No Way Home

by Andrew Coburn

  With a grimace of distaste Morgan said, “If you touch him, Papa, if you hurt him, I’ll bring an assault charge. I’ll also tell Clement.”

  “What do I wanna hurt him for? He’s my boy, same as Clement, just that one’s brighter than the other. Junior knows that.”

  With a parting look at Junior, Morgan turned and strode away, raising yellow dust when he reached the gravel drive. Papa watched every step with fiery blue eyes. He ate a little more from the bowl and heaved the remains into the poison ivy. When he looked at Junior, his face had darkened and contracted.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothin’, Papa. I had a fit.”

  “Good.”

  Matt MacGregor woke at nine. He would have slept until noon had the sun not shot through the window and struck him full in the face. He might have gone back to sleep were his cut foot not throbbing. He suspected bits of broken bulb were still in it. Sitting on the closed toilet seat, the foot propped on his other knee, he did his best to get the shivers out. Some he could not even see.

  Shaved and showered, his head feeling no better than it should have, he dressed in civvies and told himself there was nowhere to go but up. In his mother’s room, the bed unslept in since Memorial Day when she had left for the Cape, he picked up the telephone and shook it for damage. He did not want to think how he would repair the torn dent in the wall. “Jesus, Ma,” he said aloud, “if you only knew.” As he was leaving the room, the phone rang.

  He snatched it up with glee. He had a whistle and was ready to blow it in the bastard’s ear. But the voice was not Bakinowski’s. He did not even recognize it at first. It seemed years since he had heard it. It was alien.

  “All right,” he said. “You say where.”

  • • •

  Clement Rayball, breakfasting late, looked up from his USA Today, scowled, and said, “How did you know I was here?”

  “How many good motels around here are there?” Chief Morgan said.

  “What name did you ask for?”

  “I didn’t. I described you. You’ve got eyes like a sniper’s, did you know that?” Morgan drew a chair. “Mind if I sit down?”

  Clement folded away his newspaper and began eating his scrambled eggs and sausages. He used his cutlery in the European fashion, his fork in his left hand and his knife in his right, no need to put either down. “You want breakfast?”

  “Coffee will do.”

  The waitress was already pouring.

  “Thank you, Milly, a little more for me too,” he said, and the young waitress obliged in a manner that verged on love. He said to Morgan, “Did you read the sports pages yet? Sox fined Crack Alexander for not showing up for yesterday’s game.”

  “I read he’s got a bum ankle.”

  “He was still supposed to be there. They fined him and suspended him. They don’t need him, anyway. He’s washed up. What do you want to see me about, Morgan?”

  Morgan tasted his coffee. It was strong, fragrant, better than what he was used to. He took his time, for there no longer seemed to be a rush. “Junior and I had a talk. He’s told me things, some things I knew all along. Now I need your help.”

  “You need my help, huh?” Clement pointed his knife. “You wired, Morgan? No, you’re not that sophisticated. Besides, what good would it do you? What kind of help do you want from me? The kind that will put my brother away?”

  “Junior didn’t shoot Mrs. Lapham. Your father did.” The waitress breezed by with a reassured glance that nothing was needed. “Did you hear me, Clement?”

  “Did Junior tell you that?”

  “It slipped out. It half slipped out.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Your father has killed twice. Now and a long time ago.”

  Clement slapped his knife and fork down on the plate but kept his voice low. “I don’t want to hear a word more about my mother, you understand?” He reached for his coffee and composed himself. A shiver relaxed him. “Clement was my mother’s maiden name, did you know that?”

  Morgan nodded.

  “It’s all I’ve got of her. You understand?”

  “Yes,” Morgan said.

  “Good, because we got nothing more to say.” Clement snapped his fingers for the check. It came in an instant, with affection.

  Too much heat burdened the air. The sky glared with more sun than needed. Papa Rayball got off the road and out of his pickup and breathed in the cool that hid in the pines. He hated summer and winter. He liked it best when the weather was neither, never too warm for a sweater or too cold to piss outdoors, which saved on flushing when the well was low. Junior, though, never flushed anyway, unless he thought hard about it.

