On the Loose

by Andrew Coburn

  "It was all make-believe and fun. And innocent."

  "Sort of. Though you're right, it was fantasy. Some things about the human mind will never be understood. Intuition is one, and clearly imagination is another." Gloria held her close. "Go to sleep."

  "I don't think I can."

  Gloria's hand meandered over satin and crept into the privacy of warm skin. "Do you want me to make you come?"

  "Yes," she said.

  Sherwood, considered state of the art, was a youth detention center situated well west of Boston. Bobby Sawhill entered it in July, which distressed Chief Morgan. "My fault," Morgan said, dropping wearily into a chair near Meg O'Brien's desk. "A double murder charge, he'd have been tried as an adult, no question about it. Now he'll walk when he turns twenty-one."

  "Foolish to blame yourself," Meg said.

  He knew no one else to blame. He'd been suspicious about Mrs. Bullard's death but had never followed up. A better policeman would have, he told himself.

  "You don't know for sure," Meg said, half reading his mind, and answered a radio call from Sergeant Avery, who was taking an hour off to drive his sister to the eye doctor in Andover. She spoke impatiently. "That's terrific, Eugene." And clicked off.

  Morgan said, "Yes, I do. In my gut. What I don't know is why. Why Eve Bullard? Why Claudia?" His voice was thin, clinical, without skin. "I've never got over the loss of my wife, but I've gone on. Claudia's death is different. I feel responsible."

  A table fan did little to lessen the heat of the day. Meg rose from her desk and tugged at her dress. Burst capillaries on her bare legs resembled ornate stitchery, which endeared her to him. She had been with the department longer than he. Her job, a place to go to each day, was her life. The same was true for him.

  "I don't know if I can take the hit," he said.

  She angled past Sergeant Avery's desk and opened a portable refrigerator partially hidden by a file cabinet. She returned with two cans of root beer and gave him one, which he gripped firmly but didn't open. She took it from his hand and opened it for him.

  "Don't drive yourself crazy," she said.

  He smiled. "You know what I also know, like it's written on a blackboard?"

  She knew and didn't want to be told. "You could be wrong."

  "No, Meg. Sure as I'm sitting here, he'll kill again."

  Late in August Harry Sawhill and his brother Ben played an hour of golf at the Bensington Country Club. An hour was the most Harry could manage. The sun got to him, and the clubhouse beckoned. In the lounge, after a moment's hesitation, he or dered tomato juice for himself and beer for Ben. They talked baseball. "Nineteen fifty-one," Ben said, "was a watershed. It was Joe DiMaggio's last year as a Yankee and Mickey Mantle's first."

  "I never understood your liking the Yankees over the Red Sox," Harry said. "It wasn't natural, growing up here."

  "It was the pinstripes," Ben said. "It fit the image I wanted of myself. Now, however, I favor the Sox."

  "That's a switch."

  "We show more compassion as we grow older."

  Ben's beer was in a tankard, the head running over. Harry added celery salt to his tomato juice and ventured a sip. Getting away from baseball, Ben turned to what was really on his mind.

  "You doing the wise thing, Harry?"

  "I want to be happy. Nothing wrong with that, is there?"

  "Nothing in the world. I want you to be happy."

  "But you think I'm doing wrong. Go ahead, say it."

  "No, I think it's wonderful. If it's what you both want."

  "Why wouldn't it be? Nobody wants to be alone." Reaching into a silver dish, Harry came up with a nervous fistful of cashews. "There's one thing."

  "Yes, there's that, isn't there?"

  "I don't know how to tell Bobby."

  On a Saturday afternoon in September Harry Sawhill and Trish Becker were married in Rev erend Stottle's living room. Ben Sawhill and Gloria Eisner were witnesses. Her blond hair tied back, Trish wore a powder-blue suit with a diamond brooch. Marrying for the second time, she felt repossessed, like an automobile. Harry, standing gray and rigid, was not sure it was real and for a single second confused Trish with his first wife. Someone prodded him, and he kissed the bride.

