by Pete Dexter
She was still on the bed, hours later, when he took his station by the gate. He looked down the street, toward the center of town, and checked his pocket watch frequently. People passed in front of him, some of them as close as the gate itself; but he did not speak to any of them. He did not look at the children.
She remembered the day — they had been married less than a week — he had forbidden her to associate with the Godseys, who were their neighbors. He said it was a business matter. And then, one by one, he found business reasons or grudges — one meant the other — against everyone she spoke to and isolated her in the same way he had isolated himself.
* * *
THE TRUCK WAS a flatbed, similar to the ones that hauled lumber, and it arrived just after seven o'clock. It was empty and seemed to come from the wrong way — at least it was not the direction Paris had been watching — but as soon as it stopped, Paris opened the passenger door and climbed in. She could not be sure from the window, but it appeared to be Buster Devonne behind the wheel.
It seemed to her that Paris might intend to take him into the country and shoot him, except she did not know why he would need a truck for that.
* * *
HE WAS GONE A long time. She slept in a bothered way, dropping in and out, listening, even in her sleep, for the sound of the truck. It came deep in the night and stopped in front.
Paris got out one side, Buster Devonne got out the other. They unloaded what looked like a door, sliding it off the bed onto a two-wheel dolly. They wheeled the dolly through the gate and up the sidewalk. She heard Buster Devonne's voice as he came in the door.
"This damn thing heavier than a lead pussy, Paris."
His reputation for offensive language, even as an officer of the law, was admired all over Ether County. He would say whatever came into his head without regard to where he happened to be at the time. Those who did not admire Buster Devonne's language frequently made the observation that the man obviously had a small vocabulary.
Hanna did not know Buster Devonne at all, but she did not believe the limits of his vocabulary explained his manners.
They came up the stairs, pausing between each step, pulling the dolly. They went into Paris's room, and Buster Devonne said, "Maybe we could lie this sumbitch sideways and slide it over."
Paris did not answer, and in a moment there was a crash and the floor shook. It was quiet, and then Buster Devonne said, "Son of a bitch, Paris" — enunciating each word — "now we got to pick this fucker up."
She heard them moving around the room, and then she heard Paris counting. "One, two, three . . ." The word "three" seemed to choke and die, and then she heard Buster Devonne trying to talk, and it sounded like somebody was squeezing him lifeless.
There was another crash — softer than the first one, with more of a metal sound — and then hard breathing. "The bastard must of gone four hundret pounds," Buster Devonne said.
"It was two fifty in Macon."
"No sir, I know two fifty, and that ain't it. That there is at least three fifty. Rely on that."
It was quiet a long minute. "Are you reliable, Buster?" he said.
"They ain't nothing going to happen to us."
"It might," her husband said.
* * *
SHE PUT A SOCK over her good foot and went back into his room the next morning. He'd left his door open again. The glare of the sun off the floor caught her again, and she stopped in the doorway a moment, dizzy, and then moved to the windows and looked back. She had found a way to walk that didn't hurt her as much, keeping her weight on the outside of her foot. She had been walking on her heel, but in compensating that way, she pulled at the nerves below the cuts. You could not walk on your heels to avoid hurting your toes.
His bed was a mess, the mattress slightly off center. It took her a moment to see it, underneath. A sheet of lead, a quarter inch thick, ran the length of the mattress and lacked only half a foot of being as wide. She knew what it was. He was afraid of being shot from underneath. She pictured herself doing it: three muffled shots and then his hand dropping off the bed into view.
She went out of the room, not touching the door, and walked down the stairs. She sat down beside the phone and tried to call Harry Seagraves. First his office, then his home.
His wife picked up the phone at home. Hanna could not remember her name. "This is Hanna Trout," she said. "I wonder if I might speak with your husband."
"I'm sorry," she said, "Mr. Seagraves isn't in presently. May I take a message?"
She tried to think of a message. She said, "Would you tell him, please, that I need to speak to him, in confidence?"
"In regards to what matter?"
"This is Hanna Trout," she said, slowly. "My husband — "
"Oh, Mrs. Trout. Goodness, I misunderstood your name. Yes, what was the message?"
"That I need to speak to him," she said.
"Has something happened?"
Hanna found herself staring at the mantel. There was an ancient picture of Paris's family there, Paris sitting in short pants and a cap, cross-legged in front of his mother. One of her hands rested on his shoulder, some secret connection, and his father, off to the side, staring straight toward the camera.
She wondered what thoughts he'd had as a boy.
"Mrs. Trout? Should I try to locate him for you? Has something . . . further occurred?"
She heard the interest in the woman's voice, and she understood its pleasurable nature. Hanna fought her own interest in other people's trouble, but she knew the attraction. She imagined telling her that she had been violated in the office with a bottle of mineral water. What would Harry Seagraves's wife tell her in return?
That she understood?
Hanna said, "No, don't trouble yourself to find him."
"It's no trouble," she said. "I told Mr. Seagraves back when this started, 'Consider the poor woman at home .... " It was quiet for a moment, each of them hearing how that sounded. "I don't mean to offend you," the lawyer's wife said.
