The Cartoonist

by Sean Costello

  It was a Saturday and Kath had been staying over with a friend, leaving him and Krista alone for the weekend. They’d been down by the dock, getting tipsy, acting the fool, when Krista suggested a swim and began to disrobe. Scott remembered clearly the pale swells of her breasts, contrasting so erotically with the tan of her skin in the grainy half-light of the moon. Clear, too, was that vague, giddy fear of swimming at night, a sensation that had always heightened the thrill. Until the other morning, he thought grimly, until that rocky bottom, those weeds. They laughed and swam and splashed and then Krista took him in her hand and made him hard. And they made love there, naked on the dock in the starlight. Good love. Afterward, incredibly, they fell asleep there, wrapped warmly around each other.

  This memory lead to another—oddly, Kath swallowing an ice cube when she was five and nearly choking on it. Then, in a kind of cerebral chain reaction, memory lead to memory, until soon a brilliant cascade of them blurred through his mind.

  After a block of time Scott would have been unable to define, the wind freshened and it started to rain again. Adrift in that mosaic of memory, he missed the first warbling ring of the remote when it sounded inside his jacket. He heard its second ring and removed it from his jacket, but he did not answer it. He was unmindful of the rain. He was aware only of his dread, its weight, its crushing grip on his heart. It would be Gerry calling, and his big voice would say, I’m sorry, Scott, but they’re dead...both dead....

  On the third ring he brought the phone to his ear. The voice on the other end—high, strained, familiar—cut in before Scott had a chance to speak.

  “Scott?”

  That single word was an anodyne. Pain and apprehension vanished in a quivering whisper of breath.

  Scott started to giggle.

  “Scott, listen...you’re not going to believe the shit I’m into down here...are you laughing? I’m not kidding, Scott...”

  It was Krista.

  “...will you listen?”

  Before Scott could reply, he heard his wife’s voice sharpen angrily, then muffle as she cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. She was addressing someone at her end—and none too politely.

  “Could I have some privacy here, for Christ’s sake? Jesus.” She came back on the line. “You would not believe these jackasses.”

  Scott found his voice. “Krista, what’s going on?” He couldn’t wipe the grin from his face. “Are you okay? What happened? When you didn’t call, I —”

  “I’m sorry about that, honey, I really am. But let me explain. Oh, it’s a long story...I hit a goddam cow with the car last night—”

  “A cow?” Scott said, starting to giggle again. A cow, he thought hysterically, only a stupid bloody cow.

  “It’s not funny. We could have been hurt...or killed. Anyway, that poor Holstein is beefsteaks now. I busted its hind legs with the bumper. The farmer said he’d have to shoot it.

  “You see, Kath and I got lost yesterday afternoon and, well, you know what I’m like when I’ve got someplace to get to.” He did. “It was dark and I was speeding on this windy road—that’s one thing New England has plenty of, is windy roads.”

  Krista was genuinely upset; Scott could tell from her rambling dialogue. Still, be couldn’t stop smiling...they were all right. Thank God, they were all right.

  “We came around this sharp curve and there they were, cows, maybe sixty of them, all over the goddam road. And half a dozen farmers with flashlights and dogs. The cows had tramped down the fence and got out of the pasture.

  “The car’s okay...sort of. I mean, I can drive it. The grille’s a bit crumpled. I swerved and took the ditch. God, I felt like a criminal. Those farmers shot me some pretty dirty looks...and then they had to push the car back onto the road.

  “Anyway, to make matters worse, it starts to rain, thunder and lightning, a real storm. And you know how Kath gets in a storm.”

  Sitting in the rain and grinning, Scott nodded to no one. Kath regressed five or six years in a bad thunderstorm. On one or two occasions the previous summer she’d become nearly hysterical and ended up bunking in with him and Krista until the storm had blown over.

  “I was beat anyway,” Krista was saying, sounding a trifle hysterical herself, “so I asked one of the farmers how far it was to the nearest motel. He looked as if he’d rather tell me to...well, use your imagination, but he told me anyways. So off we went, me shaking like a leaf after hitting that cow, Kath scared and carrying on like a three-year-old.”

