by Alex Gordon
“Lois.” Zeke made a swooping motion with his hand. “Because she just glides down the lane.” He chuckled, quieted for a few moments, then cleared his throat. “I’d like to tell you that last night was just a bad night. Because we’ve been through a rough stretch here and folks are upset.” He kept his eyes on the road. “But that wouldn’t be true. Things have been bad here for a long time.”
Lauren picked her words with care—she didn’t want to risk offending one of the few people who had made any effort to be kind. “I wasn’t sure what to expect when I came here. I knew Dad must have left for a reason, but I had no idea he was so disliked.”
Zeke nodded, eventually. “He wasn’t a bad kid. Good-looking. A little wild—beer and driving too fast and such. Helluva ballplayer. Different town, he woulda ruled the roost.” He gnawed his gum for a bit. “Hard on him getting pulled outta his old school in the middle of the year, too. Big change comin’ from a Chicago school to little ol’ Gideon.”
“Chicago?” A jet of cold air whistled up Lauren’s jeans leg, and she placed her booted foot on one floorboard hole, then another, until she blocked the right one. “He wasn’t born here?”
“Nah. Hadn’t been a Mullin in Gideon for years. And I mean years. Since the fire, all the way back to 1871.” Zeke popped another stick of gum in his mouth. “Then one day back in ’74—1974, you know. I ain’t that old—Leaf goes to Chicago on business. Few days later, Mark and Becky-please Mullin—she didn’t like folks callin’ her Rebecca, thank you—they show up, your daddy in tow. Future daddy. Making amends, Leaf said. Mark was outta work—there was the recession back then, you know. The oil embargo. Businesses cratering left and right. ‘Doin’ a man with a family a favor,’ he said.”
Lauren looked out the window at the winter-brown landscape. “Think he went looking for him in order to make amends?”
Zeke arched a shaggy eyebrow. “Possible, I guess. If anyone had the money to hire detectives, it was Leaf.” He wrinkled his nose. “Not usually his way, though. Leaf never spends a nickel unless he knows he’ll get a dollar back, you know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean.” Lauren sat quiet, mind wheels turning. Cateman needed a Mullin for something. But what? After a few moments, she dug the book out of her pocket and opened it to a blank page, scrabbled for the pen. Wrote the name “Leaf,” drew a rough sketch of a maple leaf next to it. Looked over at Zeke, and found him eyeing her sidelong.
“You takin’ notes on me?”
“No.” Lauren drew a line of X-centered circles. “Sometimes I think better when I doodle.”
“Yeah, your daddy was like that. Always had something in his hand. Pen, pencil, piece of chalk. Can you draw like him?”
“No.” Lauren paged to one of the Emma sketches. “He was amazing.”
“Yeah. He drew me a picture of one of my dogs, just before he left. I’d just lost ol’ Tillie, but didn’t have nothing to remember her by, and Matt drew me a picture of her, from memory. Still got it, hanging in my living room.” Zeke sighed. “He could be kind, when you least expected. But he had a tough row to hoe, being a Mullin in Gideon. Didn’t help that the recession overstayed its welcome and most all the decent jobs went away.”
Lauren squinted, caught a glimpse of a battered sign through the fog: WELCOME TO GIDEON. “Folks blamed him for that?”
“Well, he didn’t help matters by goin’ wild. Losin’ his folks hit him hard. Left him without a pa at a time when a boy really needs one.” Zeke clucked his tongue. “No reason for that accident. No reason for Mark and Becky to have gone out that night. We would’ve helped them. We would’ve figured something out.” He banged a hand on the steering wheel. “Stubborn. The whole damn bunch of you.” A silent stammer. Then he shrugged an apology. “Sorry.”
The truck hit a deep rut, and Lauren winced as the jostling aggravated aching muscles. “We do seem to bring it out in people.”
“Roads were icy and the sheriff told folks to stay home. But Becky had a stomach thing that wasn’t getting no better, and they headed out to the hospital. Never made it.”
“Couldn’t Amanda Petrie have helped with one of her concoctions?” Lauren saw the stern face from the clearing, the cold, steady gaze. “Let me guess—they asked her for help, and she refused.”