  Then Ben did.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mr. Grissom, the administrator of Sherwood, considered himself enlightened, progressive, and benevolent. A light-skinned African-American, he considered himself free of racial resentments and clever enough to play by his own rules. He said, "I'm not putting you in a dormitory, Sawhill. They'd make meat of you, you know what I mean?"

  Bobby stood before Mr. Grissom's desk. "I think so."

  Mr. Grissom's mobile face gained speed as he spoke. "You'll share a room with an older boy. Dibble. He's seventeen, smartest student here. That's what we call you boys here. You listen to Dibble, you'll do all right. By the way, he's black. That bother you?"

  "I've never known anybody black."

  "That's your misfortune."

  "I'm white."

  "I can see that. Here, that doesn't count."

  "What are you, sir? Are you black or white?"

  "I'm neither. That means I'm in the middle, and that makes me fair and square."

  Mr. Grissom stood up from his desk. Bobby had thought Mr. Grissom was tall but now saw he was short and wiry and, like everyone else, wore the uniform of Sherwood. Gray sweats.

  "You play with yourself, Sawhill?"

  Bobby blushed. "Sometimes."

  "Keep it to a minimum. Masturbation isn't punishable, but homosexuality is. Drugs are taboo. So's lying, stealing, and acting up, especially in the classroom. Good grades count here, give you extra privileges. Dibble will clue you in on the rest. Any questions?"

  "What's he in for, sir?"

  "Same as you. Welcome to Sherwood."

  The whitewashed room was impeccably neat, furnished with two army cots, two wall lockers, and a writing table, nothing on the walls except a shelf lined with paperbacks. The occupant stood loose and tall in a T-shirt and low-waisted jeans. He was a runner, his skin ivory black, his body honed for speed and supple strength. "That's mine," he said, pointing to one cot and then the other. "That's yours. What's your name?"

  "Bobby."

  "Baby name. I'm Dibble. You're on probation. Six weeks from now, it works out, you can call me Dibs. Nice watch you're wearing."

  "It's a Seiko."

  "Rich kid, huh? You get things from home, you share everything. Choice of two things, one better than the other, I get it."

  Bobby nodded. He liked Dibble's voice, swift and clear, as much a man's as a boy's, and he liked the italicized stubble on Dibble's jaw.

  Dibble said, "The table's mine. You don't touch anything on it. Another thing you don't do is cry. Bad things happen, you live with 'em. Only one thing scares Grissom, that's a kid killing himself. It puts him and Sherwood in jeopardy."

  "I wouldn't do that."

  "You never know."

  Bobby liked Dibble's stance, relaxed and easy, real cool, thumbs hooked into the top of his jeans. He wished he had Dibble's body but knew his bones were different. He said, "How come you get to wear jeans?"

  "It's a privilege. I'm the only one who's got it. You got no privileges at all. First six weeks you do toilet duty."

  "Am I going to get raped?"

  "Not by me." Dibble looked him over. "You're big, but you're soft. Work out in the gym all you can."

  Bobby smiled. You don't talk black."

  "That so? You talk sissy. You got a way to go, kid. Can you take pain?"

  "I don't know."

  Dibble slapped him hard across the face. His head shot back. His whole face down into his neck felt the shock. His eyes watered, but he didn't cry.

  "Good boy," Dibble said.

  A bank of urinals led to a series of stalls, opposite which was a row of sinks. Beyond was a shower room. Mops and brushes, yellow soap and water, ammonia and deodorizers kept the place clean and smelling righ
t. In charge was a white boy called Duck because he waddled like one. Bobby was his assistant, but Duck did the most work because he took pride in it.

  Bobby said, "What are you in for?"

  "I touched girls," Duck said quickly, as if he'd also taken pride in that. He was older than Bobby but smaller and had a happy face.

  "How long you been here?"

  "I don't keep track." He ran the head of a mop through a wringer and squeezed it dry. When he scrubbed the urinals, his energy was manic.

  Dibble, wearing a nylon athletic jacket over his T-shirt, came in a little later to inspect the place, which he did quickly, a few glances here and there, while Bobby and Duck stood at attention. "Good job," he said and patted Duck on the shoulder. "Did you tell Sawhill you're silly in the head?"

  Duck grinned. "He knows."