  Papa cut through the pines, through splashes of fern, to the rim of Paget’s Pond, where dragonflies, as much at home on the water as in the air, performed for him. When he had been little, his folks alive, he used to bring a half loaf of Wonder Bread here for his lunch and fish with a pole made from a sapling. Never no butter for the bread, but that hadn’t mattered. He looked at his watch, not a fancy one like Clement’s, but it told him what he needed to know.

  Ten minutes later, he heard the rustle of footsteps and did not bother to turn around. He could tell one man’s step from another, the same way he could sniff a woman, no matter what color, and tell whether she was clean, safe to pay good money to. He said, “ ‘Bout time.”

  Matt MacGregor said, “This isn’t smart.”

  Papa said, “Only smart MacGregor I ever heard of was your father. He left you money.”

  MacGregor, wearing an old shirt over jeans, picked up a pebble, cocked his arm, and skipped the pebble over the water. He had done it better when he was ten. “Nothing goes the way you want it to.”

  “Maybe you never knew what you wanted. ‘Course, that ain’t none of my business, like you made clear.”

  MacGregor picked up another pebble, but he did not skim it. He held it in his hand because it was warm. It was like half an egg. At age ten his mother had dropped eggs on toast for him — and if she didn’t, his sister did. Always a woman to look after him. If you don’t have a woman, what the fuck have you got? He said, “What are you smiling at?”

  “People think the shooter missed, got the wrong one. Shit, I ain’t never missed in my life. I even had to shoot fast because she moved.”

  MacGregor brought the pebble to his mouth and took a little taste with his tongue. It was like tasting himself. He tossed it into the water.

  “What did you think of him fallin’?” Papa said. “That was a bonus.”

  “I didn’t ask for that.”

  “Like you said, you don’t always get what you want.”

  “Chief’s suspected it was you right from the start.”

  “We knew he might, and we knew it wouldn’t make no dif’rence. He can’t prove nothin’.”

  “You shouldn’t have involved your kid. Junior. That was dumb. The chief’s working on him.”

  “Don’t matter. You tell Junior shit is candy, he’ll eat it. He’s not of a right mind. Chief knows that.” Papa stuck out a hand. “I want the rest of the money.”

  “Not now,” MacGregor said. “I’ve got a state cop breathing on me. He’s been looking into my bank account. He sees another five thousand gone, he’s going to want to know what I did with it.”

  “You sound scared. You scared?”

  “I’m just telling you what’s what.”

  Papa surveyed him with a sardonic eye. “You don’t look so good outa your police suit. You look ordinary. Fact is, you look snot-nosed.”

  “For a little man you’ve got a big mouth,” MacGregor said, strangely without rage, without even lifting his voice, as if Papa were no longer in the scheme of things but merely a player reduced to a minor role.

  “Chief’s pet,” Papa said. “If he could see you now.”

  MacGregor’s attention was elsewhere. From the far shore of the pond, where the woods were wild, scraps of sound from Girl Scouts floa
ted over the water. He remembered that Lydia had attended the camp until she discovered boys, of whom he was the tallest. She said the handsomest. Pug nose and all. He said, “Don’t push me, Papa.”

  “Why, whatcha gonna do? I’m not Junior you can grab by the scruff. ‘Sides, my other boy’s home now. He could come at you ten dif’rent ways, you wouldn’t know which.”

  “Threats don’t bother me,” MacGregor said.

  “Jus’ don’t take too long gettin’ me my money,” Papa snapped back. “I did two Laphams, I guess I can do one MacGregor.”

  MacGregor turned and, with a limp, shifted from soggy ground to where it was sure. He looked back with the travesty of a smile. “This might surprise you, Papa, but maybe I don’t give a shit.”

  • • •

  “I’d like something different,” Christine Poole said. “Something to please my husband.”

  Roberta, flinging back her oyster white hair, emerged from behind a little counter, where she left a cigarette burning. “We talking sexy or sedate?”

