Lately there were new tensions, most of which centered around the boys. Caroline felt that his treatment of his sons was not equitable. She’d never outright admitted to such, but she found dozens of ways to let him know that Pete got all his attention. Thomas couldn’t really argue with that. Pete’s waywardness took such energy to combat. Surely Danny wasn’t jealous of the energy Thomas exerted in admonitions and threats and reprimands.
Caroline was always counting, however, keeping score, silently and disdainfully judging the way he related to his sons. Thomas’s approach to childrearing was admittedly improvisational—he was skeptical of organized philosophical “approaches” to something as mercurial and individualized as childhood. Caroline, on the other hand, was always reading one book or the other—her latest enthusiasm was I’m Okay-You’re Okay, and before that it was a book called Summerhill: A Radical Approach to Childrearing. She was always leaving the books on his bedside table, but he took little more than a cursory dip into them to satisfy her.
He was aware that his improvisational style looked a lot like whimsy, or, worse, indifference. He knew that Caroline knew that the brunt of his energy went into providing for his family, bringing the news to the community. He knew he missed her, missed any interaction not involving a discussion of some radical approach to childrearing, or either son’s sullenness at the dinner table. He wanted a little spontaneity between them, but with so much of his life, campaigning for such a thing would only draw further judgment from her.
“Being a parent is not about you—that’s why you have children in the first place,” she’d said to him once. “To get outside of yourself.”
How could he argue with such a statement? If he disagreed he was a selfish bastard; if he agreed, he was effectively giving up his identity as anything other than Dad.
Only after an hour did Thomas wonder where his boys were, but he didn’t dwell on it for he realized just as quickly that they had probably beat him home, seen the note, decided to fend for themselves. Pete would have gone straight from McDonald’s to wherever it was he spent his nights now, and Danny no doubt had some commitment at school—play practice, a Beta or French Club meeting, Debate Team, the Yearbook Staff. The boy was involved in everything, was as busy as his father. Thomas knew how hard Danny was angling for the Carmichael, piling on the extracurricular activities, working his weekly shifts at the nursing home (which he did not for the money, but because it would look like community service to the Carmichael Committee). He’d even gone out for football and track. It made Thomas feel slightly guilty, how relentlessly disciplined his son was at an age when he should be—like his little brother, but not like his little brother—hanging out with his friends. But Danny did not have many friends, at least male friends. Even if he did have someone like Cozart, Pete’s friend who spent as much time with Pete as he did with his own family, he would no doubt pursue this scholarship with the same intensity. Thomas supposed Danny came by this focus naturally, had seen his father’s dedication to the newspaper, noticed the long hours and countless sacrifices he made to provide for his family. It was not exactly the quality Thomas would have chosen to pass off, but as traits go there were far worse for his son to inherit.
As the gin glow faded, Thomas realized he was starving. Nothing to eat in the fridge—go out for a pizza, indeed—so he wrote a note for the boys, telling them of his plans, and drove across town to Dawson’s, Trent’s only half-decent restaurant. There he table-hopped for a while before settling in at the counter among the other solitary diners. Herb Caison, whose wife was visiting their daughter who’d just had a baby, in Raleigh, had an extra cup of Sanka while Thomas ordered and ate. They discussed the weeks news as it had appeared in the paper, which was one reason why Thomas was fond of Thursdays. Sometimes people sought him out to discuss an article or editorial he’d written, and though more often than not they wanted to argue with him, it was gratifying, their interest in what he had to say. He often found excuses to spend the day about town, walking the streets rather than driving, and he regularly took the boys out to Dawson’s so that he might encounter his readers.
“I hope they find who murdered that Pierce boy,” said Herb.
“I do too, Herb,” said Thomas. He was surprised to discover that he hadn’t thought about the boy’s death since earlier that afternoon, when Haskell Herring, the golf pro at the country club, had stopped him in the pro shop to ask about leads. He remembered what Rick Hampton had predicted the day before—how a murder moved papers—and he realized that Hampton was right: they’d sold out all the stands and had to redeliver the drugstores and supermarkets by midmorning.
“I live up the street from the Pierces’,” said Herb. “I tell you, Thomas, his parents ain’t too happy with our local law enforcement.”
This did not come as a surprise to Thomas. Out of courtesy he’d not contacted the family—he wanted and needed to sell papers, but he wasn’t running a tabloid. There were lots of angles he’d leave alone rather than intrude on someone’s grief. He did not doubt he’d sell more papers if he was a little less careful with people’s feelings, but battering the bereaved with questions before their loved one was in the ground was something he would not do.
“I’m sure the department will come up with something. I know for a fact they’re on it night and day.”
“You ought to have seen the cars over there that night,” said Herb. “I almost called the law myself, before I knew anything happened. Kids out in the street, laying rubber on the road, blasting their music all night, chucking their empties in everybodys’ yards. If the law had of closed them down earlier, hell, that boy’d be alive right now.”