"I am not offended?
"It's just that the men don't take into account what it's like to be the woman."
Hanna could not think of a single word to say.
"I know how you feel, dear," the lawyer's wife said. "If you want to talk, here I am."
* * *
THE LAWYER DID NOT call.
She waited downstairs until five o'clock and then went back to her room. She locked the door and lay in bed and was suddenly weak. She had not eaten at all since Paris forced her. Remembering what he had done, she could suddenly smell canned pork, and she gagged.
The doorbell rang while she was in the bathroom. She stood still, the toothbrush in her mouth, listening. The bell rang again. The sound grabbed her, in the chest and throat. For a moment she seemed to forget how to breathe. She looked at herself in the mirror, afraid of her own house.
She brushed at her hair and wiped the toothpaste out of the corners of her mouth. The bell rang again as she was coming down the stairs. She saw a man's shadow through one of the windows that led to the porch.
She hurried to the door before he rang again — it seemed to matter — and a moment before she arrived, the door began to open from the other side, and then Dr. Hatfield's head poked inside, waist-high.
He called, "Miz Trout?" before he saw she was there.
"Dr. Hatfield," she said, and he started at the sound of her voice.
He smiled, recovering and straightening, opening the door farther to step inside. "I hoped to save you the trip downstairs," he said.
She did not understand.
"Your foot," he said. "I was passing the house, and thought I might change your dressing and look at the stitches."
"It seems to be healing," she said.
"May I look?"
"Of course," she said, and led him into the front room. She sat on the davenport, he moved a straight-back chair and sat in front of her and took her foot into his lap. He found a pair of scissors in his bag and began to cu
t the tape. The scissors were cold where they touched her skin and tickled her feet as they moved.
He stopped for a moment and searched her face. "Is this causing you pain?"
"No," she said, "it's a tickling."
Without smiling, he returned to her foot. He made a single cut from her heel to her toes and then opened the dressing the way she would open a box of canned goods at the store, pulling at one side and then the other. There was a noise like opening a box too, and then her foot felt cool.
He removed the gauze he had packed into her toes more carefully, squinting to see the work he'd done. She could not tell if he was pleased or disappointed. He went into the bag again and found cotton and a bottle of disinfectant.
"Have you been on this today?"
"Not much," she said.
He began to dab at the underside of her toes with the wet cotton. It was freezing cold. Her leg jerked reflexively, but his other hand had encircled her ankle and held her there.
"You need to stay off it a few days," he said. "You don't want to end up in the clinic over a cut foot." He picked up her second toe, wincing as he looked underneath. She fixed on his collar, the hair growing all around his neck, down into his chest and back. He was round-shouldered and warm-looking, she thought again of a bear.
"Dr. Hatfield," she said, "may I speak with you on another matter?"
He looked up, over her toes, waiting.
"I have reason to believe I may indeed find myself in your clinic," she said. He waited, she framed her words. She looked out the front window, checking the walk. "My husband has become irrational."
His expression did not soften or change.
"There have been incidents which I would prefer not to discuss," she said, "which now put me in jeopardy, and perhaps my husband as well."
"It's a normal thing, missus, to feel threatened. It's threatening times," Dr. Hatfield said.
"No," she said. "His behavior may appear normal, but it is not. Events have occurred of a highly bizarre nature."
"Are you physically injured?" he said.
"I have been assaulted," she said in a quiet voice.
He did not seem to understand. "In what way?" he said.
"In ways of a private nature," she said.
He leaned back to look at her again. "I don't see marks," he said.
"Not even a bruise, which is common enough even in the best households."
"He has assaulted me."
The doctor rubbed his chin. "If they went to commit everybody that assaulted his wife into the asylum, they'd be more in than out."
She saw that the doctor, for all his kindness, was no help. And it didn't feel like kindness then. He picked a roll of gauze out of his bag and began to repack her toes.
"Dr. Hatfield," she said, but then the front door opened, and Paris was in the house.
He stood in the entranceway, looking upstairs and then noticed them sitting in the front room. He came in without a word and stopped a yard in back of the doctor, following his work. "I was on the street," the doctor said, turning to acknowledge him. "I thought I might have a look in on your wife's foot."
The doctor was afraid of him too, she heard it in his voice. His taping went faster now, and she could see it bothered his nerves to have Paris standing behind him.
"I appreciate it," Paris said, "to have a doctor drop by so late." He lifted his eyes and stared at her.
"I was on the street," Hatfield said again. "It's no trouble. I expect Mrs. Hatfield can keep dinner another five minutes."
Paris walked out of the room and into the kitchen. He reappeared a moment later, carrying his toolbox, and climbed the stairs. The doctor tightened his face against distractions. She watched his hands as he wrapped the tape. The hair on them lay in one direction, as if it had been combed. There were noises from upstairs, tapping, things falling onto the floor.
"Is Mr. Trout handy?" the doctor said. He spoke in a manner that denied what had been said between them before.
"He has been fortifying his room," she said. "He has covered the floor with glass and set the legs of his bed into overshoes." The doctor nodded, as if that were something he was thinking of doing himself.