  As he listened, Scott started back up the hill toward the house, aware only now that he’d been sitting in an August downpour writing obituaries for the two people he cared for most in the world. Escaping his notice, the rain-soaked sole of his shoe crushed the four-leaf clover he’d marked with a branch. Only the highlights of Krista’s mile-a-minute account were reaching his higher centers for descrambling, but that didn’t matter. Krista’s voice mattered—feisty, exasperated, switching back in her excitement to the Newfie drawl of her childhood...alive. The car didn’t matter. The cow didn’t matter. The Cartoonist didn’t matter.

  “So finally I found this motel: Nomad’s Notch.” Krista uttered a short derisive laugh. “More like Nomad’s Crotch if you ask me. What a dive.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Oh, shit, that little bitch proprietor heard me. I was going to call you when I got here. It was late, after twelve, and I knew you’d be worried. But the lines were down with the storm. The power, too.

  “So Kath and I had to trek out into this muddy yard in the rain, looking for room seventeen. Turns out the little frump gave us the shack at the far end of the row, with a leaky ceiling, no heat, and a musty old mattress. I woke up this morning with spring marks all over my ass.”

  Krista was beginning to lose control and Scott thought she might start to cry. In his relief, he hadn’t appreciated the full extent of her upset. To him, Krista’s tribulations seemed petty held next to the fate he’d envisioned. But all things were relative.

  “ ...kept dreaming about that poor cow. It shit itself when I hit it, Scott. Right onto the hood.” Krista paused, her breath hitching noisily over the miles. “Then...” Now she was crying; Scott could almost hear the teardrops. “Then this. At five-thirty this morning my motel room door is shoved open and these two brain-damaged cops come barging in.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Scott said, finding the whole situation suddenly hilarious. Gerry...his detective work had paid off.

  “Scott, what’s going on? They think I’m some kind of criminal. A kidnapper, if you can believe that. I’ve shown them my license and ownership and all that, and Kath told them I’m her mother, for Christ’s sake, but they say they’re waiting for some kind of clearance from Canada.”

  Immediately Scott saw a way to come out of all this smelling like a rose. Maybe even a hero. “Listen, sweetheart, don’t cry. Give me the number there and I’ll call you right back. I’m going to get in touch with Gerry and see if he can’t clear up this whole silly mess. There’s obviously been a misunderstanding.” He noticed the crumpled drawings by the phone and hesitated. Then, acting on an instinct he would only understand some several hours later, he added: “Then I’m going to book a flight and join you in Boston...meetings, job, psychiatry be damned.”

  “Okay, hon,” Krista said, sniffling but sounding more in control. “You’re a dear.” She gave him the number. “Thanks. And I’m sorry about the car.”

  “Forget the car. My girls are all right and that’s all that matters. I was thinking of trading it for a Chevette, anyway.”

  Krista laughed and Scott felt like a millionaire.

  “I love you, Scott.”

  “Me too you.”

  When they hung up Scott was still outside, standing on the deck in the cool, refreshing rain.

  17

  THE PHONE RANG AGAIN, AND although it startled him, it no longer seemed fearsome. Just a phone ringing, a prosaic sound, a sane sound. He stepped in off the deck and answered it cheerfully.

  �
�Hello?”

  “Scott.” It was Gerry. “Listen, we found them and they’re fine. Krista’s madder than hell, though.”

  “Yeah, I know. She just called. Thanks, man. I owe you a big one.” Scott chuckled. “Now, can you get me out of this? If she finds out I’m behind all of this, never mind the lunatic reason for it, I’ll be a dead man.”

  “That’s the easy part,” Gerry said.

  “Thanks, pal. You must think I’ve been out in the sun too long.”

  “Well, you know what they say about shrinks...no, really, I was moved by your concern for them. You’re lucky to have someone you feel that way about.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Scott said, feeling a small arrow of pain for his friend. Gerry’s wife, Steffie, had left him two years ago—a ransacked apartment and a note on the kitchen table.