Let them have their fun, Thomas wanted to say, but Herb’s daughter was grown now, and people forgot how it was with teenagers, forgot that they were ever that age themselves. It was easier to listen and nod than to argue. He listened and nodded until the waitress brought the check, said good-night to Herb, and stopped by the office on his way home, where he tried to work on his column but found that he simply wanted more time alone. The boys would be home now, and Caroline would arrive around ten, exhausted, cranky maybe, and her crankiness would rankle him for she felt she deserved it after her long day, but didn’t he work at least fourteen hours three days a week? At home he would face the usual chaos, and tonight he needed a break. He lit a cigar, sat at his desk, his typewriter armed with foolscap, and wrote nothing at all. He remembered what it was like before the children arrived, when he and Caroline used to stake out weekends for themselves, turning down dinner invitations and skipping Sunday services to spend two blissfully indulgent days in their tiny first apartment, naked and hungry for each other, oblivious to the schedule held by the world outside—dinner at two in the morning, bedtime at three in the afternoon—and dancing to Sinatra and Sarah Vaughan across their sparse newlywed living room, collapsing together on the cushions they’d thrown from the couch to warm the vinyl floor for their coupling.
The ringing phone ruined this reverie. He looked at his watch—ten past ten—and reached for the receiver reluctantly, sheepish for sleeping off the gin at his desk, the husk of a Tiparillo between his lips.
“I’m home,” said Caroline. “Dan take the car?”
“I guess. Neither of them turned up, so I went on to Dawson’s by myself.”
“Kind of late for Dan to be at school.”
“Maybe he has a date,” said Thomas, though he doubted this was the case; Danny didn’t date, so far as Thomas knew—too busy with school, work—though the boy had a secretive side, sure. Thomas didn’t put too much emphasis on this side, for what teenage boy did not keep things from his parents? Teen romances, to Thomas’s mind, were often problematic. A couple years earlier, Strickland’s daughter had gotten into William and Mary but opted to study nursing at the community college to be close to her year-younger boyfriend. Thomas had witnessed Strickland drive himself crazy trying to talk some sense into the girl and felt fortunate he’d never have to deal
with any of that.
Not that Daniel would ever decide to entangle himself with Trent. It was obvious how much the boy resented having to grow up in such a backward place.
“Are you all right, Thomas?” Caroline said.
“Of course. Why?”
She cleared her throat and described what she’d discovered when she walked in the kitchen: a bottle of Gilbey’s and two empty tonic bottles left out on the counter, quartered limes pulp-less on the cutting board, cracker crumbs everywhere.
“I had a drink,” he said, matter of fact, as if he were talking to a policeman who had pulled him over.
“Or two, from the looks of it.”
“Anything wrong with that?”
“Do you think it’s wise to leave the liquor out with two teenaged boys in the house?”
“First of all, they weren’t in the house. And I think we only have to worry about one.”
“You always treat Dan as if he’s perfect.”
“That’s because his behavior merits such treatment.”
Caroline’s laugh was distant and forced.
“What?”
“You sound like you’re writing an editorial, not talking about how you treat your child. His behavior merits such treatment? You sound like one of those pompous school-board members you’re always making fun of.”
He thought of protesting but he knew she was right. He did sound pompous, and he realized that it wasn’t just mischosen words, the wrong tone; he knew that his stiff diction implied an attitude about his oldest son that he did not want to face. At least not tonight.
“How am I supposed to treat him, guilty until proven innocent?”
“Treat him like any other eighteen-year-old boy.”
“So he’ll act like one?”
Caroline sighed. “I’d rather not do this over the phone. You coming home?”
“I’ve got a little more work to do on my column.”
“Now? It’s past ten.”
“I won’t be long,” he said, and hung up before she could argue. For five minutes he sat paralyzed behind his desk, smarting from his words with her. Despite all the tensions they had to endure these days—a constant shortage of money, troubles with Pete, the stress of Thomas’s job—Caroline was his best friend. So long as he had her he had no real need of friends, for she was the only person he’d known in this life who he felt he could talk to without explaining and qualifying and, worse, apologizing all the time. He wasn’t much of a talker, Thomas, which is why he preferred to speak through a typewriter. Not that he’d gotten much typing done tonight. It seemed futile to keep trying, and he didn’t want to go home just yet, so he did something he allowed himself to do only once or twice a year, usually during the holidays: he headed out to the country club for a drink.
Trent was dry, but there were the usual holes in the law looped by every class of drinkers. The poor had their juke joints, which sold beer and whiskey despite getting busted every month by the sheriff’s office and sprouting open down the street the next day. The middle class did their drinking at the Moose Lodge, the V.F.W., or the American Legion, and Trent aristocracy gathered in the dark bar behind the pro shop, where they brought their own bottles of whiskey and gin, stashed them in a locker only the staff of the pro shop had access to, and paid a hefty price for a setup. Thomas and Strickland kept a bottle of Scotch on hand for drinks after a round of golf, but only Strickland drank there at night. Thomas didn’t like the company, though tonight, after treasuring his freedom for so long, he found he did not want to go home.
