by Martin Clark
“Your fair share? Are you serious?”
Mrs. Covington raised her head a little. “I can’t see that anything good will come out of fighting with Evers.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t even go to the funeral home to see her,” said Aimme, ignoring her mother.
“You mean to see if she’s really dead?”
“Are you even going to go to the funeral to pay your respects?” Clifford demanded.
“No. That would make me a hypocrite. Look, I’m sorry this happened, but that’s about the best I can say.”
“You’re so vicious, Evers. Such an asshole.”
“I can’t believe your attitude,” Clifford added.
“You are all morons.” Evers hit the top of the car with his fist. He’d promised himself that he would not come unglued, and now he had. He hit it again. The noise was deep and hung in the air for a second or two. “Morons,” he shouted.
“You’ll see,” Aimme said. “We told the police we think you are mixed up in Jo Miller’s getting killed. Think about that.”
“Evers—” Jo Miller’s mother started to say something but didn’t get to finish.
“Your sister shot herself, Aimme. You think about that.” Evers got into the Datsun and started the engine. He rolled up his window and roared down the gravel and dirt driveway. Before he pulled onto the blacktop, Evers looked back and saw Mrs. Covington standing alone outside, staring at him through the dust. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, and Evers made a left turn, felt the tires leave the gravel and take hold of the pavement.
While he was riding back to Norton, Evers started thinking about Jo Miller; he looked at the road and sky and highway signs, stopped for a beer at a store and also bought some animal crackers. After an hour in the car, Evers had the memory of his wife cooking at the Durham apartment in her underwear, her back to him and her hair pulled on top of her head in a knot. He couldn’t shake the image: his wife when she was happy with him. And then he remembered, although it had nothing to do with what he had just considered, something that Pascal had said after one of his woman-chasing, ganja-ripped trips to the Caribbean: men like sex, women like money and the two very much go hand in hand. Pascal also liked to say that you’re only young once, but you can be immature forever. Evers got so wrapped up in his thoughts that he missed a turn and drove twenty miles out of the way.
Evers got home in the middle of the afternoon, and he went into the kitchen and had a drink from a bottle of scotch he had taken out of Pascal’s living room and forgotten to return. He had several more swallows out of the bottle and went into his bedroom and climbed underneath the sheets with his clothes on. He fell asleep, and when he woke up it was dark as pitch in the room, and he couldn’t see anything, not even outlines and shapes. He heard the steady click and hum of the dryers underneath him in the Coin-O-Matic laundry. The phone rang, and he ignored it. About half an hour later, it rang again, and this time he got out of bed and answered it. It was Pauletta; she was working late and had decided to call him. Evers told her what had happened, about Jo Miller’s death and about the police coming to Pascal’s trailer.
“I’m sorry. My goodness. I really am sorry—about all of it.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.” Pauletta paused. “So how are you taking all of this? Is this a bad time to call? I just was taking a break, wasting time, and just wanted to check on you. To tell you the truth, I called to see if you really were coming up here again. So … uh … what’s going on with you?”
“Who knows? My wife’s dead, I’m living in an apartment with brown plastic paneling and I’m probably going to lose my job and end up as a blurb in USA Today. Could be worse, could be better.”
“You wonder sometimes, Judge Wheeling. About all kinds of things.” Pauletta sounded sympathetic.
“I guess.”
“I hope you feel better.”
“So do I. I mean, it goes without saying that my wife and I weren’t on good terms when she died. It’s just strange to have someone you know so well die.”
They were quiet for a moment. “Well, it’s nice to talk to you. Anything I can do to help, to lift your spirits?” Pauletta’s tone was gentle.
“Thanks. I don’t know why I’m sort of melancholy. I love having everything behind me, and I can’t tell you how many times I wished Jo Miller a long, gut-wrenching death.”