  “Can you tell me about your ‘loony reasons’ now, or do I have to wait for the miniseries?”

  “You deserve at least that much,” Scott said. “But not right now. Next week over beer and pizza at the Hut, maybe. My treat. I want to get back to Krista. I’m going to join her in Boston tonight.”

  “Okay, José. But give me ten or fifteen to sort out the ‘mix-up’ in the States before calling...and stay out of the sun.”

  “Bye for now,” Scott said with a laugh. “I’ll give you a buzz.”

  He set the rain-beaded handset on the counter and whipped spryly upstairs, taking the risers two at a go. In the bathroom, whistling tunelessly, he removed his soaked clothes and hopped into the shower. He felt great, better than he had in days. And yet, as the hot water worked its magic, he could feel the exhaustion creeping surely through him. He was headed for a major-league crash and he knew it. He’d probably sleep through his first two days in Boston.

  A cow, he thought again. No shambling zombies from the valley of the dead. Not that he believed for one moment...

  It occurred to him then that the Cartoonist had been right. Scott had been so distracted with relief, he’d discounted this basic truth. His girls did have an accident, it did happen at night and they did hit something in the road.

  So they’re out of danger...right?

  He stepped out of the shower, toweled off briskly and padded into the bedroom. Still a bit shaky, he picked up the phone and called the Air Canada reservations desk. The best they could do, they told him, was a connecting flight from Montreal. He would be flying Air Canada out of Ottawa at eight, then Delta from Montreal an hour later, arriving in Boston at ten fifty-five. This suited him fine. The later flight would allow him time to straighten things up at the hospital.

  Next he dialed the number Krista had given him. A woman answered in a Yankee drawl, which to Scott sounded contrived.

  “Mornin’, Nomad’s Notch.”

  “This is Dr. Bowman,” he said with as much authority as he could muster. “Give me Krista Bowman, please.”

  The receiver was clunked against something hard; Scott got an image of coffee-stained Formica. “It’s fer you,” he heard the woman say.

  “Scott?”

  “Hi, I reached Gerry—”

  “Yes, I know.” Krista sounded cheerful and relieved. “They’ve gone, those mobsters. No apologies, nothing. Just, ‘Here’s your license, lady, you can go.’ Pigs. Well, we’re going, all right. Kath thinks it’s all a party. I called Caroline already. She laughed, but I know she was worried, too.”

  She paused a beat, thoughtful. Then: “I’m okay now, you know. You don’t have to fly down here. I’d like it, but...”

  Scott glanced again at the drawings, which he’d tossed on the bed before showering. “Just have the harem assembled at the Delta off-ramp at eleven tonight.”

  Krista uttered a tiny squeal reserved for situations that delighted her.

  “Krista?” Scott said in a voice that was almost a whisper.

  “Yes, hon?”

  “Do me a favor?” He saw the terror in the cartoon-child’s face and realized that his hairline had beaded with sweat.

  “Name it, Bud.”

  “Don’t drive after dark tonight, okay?”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Please, babe. Just humor your schizoid husband for one night?”

  “What about picking you up at the airport?”

  “Bring Caroline along. Then I won’t be worried, okay?”

  “Okay,” Krista said. She was too tired to argue or to question him further. “See you tonight.” She intentionally filled this last with erotic promise.

  “Right,” Scott said, recognizing the signal. “I’ll be the man with the copy of Pravda under his arm and the unripened Chiquita banana taped to his inner thigh.”

  Krista laughed. “You’re a nut, Bowman...but I love you anyway. Bye.”

  The line went dead.

  * * *

  Before leaving for the hospital later that morning, Scott folded the drawings and tucked them neatly into his flight bag. He wanted to show them to Krista. He thought they could both have a good laugh over the whole ridiculous affair. Into another compartment he stuffed Jinnie, Kath’s Cabbage Patch doll.

  On his way out he remembered the Christmas pictures he’d had developed and put those in the bag, too.