The usual suspects lined the bar: Albert Minnich, who was making a killing selling Toyotas, suddenly popular after the oil crises of ’73; Haywood Herring, whose family-owned poultry-processing business was dominating the coastal plain. These men held court here nightly, and though Thomas did not feel comfortable around them, and found himself on the other side of the fence politically, he had a couple of Scotch and sodas with them anyway, answered their questions about the Pierce boy, which was all anyone was talking about.
“Kind of a sissy, wasn’t he?” said Minnich.
“What difference does that make?” said Thomas. He spoke before he thought, and later, he wondered if he wasn’t looking for an argument. It had never not happened—usually he wasn’t around for five minutes before someone started in on the coloreds receiving special treatment—and maybe he subconsciously needed an altercation to tire him out before he got home. He did not want to fight with Caroline, but after their phone call he was in a raw mood, and Minnich and Herring were as good a target as any.
“I’m not saying it makes a difference, Thomas. Just pointing out a fact.”
“Seems likely him being that way had something another to do with him getting killed,” said Herring.
“How’s that?” You mean he died because he was different, he wanted to say, but held his tongue.
“Maybe he flirted with the wrong person.”
“Just because he’s effeminate doesn’t mean he’s homosexual.”
Herring and Minnich traded looks suggesting that Thomas knew a little too much about the subject. Thomas felt defeated, angry that he had even spoken up. He sucked the rest of his drink down and said good-night.
Caroline’s car was the only one in the driveway, and it was past eleven now. He was barely inside when she called out from the kitchen.
“What should we do?”
At least let me in the door, he thought. Stopping by the club had not worked—the conversation had incited instead of numbed his anger, and he did not want to take his anger out on Caroline. Years of experience told him that this was exactly what would happen.
“Where’ve you been?” she said when he did not answer.
“At the office.” He tried not to sound defensive, but it annoyed him: he was not the one who was missing. She was treating him like an eighteen-year-old, as she wanted him to treat Danny.
“Thomas.”
He walked straight to the cabinet above the oven where the liquor was kept, poured himself a scotch, splashed in a little tap, asked if she wanted one too.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think a drink will help.”
“Whereever the boys are, they’re probably having one.”
“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t, if they are. You might need to go pick them up if anything’s happened.”
“They’re late, Caroline. That’s all. Hell, Pete’s always late. I say be home by nine on a weeknight, he rolls in at eleven. I push it back to ten, he slides in at twelve. We’ve got another hour at least before we call out the National Guard.”
“You’re not making this any easier. Besides, it’s not Pete I’m worried about.”
There were times in an argument with Caroline when she unwittingly gave him something he might use against her. This always made Thomas feel queasy, for he knew he would not be able to resist using it. He felt that way now as he pointed out how an hour earlier she had asked him to treat them both like an eighteen-year-olds.
She stared at him without speaking for far too long.
“I’ll be in the bedroom reading,” she said.
“And I’m supposed to wait up for them?”
“You really think you could go to sleep?”
“I don’t know what else I could do.”
“You could get in the car and go find them.”
“This town is small, but it’s not that small.”
“The least you could do is drive out to the high school. Maybe Dan left the car there and went somewhere with one of his friends.”
“And that would make it easier for you to sleep? What difference does it make if he’s driving or not?”
“Quite a lot, Thomas. He’s still a kid, and if he’s drinking—”
“He’s not drinking.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know. Look, I’ll get in the car as soon as I finish this drink and go try and find Pete. I have a few ideas about where he might be. Maybe he knows so
mething about his brother.”
“You really think that’s likely?”
“Didn’t you just ask me to go looking for them? I’m going, okay?”
Alone, he guzzled his drink, rattling the ice, furious at himself for losing out to anger again. His eyes wet and heavy he realized how much he’d had to drink and how much he wanted yet another drink. He grabbed his keys and a fresh cigar and headed out.
At the seedy Laundromat where Pete and his friends hung out he spoke to a few kids who said they hadn’t seen his son all day. He asked for Cozart, who he was told was around somewhere, and after fifteen minutes of waiting awhile a boy from the neighborhood went from car to car in search of him, Cozart appeared in the parking lot. His posture was ridiculously straight— the word overcorrected came to mind—and when he reached the car the proof was everywhere, in his eyes, his sweet beery breath, the slow careful way he stamped out his words to keep from running them together.
“Seen Pete?”
“No sir. Not tonight.”
“How about earlier?”
“Nope. Sorry. Want me to tell him you’re looking for him if I do?”
“You can tell me the truth, Cozart. I’m not going to do anything to him, it’s not like you can get him in any trouble for telling me where he is.”
“Okay,” said Cozart. He fell silent.
“Well?”
“I don’t know where he’s at, Mr. Edgecombe.”
“You haven’t seen him since school?”
“I didn’t see him there either.”
“He wasn’t at school today?”
“I didn’t say that,” said Cozart. Thomas doubted whether Cozart knew what he’d said. Talking to him when he wasn’t high was hard enough. He wasn’t sure when he’d heard Cozart finish a sentence. Caroline had a way with him, but her way seemed conducted in fragments and non sequiturs, a shorthand devised to match his own. “Pidgin Cozart,” Thomas called it. He’d never been able to decipher it and wasn’t sure he wanted to take the time to learn.
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