“You probably didn’t hate her long enough to be pure and absolute about it.” Pauletta’s voice picked up. “You know, I read this story in the paper about drug runners who smuggle dope into the country inside of snakes. They force the cocaine into the snake’s rectum—boa constrictors, I think—and then send them to the States. A bunch got held up in customs, and some died from the heat, some because the drugs began leaking into their systems. I hate snakes, but it still really seemed cruel and pitiful.”
Suddenly, Evers was very sad. He looked around his apartment and out the window. You start out asking for so much, wanting it all, rich illusions, and then you settle for so much less because of simple certitude, the feeling that you can get a certain tiny portion without a bent back and upheaval in your stomach—a comfortable marriage, a home, a kiss, a child, a fire and a thick paper on Sundays. And then you become disillusioned when Fate, preoccupied, blinks at a cinder in her eye, the clouds crowd in and the small lot you’ve accepted because of its availability becomes distant and otherworldly. People cheat, people deceive, people grow disenchanted. Homeless ladies lift their skirts to piss on the sidewalks on Fifth Avenue, even at the good addresses.
“I have a theory about my wife,” Evers said. “About women.”
Pauletta almost laughed. “Tell me. I’m sure it’s entertaining.”
“I believe that sperm is venomous.”
“Maybe serpent sperm, yes?”
“I have concluded that women are sterile, squeaky-clean vessels unless and until they become acquainted with number three, at which time, Miss Qwai, like a catalyst of some sort, the semen begins to—very insidiously, mind you—poison their natures. It corrupts their fineness. Have you ever seen a dishonest spinster? An acerbic nun? A less than wholesome girl-child?”
“Or a monstrous mother—even yours, perhaps, Judge Wheeling? Are you overlooking your own viscous origins?”
“A small amount builds up an immunity. Too much from different sources is toxic. Lethal. Women change from charming schoolgirls to disillusioned shrews, and the only qualitative change is the passage of both time and sperm.”
“Number three, you called it.”
“Yeah. One is—”
“Would my personality improve if I were to cut down my exposure?”
“I think maybe we could save you with cobalt treatments.”
“Do all white men your age like the Doobie Brothers and golf, Judge Wheeling, or is that just a stereotype?”
“It’s pretty much true, I think.”
“So what do you want to do about visiting?” Pauletta asked. “Are you coming up here?”
“I think you should do voice-overs. Your diction is so faultless.”
“I called to try to make amends. Certainly you’re going to give me a chance.”
“Pax Pauletta. Peace in our time. Apologize for what?”
“My attitude after we had sex,” she said.
“Oh?”
“I’d like to take you to dinner.”
“A few weeks ago I was George Wallace, now we’re going to break bread together?”
“You still are George Wallace.”
“Implicit in this call is your admission that I’m not an ogre.”
“Implicit in this call is my admission,” Pauletta replied, “that I shouldn’t fuck you and then shun you, when nothing has changed.”
“Nicely ambiguous. But I’ll sign it.” Evers had no desire to hold a grudge. He liked Pauletta. “It’ll be nice to see you.”
“Good.”
“So we’re best friends again, with secret codes and o
ur own clubhouse?”
“Why don’t you come up here in a couple of days? I’ll take you to Fazio’s for a good meal.”
Detective Greenfield called Evers right before his lunch, around noon, on a Monday when Evers was working in Norton. Evers had just finished talking to H. T. Moran; H. T. was late with the lie-detector report because he had been in Raleigh at a mandatory diversity-and-sensitivity training program.
“Hello, Judge Wheeling.”
“Hello, Detective. What can I do for you?”
“Well, we wanted to let you know that your wife’s fingerprints was the only ones on the gun.”
“And?”
“Lab tests showed her hand had some residue on it. Gunpowder residue. Chemical tests, you know, tells if you fired a gun.”
“That’s not surprising if she shot herself,” Evers said.
“Gun had been fired twice. It was a twenty-two revolver. Two empty casings in the gun. Only one in her, though. Can’t figure that out. Just wondered if you’d ever seen her shoot, or if you’d ever shot the gun yourself?”
