by Paul Lederer
‘May I help you?’ a man in a blue shirt asked Ellen. He wore a name tag: ‘Karl.’
‘I need some aspirin. Or something more powerful,’ she said. The man glanced at her forehead and nodded with understanding. He led her to the headache remedies. Ellen grabbed a bottle of extra-strength pills, paid for them and went to the front door. Beyond the glass, a last strand of vermilion far out near the horizon was all that remained of a long day.
Edward hurried up to her, trying vainly to smooth down the wrinkles in his suit jacket. He took her arm at the elbow and they went outside. The Roadmaster was parked at the curb, its parking lamps on. Raymond sat behind the steering wheel, his agitated fingers tapping on it. They climbed in, Edward in front, Ellen in the rear. She was struggling to open the pill bottle, willing to swallow the tablets dry if they would give her any relief. Her head ached savagely.
‘Well?’ Raymond demanded, pulling out into traffic. The headlights came on, their beams flat and bone white against the dark, still damp asphalt.
‘Dennison wasn’t in his office,’ Edward told him, wincing mentally.
Predictably, Raymond erupted.
‘What?’ He responded furiously. He made a dangerously sharp turn to the right. The Roadmaster swayed precariously, its tires chirping.
‘Calm down,’ Edward said, bracing himself against the dashboard, ‘I reached Dennison at home. He was hardly pleased with us, but there’s still a large fee contingent upon completing the deal. He promised to meet us back at his office at seven.’
‘Seven?’ Raymond glanced at his gold watch. ‘Another hour.’
‘That’s not long,’ Edward said. ‘Just so we all stick together. Please?’ He glanced at his mother.
Ellen’s throat was clogged with the raw taste of chewed-up headache pills. She regretted her decision to try taking them without water. She was afraid to ask Raymond to stop somewhere so that she could get something to drink. There was no telling what would set him off, as she knew from living with him for all those years. Best to be quiet; a quiet little mouse. She leaned her head back, hoping the medicine would work. The pain still didn’t seem to be subsiding. She reached up absently to straighten her hat before she remembered she had lost it. Where…? Oh, yes. She recalled seeing it floating in a toilet bowl with strings of her vomit festooned around it. The memory was vivid enough to nearly make her sick again. That and the dozen aspirins which were now reaching her stomach….
‘What about the cops?’ Raymond asked, slowing to make a turn onto a road leading up a hill none of them recognized in the darkness. ‘You did remember to call them, didn’t you?’ he glanced at Edward.
‘Yes, Raymond!’ Edward said tiredly. ‘The sheriff’s department. They promised to send someone over to March’s place immediately. The deputy on the telephone said we could either meet a detective there or come into the station to file a missing person’s report.’
‘We don’t have time to go to the station right now,’ Raymond said.
‘You’re right. However, maybe we should go by March’s studio,’ Edward suggested. ‘It’s not far from here; it wouldn’t take long. If Sarah happens to be there, we can pick her up. If she isn’t, we can tell the detective what we know.’
‘We can’t miss an appointment with Dennison again,’ Raymond said. Why was everything so damned complicated? A few small matters to take care of. Simple little tasks, and yet nothing at all was getting done. It was this town; this crappy little town and his crappy little family.
‘Edward said it wouldn’t take us long to swing by the photographer’s studio,’ Ellen said weakly. Raymond ignored her.
‘It’s practically on our way,’ Edward told his father.
‘All right,’ Raymond grumbled, ‘you do remember where it is?’
‘Of course.’
‘I hope Sarah is still there. She probably is, don’t you think, Raymond?’ Ellen said, gripping the back of his seat.
‘We’ll see,’ he said, cranking a U-turn in the middle of the block. ‘I hope she is. I deeply hope she is.’ Then, miracle of all miracles, all of this could finally be settled today. What a wonderful, glorious, shitty, day it had been. He drove on slowly, steadily, deep in thought. His own program had coalesced again. If they did find Sarah, his simple plan for the rest of the night was in place:
Sign the papers. Get rid of Ellen and the boys. Take his check, and sack out in a motel. Maybe in celebration get a little drunk himself. Not drunk like he used to get in the old days. Blackouts, memory loss; wake up with a headache like thousands of tiny men with tiny sledge hammers beating against his skull, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth, every cell in his body dehydrated from alcohol. In those days he put down a fifth of liquor a day, easy. Straight bourbon. A few beers. Then he’d come to with his wallet empty and bruises on his face, joints aching from bar room brawls … no, he didn’t want to get drunk like that ever again. He just wanted a little celebration. Lock himself up in a motel room, watch TV. Then, come morning, blow this decaying-fish-smelling town for good and all….
‘There it is,’ Edward said, pointing at a side street. ‘Wait – Raymond, take the alley. I see a sheriff’s car in back of the place.’
As they pulled into the alley, their headlights illuminated a middle-aged, middle-sized cop with a paunch bulging against his brown uniform shirt, falling over his belt buckle. He was talking to a big bearded-guy in a checked flannel-shirt. An open garage stood behind them. Both men looked into the glare of the Buick’s headlights and then turned their eyes away defensively.
Raymond turned off the engine, killed the lights, and got out. He walked up to the deputy, his long stride and set jaw slightly aggressive.
‘Tucker?’ The deputy asked.
‘Yeah. Is there a detective here?’
‘Not yet. I just got here myself.’
‘Have you found my daughter?’
‘No. I haven’t really had time to look around much yet,’ the deputy answered tonelessly. He didn’t seem to like Raymond’s attitude. The brass nameplate above his pocket read: ‘Tomlinson’. There were three yellow sergeant’s stripes on his shirt-sleeves. His right hand rested on the butt of his holstered pistol.