  "And what am I?"

  "You're coal waiting to become diamond."

  "Good boy, you got it right. And what did I tell you Sawhill is?"

  Duck's grin turned sheepish. "Bobby's a turd waiting to be flushed."

  "Does he know you're in charge? Does he do what you tell him?"

  "I do," Bobby said.

  When Dibble left, Duck said, "He's the best."

  Away from the toilets Duck stuck close to Bobby. In the classroom, repeating grades, Duck did poorly while Bobby, seated beside him, often let him copy from his paper, which the teacher didn't seem to mind. Neither was much good in the gym. They had no grace in tossing up a basketball, no eye for the basket, no feel for the ball, though no one openly made fun of them. They were Dibble's charges.

  In the recreation room Dibble put on shows. No one, not even when he spotted points, could beat him at table tennis. His arm was a steel whip, his serves invisible. When he used English, the ball went crazy. Watching, squeezing Bobby's arm, Duck said, "I love him."

  Bobby said, "Me too."

  Bobby liked it best when he and Dibble were alone together in their room, even when he couldn't make a sound because Dibble was reading or thinking or simply relaxing. In the silence he imagined a sharing of secrets so sensitive they didn't have words. His eyes relished Dibble in repose.

  On his feet, Dibble said, "Grissom-'s scheduled you for counseling. Therapy. They're gonna want to know what makes you tick. What makes you laugh. What makes you sweat. My advice, Sawhill, is don't let anybody get in your head."

  "I never have."

  Dibble smiled. "You're not as dumb as I thought."

  Married, she kept her name. She was still Trish Becker. Harry Sawhill kept his house, and she put hers on the market without moving out. They lived in both places, back and forth, a couple of weeks in his house, longer in hers. Hers didn't sell because she kept the price inordinately high, and as abruptly as she had put it on the market she took it off.

  Harry, ensconced in her bed, called to her. "I thought you hated this house. I know I do. It's far too big."

  "I'm not letting it go for a song." She was stepping onto a scale in the bathroom. She weighed in at a hard hundred-thirty pounds, which was her essential shape.

  "What's the real reason?"

  "I want my children to know they have their home to come to."

  "What's the matter with my house?"

  "That's Bobby's house. This is theirs."

  He was silent for a moment. "You hate him."

  She was brushing her teeth. After spitting out, she said, "I fear him. Don't you?"

  "He's my son."

  "He's not mine."

  When she entered the bedroom, Harry drew aside the covers on her side of the bed. "We really married, Trish, or we just pretending?"

  Her thin gown clung to the expanse of her hips. Through the translucency her groin divulged the true color of her hair, which was not blond. She extinguished the bedside lamp and darkened the room. "Ask Reverend Stottle. He said the words."

  Settling into bed, she took comfort in the knowledge she would not be alone through the night. Should a bad dream wake her, she could reach out for warmth, provided Harry wasn't in the throes of a cold sweat. He rolled against her with no alcohol on his breath. He hadn't touched a drop in a week.

  "Shall we?"

  "If you want," she said.

  When he rested a hand on her abdomen, she remembered her panic when her first marriage was disintegrating and her need for refuge consuming. When he kissed her on the mouth, heavily, greedily, she remembered lying lumpish for men she didn't want, men who considered her windfall.

  "Where are you going, Harry?"

  He was dipping under the covers, raising them, loosing them. He was down on her, licking a stamp. Where would he mail her? Was she first class or bulk?

  It wasn't working.

  She forced him back up. Eschewing the inferior position, she straddled him, bore down, and took command. Her fantasies flew to his brother and then to her first husband. She connived with both, two phantoms carrying her down the stretch. A moment later she collapsed as Harry's head jerked up.

  "What are you laughing for?"

  "I always do," she said, controlling herself.

  "Not that loud."

  "I'm happy."

  He spoke with sadness. "No, you're not."

  She spoke with practicality. "Next best thing."

  Chief Morgan finished buying take-out at the deli counter in Tuck's when a slight figure appeared at his elbow without warning. A voice said, "Do you miss her, James? Do you miss her as much as I do?"