Zeke grumbled in the affirmative. “Folks figure that’s why Leaf reached out to your daddy. Guilt. I say it’s better to not do the bad thing in the first place, but what do I know? I just live here.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence. Zeke pulled into the garage parking lot just as Lolly emerged from the diner, paper sack in hand. “There he is. Good luck.”
“Thanks for the lift.” Lauren bested the balky door handle and disembarked. “Do you think you’ll be coming back this way soon?”
“Sorry. Headed out to Sterling to see a man about a chain saw.” Zeke grappled with the stick shift, coaxed the truck into reverse. “Good day to you. Give my best to the Mistress.” The clash of gears sounded again, and Lois rumbled forward, onto the road, into the fog.
Lauren trotted across the parking lot, intercepting Lolly just as he reached the front office door.
“Not leaking anywhere.” He switched the sack from one hand to the other as he rooted through his coverall pockets. “Level sensor, probably. Had to order it. Be here day after tomorrow.” He pulled out a set of keys. Apparently not everyone in Gideon felt secure enough to leave their doors unlocked. “Could’ve told you that over the phone. Saved you the trip.”
“I called earlier, but you must have been at the diner.” Lauren followed him into the front office, an unheated wood-panel-and-linoleum space that reeked of cigarette smoke and old coffee. “I was starting to go a little stir-crazy, anyway. I needed to get out.” Her breath puffed with each word, and she kept her coat on and zipped it to the neck for good measure.
“After one day?” Lolly set the sack on the desk, pulled out a cup of coffee and a disposable takeout container. “Figure you’d want to keep your head down, given how well things went last night.”
Lauren walked to a small bulletin board that hung next to the entry to the garage proper. “Why didn’t you like him?” The wall calendar still showed the previous month—she took it down, paged forward, tacked it back in place.
Lolly sat, opened the top of the food container, waved away the rising steam. “Ain’t it a little early in the day for true confessions?”
“You seem to get off on shocking people. I didn’t think you’d mind.” Lauren dragged a rickety chair from against the wall and set it on the opposite side of the desk. “From all I’ve heard so far, Mullins were responsible for everything from the Civil War to the Black Death. I just wondered if anyone could give me a reason why the townfolk believe this to be the case.” She sat down, tucked her hands inside her sleeves to warm them.
Lolly smashed biscuits into sausage gravy, then shoveled a forkful of the mess into his mouth. “I would think you had other things to worry about.” He sprayed crumbs across the desk, swept them off with his sleeve.
Lauren unzipped her coat just far enough to dig out the book. “Blaine found Dad in Seattle. The more I think about it, the more I’m wondering whether the stress of hiding from Blaine was what sickened him. I know Blaine is responsible for the death of a woman who tried to help me. Now he’s latched on to me.”
Lolly continued to eat, swigging coffee in between bites. “Blaine and the Mullins go way back. But I’m guessing Miz Waycross filled you in about that.”
Lauren leafed through the book until she came to the sketch of the gnarled visage. “That woman last night. Judith. She talked about reparations, because of things my family did to Blaine. He was a victim. He was wronged.” She turned the book around so that Lolly could see her father’s sketch. “The thing is, the figure I’ve encountered, he’s not begging. He’s ordering me to help him.”
“Someone who’s been hurt bad enough might get tired of waiting.”
“He wants
more than an apology.”
Lolly glanced at the drawing. “What does he want you to do?”
“He thinks I know. But I don’t.” Lauren stood and walked to the office window. On the other side, the fog had cleared, and a weak sun shone. “Last night, you mentioned the wall my dad built. The Catemans’ wall. You said everything I needed to know was there. What kind of wall is it? Is it in a place where I can go now and look at it?”
Lolly licked the fork clean and tossed it in the trash can next to the desk, then followed with the food container. “He never told you shit, did he? Just let it slide and left you to figure it out for yourself. Looks like he never changed.” He opened the top drawer of the desk, took out a pack of cigarettes and an old-fashioned lighter, lit up, snapped the lighter closed. Took a deep drag, then watched her through a haze of smoke. “You look a little shook up, and I’m sorry, but just because you don’t know your past doesn’t mean you don’t pay the price for it.”
