himself the summer before. No doubt about it, she was a fast machine. He could lay a strip of rubber a hundred yards long with the tap of a toe on the accelerator. When it screams, the girlies cream, he would joke to his friends. Really, he only had the one—Hooch. But Hooch always laughed, so Ricky kept saying it.
He lit a Lucky Strike, and pulled a comb from the pocket of his blue jeans. Looking in the reflection of the driver-side window, he ran it backward through his greasy red hair until a satisfied grin curled his lips. In the reflection, the spray of freckles on his nose and cheekbones were hardly visible. He hated his freckles. The cigarette smoke wandered up into his eyes and caused him to squint. He thought it looked cool.
“I am the judge,” Ricky said under his breath. “And I decide.”
Ricky was still buzzing from yesterday. He was already hearing about it. His father had been called out to tow the wreck.
“Ricky, what in the hell did I tell you?”
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.
His father was standing behind him, nursing a morning beer. He was wearing his favorite coveralls, the ones with the words Osterman Towing written in faded red cursive across the back. The grease stain on the right shoulder looked like Florida.
“I don’t know. What’d you tell me, Pop?” Ricky said in a cold, flat voice. He was still regarding himself in the window’s reflection, tucking strands of hair behind his ears. He could see his father standing there, eyeballing him. He didn’t like it.
I am the judge.
“I told you to mow the damn lawn yesterday,” Nate Osterman said, taking a step toward Ricky. “That skull of yours too goddamn thick to understand one fuckin thing I tell you?” There was a beat of silence. “Well, answer me.”
“Guess so. Must’ve gotten it from you.” Ricky straightened, turned to his old man, grinned, and tapped the side of his head with his index finger.
I decide…
Nate glared at his son, letting out a quick, belittling laugh. “Oh, I see—you’re tough now. All grown up because you just turned eighteen. Is that it? You’re the top fuckin dog now? Don’t have to listen to anyone because you’re a big bad adult? Well, big man, you ain’t top dog around here.” He drained his beer, eyes locked with his son’s, then crumpled the can in one hand and threw it at the hood of Ricky’s car… at his baby. “Remember that while you’re mowing the fuckin lawn today, big shot.”
Ricky followed the can’s arc and watched as it bounced off the shiny black paint, leaving a spattering of beer foam across the top of his hood and on the windshield.
His head whipped back around to his father. Lips sneering. Teeth clenching. “What the fuck’s the matter with—”
Nate wound up and smacked Ricky across the face with an open hand. The old man’s palm and fingers were thick and rough with callouses. It felt like being hit with a brick. There was a flash of white. The left side of his face went hot. His ear rang. Warm blood leaked from the inside of his cheek onto his tongue. He loved the taste. He loved the pain.
Ricky might’ve been tall and wiry, but his father was bigger. He had the same height and strong physique, but his muscle was padded by an extra seventy-five pounds of brutish blue-collar flab that could easily be put to work. Ricky could fight, and in fact had never lost in his life, but he wasn’t foolish enough to go toe-to-toe with his dad—not if the fight was fair. The old man would knock his dick in the dirt. Pride is one hell of a motivator, and Nate would never let his own son best him.
“You slapped me.” Ricky laughed and spat a mouthful of blood on the ground.
“I’ll hit you like a man when you are one, Richard.” Nate turned around and crossed the yard to his tow truck, his broad, lumbering back like that of a gorilla’s. When he reached the door, without looking in his son’s direction, he said, “Cut the grass, shit-for-brains. Or I’m towing the car into the goddamn lake when I get home. Try me.”
Richard? Nobody calls me that. He’s just asking for it. Oh man, he doesn’t even know what I could do if I wanted to. He’s here because I let him live.
Ricky glanced at the eight-pound splitting maul sticking out of the chopping log next to the woodpile. It hadn’t been sharpened in years. Even better. His father was only twenty feet away. He could be on him before he even knew what happened. Ricky could bring the dull ax right down on the crown of his head. His mother was likely in the back parlor, knitting and staring at the wall, and wouldn’t hear a thing. No one would ever know. Maybe Nate Osterman finally got fed up with his no-good son and wife and split.
Split, split, split, split! The ax will split. It will bash and crack. I am the judge, and I decide. I wield the ax. I am the split, and I am the bash, and I am the crack of his skull.
Ricky didn’t have any memory of moving from where he had been standing beside his car, but now he was at the pile of firewood beside the shed, hand folded around the ax handle. The fire was burning inside him again. Warmth in his veins.
The opportunity for judgement passed. His father had already reached the end of the driveway in his truck. He hesitated a moment, then went right, kicking up a great plume of pale dust as his truck dipped and rocked down the gravel road, tow chains jingling like sleigh bells.
Ricky unwrapped his hand from the ax, then went back to his car and wiped off the beer. When he was finished with that, he went into the shed to drag out the lawnmower.
15
Peter and Sylvia were going for a walk down Lakeman’s Lane. Peter wanted to get the lay of the land. The plan was to do a circuit around Big Bath, sticking as close to the shoreline as possible, then head back to Shady Cove and make an early lunch—or a late one, depending upon how long their trek took them. Maybe they would even take a row on the lake, if Sylvia was up for it. She seemed in good spirits. They had only been away from Concord for a few short hours, and already it was as if they had left much of their misery behind. The immense weight from before was gone. At the very least, it had lightened.
Coming to Gilchrist had been a gamble, a last-ditch effort to extricate themselves from the rut their lives had fallen into, and in Peter’s opinion, it w
as working. Since the first moment he had driven into town, something had told him this was where they needed to be.
They were only ten minutes into their walk when the boy in the red fire-truck pajamas came running out of the woods and into the road, tears and snot soaking his terrified and confused face. He was drenched with sweat, his hair matted.
He paused in the road, looking around wildly. He spotted the Martells and ran to them. His bare feet were black with dirt.
Peter glanced at Sylvia, his brow gathering a mix of worry and bewilderment. Before he could say anything to her, the boy reached him. Peter dropped to one knee and held him by the shoulders. The kid was trembling, and his lips were blue. He was ice cold. When Peter laid his hands on the kid, he had a brief sensation of touching something charged with the cleanest, whitest electricity—something pure. But the sensation went away as quickly as it had come.
“Hey, buddy, you okay? You lost?” Peter asked.
“I wuh-wuh-want m-my mm-uh-mommy.” His words were punctuated by thick sobs. Spittle stretched between his lips. Small bubbles of snot bloomed and popped from his nostrils.
Sylvia leaned down, hands clasped between her knees. “Do you live around here?” she asked, her voice taking on a maternal sweetness that Peter had not realized until that moment he missed so badly.
The boy looked at her, blinking. He immediately seemed more at ease when she spoke. “I don’t know,” he said, and wiped an arm under his nose. “I think so.”
“Okay. Let’s start with something easier,” Sylvia said. “What’s your name?”
Peter watched his wife. There was a sympathetic yet confident look on her face. At once, he was filled with sadness. He had forgotten what a wonderful mother Sylvia had been… and would’ve been. How caring. The feeling overwhelmed him.
“Kevin,” the boy said.
“Kevin?” Sylvia repeated back to him. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. I like that name. Kevin what?”
“Duh-Dooley,” he said with a thin sniffle. Then, as if repeating something he had practiced before, he followed it up with: “I live at three-three-three Mishell Road in Gilchrist, Massachooketts.”
Gilchrist Page 19