“I know she bought it when I moved to Norton. She used to shoot it occasionally for practice. I’ve never shot it.”
“We have a suspect, too. I guess that’s the right word. Some of this ain’t fitting so good.”
“Besides me?”
“You read us wrong.”
“I hope so.” Evers was starting to feel agitated.
“Seems her boyfriend—I don’t mean nothin’ by that, sir—this Falstaf was over at her place twice in the last few days before she died, once about dark. Neighbor says he left mad and shoutin’, spinning tires, all that kind of stuff. They was arguing out in the front yard. Right hard. Seems he wanted to get married, and she already had a new interest. I don’t mean, sir, to seem disrespectful with any of this.”
“I’ve already told you that my wife and I weren’t getting along. Say whatever you want to.”
“She was seeing a college kid. Young guy. Evidently Falstaf didn’t take to that too well. He was drinking at a roadhouse later that night, got there around three in the morning. That we know.” Greenfield seemed pleasant enough.
“Well, thanks for keeping me up to speed.”
“We’ve checked your brother’s phone records.” Greenfield paused. “They’re pretty much like he said.”
“Pascal has strange interests.”
“Women ain’t really no strange interest. But talking to them on the phone like he does is somewhat unusual.”
“Maybe it helps him sleep.”
“Right.” Greenfield kept talking. “Only problem we got is that two of Falstaf’s buddies was with him after he left drinking. They went back to his farm, all of ’em, and stayed there till morning. Least that’s what they say. Problem is, that don’t tell us much about where he was before. He claims he was with the victim until right late, then left her and went straight to the bar.”
“Well, you’re the detective. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. My bet is that she killed herself.”
“I wish you weren’t so sore about all this, Judge. I reckon we got off on the wrong foot.” Greenfield sounded earnest.
“I understand. Don’t worry about it.” Evers leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes for a moment.
“One of the guys with Falstaf got a real bad record, couple of felonies. Other one works for him. Never know.”
“Not the best alibi witnesses, I guess,” Evers said.
“You know, your brother being up is right strange.” Greenfield sounded uneasy.
“Maybe he killed her.”
“You don’t think so, do you?”
“No. Hell no.”
“After we check on Falstaf and this boy, if they don’t match up, we might ask you for some samples, you know, to see who had been with her before she died.”
“Great. I’m glad to see your trust is so deep and sound.”
“No offense, Judge Wheeling.”
“Anything else?”
“Right strange about her spelling her name wrong, ain’t it? That’s still hard to figure.”
“Nice to hear from you again.” Evers hung up the phone without waiting for Greenfield to say anything else.
Fazio’s is an Italian restaurant in Charleston, West Virginia, with four large dining rooms and family pictures, mostly unframed, on every wall. Joe Fazio, Joe’s dad, Joe’s kids, Joe’s wife, Joe’s uncles and aunts, all of them singly or in smiling combinations, color and black-and-white, fastened in one-dimensional, corner-curled glory to every flat space in the building, except, of course, the floors and ceilings. Evers was supposed to meet Pauletta at seven, and he was about twenty minutes late. Pauletta was waiting for him in the last and largest room in the restaurant. She was drinking wine; there was a bottle on the table.
Evers and Pauletta ate salads and a pizza and drank the bottle of wine Pauletta had ordered. They were unable to agree on toppings, so the pizza was divided into two halves, with different ingredients on each. After they had eaten the pizza, Evers ordered a second bottle of wine. When that had been emptied, the waiter brought a handwritten bill and four red-and-white peppermints, and Pauletta interrupted the story Evers was telling about skiing in Colorado. “What’s going on with your wife?” she asked. “You haven’t said anything about that.”
“Well, if she didn’t kill herself, they think that maybe her boyfriend did the deed.” Evers studied a small red-edged crust remaining on the pizza platter.
“Really?”
“Yes.” Evers looked at her. “That’s what the police told me. They called the other day.”