  “Something tasteful. And I think I might drop down a size. I’ve lost a couple of pounds.”

  Roberta looked her over doubtfully and slid open panel doors, her trained eye at work, her fingers fluttering over fine dresses, dismissing many, picking a few, which she laid out on a table, one by one. “Let’s see if we can choose from these.”

  They took them all into the fitting room, where Christine chose two to try on. Behind a screen she got into a stunning silky number supple in its cut, but a surfeit of belly flesh strained the material, which rode up on her hips. She came out with it draped over her arm. “I don’t think so.”

  Roberta had another cigarette going. “I didn’t either. And I have my doubts about the other one.” She placed the cigarette between her lips and picked from the pile. “How about this one?” she said, draping billowing chiffon against herself, against a long boy’s body on which anything would look good.

  “It’s not me,” Christine said.

  “But it’s your size. Those two aren’t.” Roberta took the cigarette from her mouth. “Let’s face it, Mrs. Poole, you’re still a bit of a cow.”

  Christine’s face fell.

  “You’re certainly not shapeless,” Roberta added quickly, “simply ungainly in the expected places, like most women.” She tapped Christine on the rump. “And you can’t be ladylike with that sticking out, can you? What you want is something to give your derriere a gentle rise, not a dramatic one.” Roberta blew smoke. “Do we agree?”

  “I’ve come here too soon,” Christine said. “That’s the problem.”

  “Some bodies will always jut out in places,” Roberta said, retrieving dresses, “but there are ways to hide that.”

  Christine picked up her purse. “But not from your husband.”

  • • •

  Papa Rayball, returning home, drove the pickup roughshod over the ruts in the gravel and found Clement waiting for him. Clement, who did not look friendly, stuck his face out of the rental car and said, “Where’s Junior?”

  Papa stuck his face out of the pickup and said, “How the hell do I know?”

  “You’d know if you looked out for him.”

  “Don’t tell me how to run my house!” Papa barked, but then moderated his tone. “He was here when I left. He takes a mind, he goes off into the woods, like when he was young. You remember that, don’t you?” Papa got out of the truck. “You used to go lookin’ for him, but you didn’t find him unless he wanted to be found. It’s the same way now.”

  Clement ran a hand over his face. “Was Morgan here this morning?”

  “Yeah, he came sneakin’ up here early and talked to Junior, but Junior didn’t tell him nothin’. Chief got him goin’, and he had one of his fits.”

  Concern overshot Clement’s other emotions. “A bad one?”

  “There ain’t no good ones.” Papa hooked a thumb in the waist of his pants. “You got something on your mind?”

  “I do,” Clement said, “but it’s going to stay there for a while. At least till I see Junior. Then you and I might have something to talk about.”

  Papa, holding his temper, smiled. “Father and son should always talk.”

  * * *

  Chief Morgan, fiddling with things on his desk, was racked with second thoughts. If Papa Rayball, a deadeye with a rifle, had been the shooter, how in hell had he missed Lydia and hit her mother? The mother’s death made no sense. Only Lydia’s would have devastated MacGregor and satisfied Papa’s twisted sense of revenge. And having hit the wrong woman, why hadn’t the old man fired again? He could not picture him panicking. Something didn’t fit, he wasn’t sure what, unless from Junior he had heard only what he had wanted to and read in everything else. And how much could he trust anything Junior said?

  With a snap he sat up straighter. The question now was whether to continue following his instincts, which he felt had seldom let him down. Besides, too much had rung true in Junior’s voice.

  He stared at the telephone. Earlier he had called the fire chief in Lawrence, who had promised to call him back. Now he considered calling Lydia Lapham, though he was uncertain whether she was home or at the hospital. He called neither place, for he did not want to mention Papa Rayball until he had something more substantial. Nor was he confident that she wanted to hear his voice, though he ached to hear hers. He called Felix’s Texaco.

  “That was fast,” he said when Felix told him his car was ready.

  “I didn’t want it hangin’ around,” Felix shot back. “It’s an eyesore to my better customers.”