"He sleeps with a sheet of lead under his mattress," she said.
He patted her foot, first on one side and then on the other. "How does that feel?"
She did not reply, and he said, "Is it too tight? Let me see you wiggle your toes."
She moved her toes, and a pain went all the way through her foot.
"That's good," he said. "You don't feel your pulse in there, do you?"
"No," she said quietly.
"Good. That's excellent."
The doctor moved to stand up at the same time Paris started back down the stairs. He had been up there no more than five minutes. The doctor said, "Cal1 me, that gives you any trouble," and then he shut his bag and stood up.
Paris met him in the entranceway and steered him out the door.
"Her foot appears to be healing," the doctor told him. "If you can, keep her off it."
"She's lost her appetite," he said, and then they were out of the house, and she could not hear what they were saying.
She stood up slowly, getting used to the new wrapping, and walked up the stairs. On the way she saw them through the window, stopped halfway to the gate. Paris was speaking, the doctor seemed to be watching his shoes. She was unconcerned with anything Paris could say, her worry was Dr. Hatfield.
She walked into her room, listening for Paris. It was quiet. She did not think Dr. Hatfield could stand on the walk very long with Paris without telling him what she had said. The silence downstairs frightened her, and she moved into the bath and began to draw a tub of water. Wanting the noise.
And then she froze, realizing she had not locked the door to her room. She left the water and stepped back into the bedroom, expecting to see him waiting for her.
He was still outside with the doctor.
She crossed the room and shut the door. And even as it closed, she knew something was wrong — something different in the swing — and then she saw that he had taken the lock.
* * *
SHE FOUND HERSELF CRYING, without knowing when it had started. She was sitting in the tub again, the water was an inch from the top and still running. Underwater, a line of pink smoke rose from her bandaged foot. She had not bothered to rest it on the edge. Behind her the bathroom door was shut and locked, but the lock was only a hook, with enough play so it could be opened from the outside with a pencil. It was a lock to keep the door shut, not to keep anyone out.
She heard him moving, she couldn't say where. She pressed her toes into the end of the tub, and the line of smoke darkened and billowed. He came through the door just as the water began to spill over. He turned off the faucets and sat heavily on the commode. She covered her breasts and slid farther down, sending more water over the side.
"Dr. Hatfield said you might need a rest," he said.
She turned her head away and looked at the wall.
"He asked if there was a relative you could visit." He stood up and moved closer to the tub. He stared down into the pink water. "Did you tell the doctor you was tired?"
She did not answer because she was crying and did not trust her voice.
"Tell me what you said."
"I am tired," she said.
"That's what he said. I told him you didn't have nothing to be tired about."
She felt his hand then, on the back of her head. It moved down, gently, and rested against her neck and shoulder. She tried to sit up, but he held her where she was.
Then, slowly, the points of his fingers pressed into her and forced her down into the water. She didn't intend to fight him. He held her under until the panic took over, though, and she did fight. Clawing at his arm, trying to find his face.
His expression was unchanged when he brought her up, although his face was dripping bath water. "Is that what you told him?" he said.
"That you wa
s tired?"
He pushed her under again, with both hands this time, and held her there longer than he had before. She fought him again, raking his cheek until suddenly there was less reason to fight and then none at all. A calm took over, and she opened herself to it, without realizing what
it was.
She would have stayed there forever, but something changed — a direction — and she was suddenly moving, and then her face was out of the water. Her eyes blurred, and she looked up into his face.
"Is that what you told him?" he said again.
In one moment of clarity she saw his thoughts again and understood that he was afraid. Not of the doctor — Paris had no interest in his opinion, good or bad — but of her. He believed he owned her the way he owned his own hands, and she was out of control now, working against his interests. She thought of the food spilled across the kitchen floor.
She wiped water out of her eyes and noticed that the whole tub was pink now. She lifted her foot out of the water, and fresh blood ran down the bandages. "Get out of the house, Paris," she said calmly.
"You know that I'm poisoning you."
The movers were in the next day and cleared everything out of his room.
SEAGRAVES
PART FOUR
ON A MORNING IN AUGUST, two weeks and three days before the murder case against Paris Trout was scheduled for hearing in Ether County Circuit Court, Harry Seagraves woke up with the way to defend him. Seagraves was hung over, but that was when he did some of his best thinking.
Lucy was lying next to him, her features changed by the blindfold she wore to bed until she could have been someone else. They had been to a lawyer's picnic in Macon the day before, celebrating the state legislature's summer break, and he'd barely kept the car on the road getting home.
Seagraves sat up slowly, not wanting to wake her, not wanting to hear her voice until he'd had a chance to examine the idea that was lying like some perfect blue egg dead in the middle of the nest that sleep and alcohol had made of his brain.
He had been dreaming of the photographs of Rosie Sayers's dead body. Earlier that week Ward Townes had invited him to his office and laid them across the table. There were six altogether, showing the girl from every angle. His thoughts at the time had centered on how they would look to a jury. The girl appeared younger in the pictures than she had in the flesh, and her wounds had been enlarged by the instruments used to remove the bullets.