“Are they still interviewing you? Now they don’t think it’s a suicide? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“I’m not absolutely sure.” He looked around the restaurant. “It’s nothing to me, one way or the other.”
“It would—” Pauletta stopped talking. Two men and a woman had come up and were standing in front of their table. Evers had noticed them earlier, when he came in. The men had on dark cowboy hats decorated with turquoise and elaborate feathers; the woman was wearing tight jeans and boots with synthetic leopard fur around the top. The men had worn their hats while they were eating pasta and drinking beer from clear plastic pitchers.
“Yes?” Evers said, looking up.
“How you tonight?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“I didn’t know they served niggers in this here restaurant,” one of the men said. He was standing behind Evers and sounded drunk.
“I reckon I knowed they served niggers, but I didn’t know they’d feed a man what would eat with a nigger.” This from the man who had spoken first.
Pauletta stared at the men. She didn’t speak, didn’t move. Her face showed nothing. Stone. Blank. Empty.
“Are you gentlemen on break from Amherst?” Evers said. “Summer school not back in session yet? My, they give you lads such long holidays now.”
“Naw. We’re from the zoo. Come to pick up the go’riller.”
“How about that, Miss Qwai? Young scholars on an anthropological quest.”
“Fuck you, smart mouth. Why don’t you and your nigger lady just get up and go on back to your shack.”
“Why don’t you leave?” Evers turned in his chair.
“Why don’t you?”
“Why,” said Evers, “don’t you make me, hillbilly?”
Thawp. That’s what Evers heard. Flesh slamming flesh, a noise, Evers recalled later, like the sound that wet balls of toilet paper made when he chucked them against the ceiling of the boy’s bathroom during his one year of public high school. All the pupils did it, threw sopping tissue against the ceiling. The dried masses looked like fuzzy stalactites. Thawp.
Evers was knocked backward by the punch, reached for the table, missed it and landed on the floor on his rear and elbows. His chair was partially underneath him; it followed him down. He was looking at a pair of cowboy boots with intricate leatherwork on their sides, angular t
oes and a border of red-orange mud on each heel. Evers tackled the boots, grabbed on to them at the top near a brown rose outlined in white stitching.
He kept his butt down, his head up, lifted just a bit with his shoulders and drove with his legs. “My legs are magic,” he shouted. That’s what he was thinking, so he shouted it. He forced the boots and the man in them across the floor into another table—plates, silver, glasses, napkins and bottles falling off the edge—and kept pushing the whole mess across the room, like a bulldozer moving dirt and roots, until the man and the furniture were wedged against a wall.
Evers stood up from his crouch. He looked at the man, moved his face as close as possible to the hillbilly’s. The eight or ten other people in the room were all watching. One couple, teenagers, had jumped up from their table when it appeared that Evers might shove the redneck into their meal.
“That was for Bobby Seale, you piece of shit.” Evers was breathing hard and trembling.
The pinned man cursed Evers, and so did his friends. The other man and woman were still standing beside Pauletta. “I still ain’t afraid of no nigger lover,” said the man nearest Pauletta.
“I’m not a nigger lover,” said Evers. “Am I, Miss Qwai?”
She shook her head.
The hostess and two men in white T-shirts and aprons rushed up and separated Evers from the man who had hit him. His hat had fallen off during the scuffle, and Evers could see that his adversary was very much bald, with only a long, thin fringe growing around the back of his head. The hostess said the police had been called. The men in aprons told Evers and the others to sit and wait. Another man, Italian, in a suit, came into the room.
“This is certainly unpleasant,” Pauletta said as she and Evers sat at their table, waiting for the police.
“Yes, it is.”
“And whose fault is that, Evers?”
As far as he could recall, Pauletta had never called him by his first name before. He snorted. “Certainly not mine.”
“Shit. It’s certainly not theirs.”
“What?”
“It’s not theirs.”
“They started it. They were the aggressors. They punched me. Christ.”
“They don’t know any better. They’re simple, dumb brutes.”