  “Deliver it, Felix. I got another job you can drive back.”

  To relieve tension, he went outside and paced the parking lot until he noticed people in the town hall were looking out at him. When Felix drove into the lot, he felt a mild letdown. The car looked worse for the wear, and drippings from a tree had left the windshield sticky.

  “I wished you’d washed it,” he said.

  “And I wished I was born rich,” Felix said, climbing out. “Here’s the bill.”

  Morgan looked at it. “You’re kidding.”

  “I never kid about money.” Green-black strands of hair hung over his work-worn face. His thin mustache looked like a slick of grease. “OK, where’s the junk you want me to drive back?” He looked around and saw it. “Jesus, not Meg O’Brien’s car. The thing shouldn’t even have a sticker.”

  “It’s got a knock in the motor,” Morgan said. “See what it is.”

  “You know what it is. She needs a new one.”

  “Maybe not. There’s a headlight gone, better replace both before she kills herself. Bill the town.”

  Felix gave him a look. “You sure, Chief? You got enemies, something like that can hang you.”

  Morgan reconsidered. “You’re right. Bill me.”

  Felix got into the Plymouth and cranked the window, which went down only halfway. “Am I supposed to fix that too?”

  Morgan went back into the station, where Meg O’Brien, drinking root beer, looked up from her newspaper. “Good, now I’ve got my car back. Where are the keys?”

  Sergeant Avery looked up from his paper. “And I don’t have to drive you places anymore.”

  “Felix took your car,” Morgan said. “You need a headlight. Don’t worry about it, he’s doing it free.” He went into his office, and she followed.

  Sergeant Avery shouted out, “How come you two always talk in private?”

  Meg closed the door. “I have a telephone message from the Lawrence fire chief. He says you can do what you want. What’s it all about?”

  “Maybe nothing, maybe everything.”

  • • •

  The sobriety of Calvin Poole’s suit complemented a manner marked by reserve and restraint, which today had quickly stiffened into a facade. Ensconced in his bank, since the doors had opened that morning, were two federal regulators who, though unrelated by blood, looked like twins with their crisp red hair and close beards and pal
e, faintly freckled faces. They were interested in the dealings with Bellmore Companies. Though he had been polite, gracious even, and had put people and computers at their disposal, he remained sickened by the sight of them. He knew the questions they would raise, the answers he would have to give.

  He avoided them. He confined his activities to his office, which was high up over Boston, with a vast window that overlooked infinity. After a while he stopped taking telephone calls because he did not trust the quality of his voice. He was quietly brutal to his loyal secretary, which appalled him. She knew the score and was only trying to comfort him. He would apologize later. He would dispatch flowers to her and Red Sox tickets to her grandson.

  In his private bathroom he blew his nose and got snot on his sleeve, which he spent three minutes carefully removing with cold water, though a trace remained. He thought of his prep school days and remembered the classmate he had shunned for trying to show him dirty pictures. Given those pictures now, he would pore over them. He weighed the possibility of prison and wondered whether he would be treated differently, whether he would be put in with his own kind and not the others.

  Midafternoon he could bear the bank no longer and left quietly by a private elevator. It was like walking away from a minimum-security facility, or sneaking off school grounds after curfew, which he had never done. He had obeyed the rules, respected the honor code. He had pored over no dirty pictures. He had held himself to a higher standard in the neurotic presence of that faculty wife whose penchant for boys was well known.

  The street was heated and busy. People in the quick-stepping sidewalk crowd gave him the feeling that they were going nowhere except on and on. A man in pinstripes like his moved corpulently past him. Glass buildings blocked out the sun but held in the heat. He looked for a bar.

  He liked what he found. Good old-fashioned heavy paneling, hunting scenes hung large, and tables that offered a degree of privacy. He chose the nearest. He stretched a leg and felt some of the tension drain out of it. The throb in his left temple lessened. The demurely dressed waitress, busy behind the bar, signaled that she would see to him soon. He smiled back, no hurry. Then a man came upon him.