  He turned slowly, a weight on his shoulders. "I miss her in my own way, Mrs. Perrault."

  "But you can find another woman. I won't ever have another daughter." Mrs. Perrault's eyes were teardrops. Her hair was tightly permed, but the hues were gone. Wrinkles in her face reached out. "Why wasn't that boy put away for life?"

  He answered quietly, his tone deliberate. "His uncle got him a good lawyer."

  "Sawhills have money. That's the long and short of it. They have money, and I have no daughter. What am I to do with the little that's left of my life?"

  He had no answer, only a rush of memories. He remembered the tint of Claudia's skin, the small mole between her breasts, the childhood collection of abscess scars in her underarms.

  A critical moment passed.

  "Do you eat your supper alone, James?"

  "Usually," he said, "but sometimes I have it at the Blue Bonnet."

  "Would you like to eat with us? My sisters aren't the best company, but you're welcome."

  "Maybe sometime," he said.

  They stepped aside for other customers, Morgan clutching his take-out bag, not all that much in it for a grown man. Mrs. Perrault said, "You probably think I do, but I don't blame you. Claudia had a mind of her own, but we didn't often let her use it. We wanted her to ourselves. My sisters don't see it, but we were selfish."

  "She was just looking for a life of her own," he said. "That's the whole of it."

  They stepped out of the store. Mrs. Perrault had in her arms a small bag of groceries. He wanted to carry it for her, but she shook her head. "I'm able."

  Claudia's Dodge Colt was parked behind the store. The sight of it hurt his eyes. "I didn't know you drove," he said.

  "I do a lot for myself now."

  He opened the driver's door, stepped back, and gazed up at a sky of restless white clouds jostled by whatever disturbances roamed that high. Mrs. Perrault settled in behind the wheel, fastened her seat belt, and looked out at him.

  "We have to sell that awful house. I don't think of it as Claudia's but as Mrs. Bullard's. I can't imagine who would want to buy it."

  Nor could he. Were he felonious, reckless, not the police chief, he would burn it down. Were he an expanded version of himself, he would take all matters into his own hands. He closed the driver's door and started to walk away. He stopped and turned around when Mrs. Perrault called to him, her small face framed in the open window.

  "I wish you were the Almighty," she said.

  He looked at her wonderingly. Yet he knew what she
was going to say.

  "So you could bring her back, James."

  On a Sunday afternoon Ben Sawhill and his brother strolled the back reaches of his property. Towering pines dropped golden needles, several to a pack. A blizzard of birds flew overhead, swerved in a great arc, and vanished into the blue. Ben said, "Bobby's uncooperative. He's refused counseling. Otherwise, Grissom says he's doing all right."

  "How can he be doing all right if he's not getting help?"

  "One thing at a time, Harry."

  "Why doesn't he want me to visit him? I'm his father. You're his uncle. Why doesn't he want to see you?"

  "He needs time to adjust. Grissom says you should write him once a week if possible, even if you don't get answers."

  "I wouldn't know what to say. On paper it's different, harder. The words become permanent. Damn it, Ben, Bobby and I were never close. His mother's death did something to both of us."

  They approached the start of maple and oak splurging colors. Leaves were trailing away, and the woods were opening up, showing empty shelves. Harry shuddered.

  "Is my kid a monster?"

  "Something's terribly wrong with him, that's certain."

  "My fault, Ben? Is that what people say?"

  "Doesn't matter what people say. We're Sawhills."

  "I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have Trish. How's Belle taking it?"

  "She's still shaken, of course."

  "The twins?"

  "Hard to tell," Ben said. "They're still so young."

  "Maybe they could write to Bobby."

  "Maybe."

  They skirted the woods. Once the area had been all woods, the Heights not even a gleam in a developer's eye. In boyhood they had known all the straying paths, the sudden openings, the secret nooks, and could enter rooms of antique fern and emerald moss, with pets in the corners, a fleeing snake here, a chipmunk there. They were Boy Scouts. Ben knew birds. The gold of a finch was money in the bush. The tanager adored his mate. Harry knew droppings. He knew a skunk's scat from a possum's, and he knew the leavings of a fox and the pellets of an owl.