  18

  “YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING,” Krista said. She was standing in the blistering heat of midday, staring at a grease-freckled mechanic. The man’s eyes, an amazing bottle green, shone with faint amusement. Behind him, parked on the gravel shoulder, the Volvo hissed steam from beneath its dented hood. The motor of the nearby tow truck grumbled comfortably...almost mockingly, Krista thought.

  She’d gotten exactly twenty miles from Nomad’s Notch when the car began to hitch and the heat indicator winked its accusing red eye. Predictably, she’d been here, in the middle of no place, when it happened. And it had taken her more than an hour to flag a ride to the nearest town.

  “No, ma’am. No joke. You’ve got a hole in your radiator as big around as that.” He held up one beefy, oil-blackened finger. “You must’ve took a branch through the sucker when you ran her off the road.” Now his green eyes were smiling, flashing dollar signs.

  Krista glowered at the crippled car. “Can you fix it?”

  Rubbing his chin, the mechanic shuffled back to his truck, where he propped an elbow on the sill and a boot on the muddy side-runner. In this pose his body partially framed the ad painted on the door: Ernie Thurston Texaco.

  “I can fix her, all right,” he said after a theatrical pause. “Need a rad, though. Likely have to call down to Boston to get—”

  “Boston,” Krista cut in. They were still a good three and a half hours from Boston. “How long will that take?”

  “Better part of the day, I expect. Maybe even into tomorrow. Have to send her up on the Greyhound. Might find one in Portland if our luck’s in.” He regarded the Volvo with open disdain. “These foreign jobs might be nice and all, but parts are a bitch.” He spat, as if to emphasize this heart-felt conviction. “’Scuse me, ma’am.”

  Krista bit her lip. Unbidden, a favorite expression of her mother’s came to mind in her mother’s nattering voice: “Disasters always come in threes.” Well, where should I start counting? Krista asked herself bitterly. First my busybody sister gets my goat, then Customs, then a speeding ticket, then I get lost in the mountains, kill a cow, sleep on a crab-infested mattress and get arrested for kidnapping. Isn’t that enough?

  She looked at the hissing Volvo. A fat drop of sweat stung her eye. “All right,” she said, giving in. “Let’s get started.”

  The mechanic nodded and spat again. Then, green eyes gleaming, he climbed into the truck and backed it into position in front of the Volvo.

  Meanwhile, Krista hailed Kath, who was down in the ditch hunting grasshoppers, and the two of them piled into the passenger side of Ernie Thurston’s Ford. While they waited, Kath tugged absently at a tuft of stuffing that protruded from a crack in the vinyl upholstery.

  19

  THE LAYOVER IN MONTREAL CONSUM
ED just over an hour, the bulk of which Scott spent in the concourse bar, drinking draft and ignoring the rather clumsy advances of a tipsy prostitute.

  After speaking with Krista, he spent the balance of the morning trying to catch up on his shut-eye. But his night of worry had worked on him like an amphetamine, and he found it impossible to wind down. He did manage about an hour, but awoke feeling flakier than before. He arrived at the hospital just after noon and sequestered himself in his office, where he spent a few hours dictating letters and rescheduling the week’s meetings and appointments. Before leaving he peeked in on the Cartoonist. The old man was asleep in his wheelchair. According to the nurse Bateman had assigned to watch over him, he’d been that way since early morning. There were no new drawings.

  Now, waiting in line at the boarding ramp, Scott was feeling a tad more than tipsy himself—and unaccountably flattered by the hooker’s persistence. She was still winking and waving from her stool in the nearby open-front bar.

  What a pooch, Scott thought, chuckling and returning her wave. By now he’d all but forgotten his wretched anxiety of the night before. And yet, even through his fatigue and the mild, alcohol-induced euphoria, something rattled at the back of his mind, a detail lurking just out of reach. Something was wrong, didn’t quite fit. It was in the drawings somewhere, an incongruity, ill-defined but there.

  As he waited Scott became dimly aware of the old man’s handiwork, folded in the pocket of his TWA flightbag. He fancied he could feel it in there, like a weight just heavy enough to make the straps dig uncomfortably into his shoulder.

  “Boarding pass, please. Your boarding pass, sir?”