Lauren opened the book to the page of young faces. “He drew you.” She held it out to Lolly.
“He drew everybody.” Lolly glanced at the sketches, and for a moment his permanent glower softened. Then he caught himself, snorted, and looked away. “He’d draw a pile of manure if it was an interesting shade of brown.”
“You know what hits me when I look at these faces?”
“No idea.”
“Just you and Mistress are left. And it matters. I heard what you said to her last night as you were leaving. ‘And then there were two.’”
Lolly sucked his teeth, stared past Lauren at the wall opposite his desk.
“What did you do? With my father? Thirty-seven years ago—what happened?” Lauren waited, then turned to one of the Emma drawings. “Folks have been making comments about this woman and my dad. Betty Joan and Ruthie and—” She bit back Connie’s name just in time. “Who is she?” She held the book out again so Lolly could see.
Lolly glanced, then sniffed. “Just like the drawing says. It’s Emma.”
“Could you be more specific?”
Another puff, another cloud. Then Lolly balanced his cigarette on the edge of the desk, and took hold of the book. “Emma was Leaf Cateman’s first wife.” He wore a high school ring on his wedding finger—he exhaled on it, smacked the page as if impressing a seal, and gave the book back to Lauren.
Lauren looked down at the drawing, felt once again the sensuality, the desire. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Lolly picked up the cigarette and stuck it back in his mouth. Then he opened another drawer and pulled out an old black landline telephone. “Doin’ his Master’s wife, the same Master who took him in after his folks died. What a guy.”
“You a friend of Leaf Cateman’s?”
“I don’t run in those exalted circles.”
“Then why do you care?” Lauren took one last look at the cameo face, then closed the book. “Cateman’s married to Jorie now. What happened to Emma?”
“Make yourself a list. Stick that question on top.” Lolly pulled some index cards out of his coverall pocket and lined them up across the desktop. “She disappeared around the same time Matt did.” He reached back in the drawer, pulled out a calculator, and held it out to her. “Two plus two—you need this?”
Heat flooded Lauren’s face. “She wasn’t my mother.”
“No? Well, then that opens up a whole new set of questions, doesn’t it?”
“He wouldn’t have saved these drawings if he had hurt her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he wouldn’t have stopped with her. And he never purposely hurt my mother, with words or deeds.” Lauren fielded Lolly’s eye-rolling skepticism. “You know the man who left. I knew the one who reared me, and worked hard, and—”
“—died and left you to twist in the wind.”
“You said yourself that you admired him for making a family.”
“That was the whiskey talking.” Lolly sniffed. “I’m not that sentimental as a rule.” He snorted, then shook his head. He had yet to shave, and still wore the same clothes he had worn the previous night. “Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to hold your hand. You want counseling, see a shrink.” He lined up the index cards, and picked up the phone. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have parts to order.”
Lauren sat frozen until the clackety-clack of an old rotary dial jarred her. Lolly’s gruff voice.
“Yeah, Bill—I need the exhaust for a ’92 F-150—”
She stood, forced one foot in front of the other, into the cold, the sun that was too weak to fight it. They think you killed Emma Cateman, Dad. I know you didn’t. Across the parking lot, and onto the road. She had come here for answers, and left with more questions. But the answers to those? Did she really want to know?
Richard Loll stared at the card in his hand. Wondered at the buzzing in his head, realized it was the dial tone, and put down the phone. Poor kid—the look on her face as the truth about her father sank in. He knew how it felt, to believe in someone that much, then to have that faith chipped away until nothing remained.
Matt, you bastard. You never told her. Never instructed her. Worse than worthless, someone like that. Dangerous, even. For good or ill, folks in Gideon expected a Mullin to know things; some would even assume she had returned to fix what her daddy broke. And here she was, about as useful as tits on a boar.
I could help her. Almost duty bound to, wasn’t he? So was Ginny. After all, they were the last of the five—him and Ginny, Matt and Jimbo, and poor little Connie, so powerful but not old enough to understand. They had practiced together, learned together. Closer than family, they had been, until Matt betrayed them all.
I could help her. Maybe she was worth it. Or maybe she would just make things worse. Loll shuffled the order cards, then stuck them back in his pocket. He needed to think. He couldn’t talk on the phone at a time like this. He had to work.
He pulled a jacket on over his coverall, stubbed out his cigarette, and entered the garage. Stood in the doorway for a few moments and tried to remember the last time there had been a vehicle at every station. Two pickups. A van. Reardon’s Subaru. Looked like he would be able to pay the utilities this month, maybe even salt away a little cash.
“Assuming we all live that long.” Loll flipped on the lights, walked past Phil’s Chevy to the workbench. He had parked the damn thing too close, and had to wedge between the tailgate and the cabinets to get to his tools. Well, he would just have to move it later. He didn’t trust himself to get behind a wheel at the moment. He felt so jittery, no telling what he could do.
Shouldn’t have drank last night. He could still taste the smoky burn of good whiskey, feel the warmth as it flowed into his gut. From that dark place in his head came the whisper that one more drink would calm him right down, help him think, and he wanted to believe even though he knew it had never been true.
Then he hated himself, because he had been so good for months and months.
Cleaning tools—that would settle him, help him forget about Lauren Reardon and son-of-a-bitch Matt Mullin. Poor Jim, and Connie. Just the two of us now, Gin. Not enough strength between them, for all that Gin was Gideon’s Mistress. Not enough power.
That means we’re dead. Loll rummaged through the tool bench, pulled out a small can of gasoline, a couple of shop rags. Maybe I should go ahead and have that drink. After all, what difference did it make? He paused, then shook his head. He swore he would die sober, not pants-pissing drunk like his old man. Sometimes the most important promises were the ones you kept when it didn’t matter.
He picked up one of his socket wrenches, took comfort in the cold heft of steel. He relished the harsh stink of the fuel as it rattled his sinuses, the oily feel as it soaked into the shop cloth and dripped down his hands to the concrete floor. Real smells. Simple things. He needed simple right now.
Time passed. Maybe he had heard the door open, and it just hadn’t registered. But he sensed it now, the way he always did. Someone, in t
he office.
“Who’s out there?” Loll tossed the rag aside, but held on to the wrench. “Phil, is that you? Next week, I said, okay? It’s a special order.” He waited for Phil, or whoever it was, to answer. Waited.
Then he felt a chill, like snow melting on his skin.
Phillip is not here, Richard, son of Lucas.
Loll gripped the edge of the bench. The voice buzzed in his ear, along his jaw. Like when the dentist stuck the needle in the gum, and hit the nerve. “Who the hell are you?”
I think you know.
“You don’t play games with me in my place—you answer the Lady’s damn question.”
The figure stepped into the office doorway. Tall and dark, but not solid—Loll could see the bare outline of the doorjamb through the black.
Hello, Richard. It has been a while.
“Blaine?” Loll backed against the tool chest.
If memory serves, Pizza Face was your preferred name for me. I believe I have you to thank for hanging that around my neck.
Loll forced a laugh. “At least you learned to hide that puss of yours from sight.”
Only for a little while longer. It seems that help has finally arrived.
“You think so?” Loll threw the wrench aside, picked up a hammer. Wait—a gun, yes, he had one. His old man’s .45, on the bottom shelf of the chest. He ducked down, reached for it.
Gone.
Do you truly believe it would help? I can return it to you, if you wish, and we can see what happens when you try to use it.
Loll straightened. His breakfast bubbled to the back of his throat, and he swallowed again and again to keep from vomiting.
It is so changed here. Nicholas Blaine shifted, then leaned against the doorway like a customer stopped by to chew the fat. So many familiar faces gone.
“You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Loll set down the hammer but held on to the rag, kneaded it, tied knots, then undid them. He had locked the big door to the garage, the one for the vehicles that led to the outside, and left the key in the office—no getting out that way.