Edward was looking up at Don’s studio as he joined the group of men. ‘It’s dark up there,’ he said to the cop. ‘Shouldn’t you go up and have a look?’
‘They’re not up there,’ Jake put in.
Raymond gave him a look that said, ‘Who the hell are you?’ Aloud he asked, ‘How do you know?’
‘I loaned Don my car. Him and the girl took off three or four hours ago.’
‘Where were they going?’ Edward wanted to know.
‘I didn’t ask. It wasn’t my business,’ Jake replied.
‘God damn it!’ Raymond’s temper flared up. ‘Sheriff – have you got a description of that car?’
‘Of course. I know that station wagon. And I know Don March. A hell of a lot better than I know you.’ He added, ‘Although I do seem to remember meeting you a couple, three times a few years ago.’
‘Is that so? Tomlinson, is it – I don’t recall meeting you.’
The deputy said, ‘No, you wouldn’t.’
‘Look,’ Jake put in, ‘I know Don, too. Real well. Your daughter’s in no danger. Take my word for it.’
‘Your word?’ Raymond shouted. ‘Why should I? Who the hell are you?’
Jake bristled but didn’t answer. It wasn’t worth it.
‘I’ll have a bulletin put out,’ Sgt Tomlinson assured them. ‘Our patrol units will keep an eye out for them. For now, I wouldn’t worry, Tucker. Your daughter is an adult, isn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ Edward said, speaking quickly before Raymond could jump in with one of his tirades, ‘but she’s retarded, you see.’
Jake’s face expressed surprise. He would never have guessed that about Sarah, looking at the pretty young woman.
‘All the same,’ Tomlinson said with a slight shrug of his shoulders, ‘it ca
n’t be called kidnapping, can it? Jake saw them leave. He says the girl was smiling, going along willingly.’
‘If he has so much as touched her.…’ Raymond began. His words were strangled by anger.
‘Then it would be a matter for the law,’ Tomlinson said. ‘For right now.…’
In the middle of Tomlinson’s sentence, they became simultaneously aware of a car pulling into the alley, headlights glaring, and the rusty yellow and white station wagon drew up behind Raymond Tucker’s Buick and was switched off. ‘You see,’ the sergeant said, ‘a lot of worry over nothing.’
Raymond spun on his heel, ignoring the deputy sheriff and began striding toward the Chevrolet, his face grim.
‘Raymond!’ Edward grabbed at his father’s shoulder but was shaken off.
‘Tucker!’ Deputy Tomlinson yelled, but Raymond wasn’t going to be stopped. He was going to beat the hell out of that kid who had taken off with Sarah, and that was that.
Don March sat in the station wagon watching the tall man rush toward him. Without having been told, he knew immediately who it was. Calmly, he locked his door as Raymond grabbed the handle and tried to rip it open. The nail of Raymond Tucker’s middle finger was torn half off, and he began screaming curses.
‘Sarah!’
A woman’s hysterical voice shrieked, and Sarah looked at Don, smiled, and got out of the car. She had to; her mother was calling. Don smiled back at her and locked that door as well after she was out.
Tomlinson and Jake had arrived at the station wagon; Edward, his expression pained, trailing.
‘Back off, Tucker!’ Tomlinson ordered as Raymond continued to paw at the handle and beat on the window glass. Don had leaned back with folded arms and sat watching the madman’s antics.
‘I’m going to kill the son-of-a-bitch!’ Raymond Tucker bellowed.
‘No, you’re not,’ Tomlinson said. ‘But if you don’t quit this crap right now I’m going to cuff you and take you in for disturbing the peace.’
‘Raymond?’ Edward stepped between his father and the car. Raymond’s shoulders continued to tremble with terrible anger. His eyes were wild; he clicked his teeth like a savage animal.
Don looked away deliberately.
‘We don’t have time for this, Raymond,’ Edward was saying, ‘we have to get those papers signed. If you go to jail now, everything is ruined! Besides,’ he said, trying for a soothing tone, ‘Sarah is all right. Really.’
‘How do we know that?’ Raymond asked, panting as he continued to glower at Don March. ‘It doesn’t show, does it?’
‘Knock it off, Tucker,’ Tomlinson said. ‘You’re making a fool out of yourself. File a police report if you have a problem. I’m not going to warn you again – I will take you to jail if you can’t settle down.’ Then to Don, ‘March? I need to talk to you.’
‘Sure, Tomlinson,’ Don said placidly. Raymond, still incensed, was standing crouched, his muscles taut like a big cat ready to leap. Instead of opening the door and inviting trouble, Don rolled the car window down a scant two inches.
‘What’s up, Mark?’ he asked Tomlinson.
‘It’s about the girl. They have some idea you kidnapped her or something. Maybe molested her, I don’t know. Why’d you take off with her?’
‘Well,’ Don said looking directly into Raymond’s burning eyes, ‘I’ll tell you. Her family here left Sarah sitting out in that storm this morning. She was confused and wet. I brought her up to my place to dry off. Her brothers found me somehow and I brought them over here, but by then Sarah had taken off. I went and fetched her again down at the pier. Her brothers seemed to have more important things to do and so they were gone by the time we returned. I borrowed Jake’s wagon to go out looking for them, but the girl knows where she lives and got me back there via sign language. When I got to her home, only her aunt was there and she was in a big hurry to leave for the bus station. She told me to bring Sarah back to town to the office of a lawyer named Dennison. That’s where I was heading when I saw all of the activity in front of Jake’s garage.’
Tomlinson shook his head. Speaking to Edward, the deputy said, ‘It sounds to me more like a case of someone trying to be a good Samaritan than an abduction, wouldn’t you say?’
‘He’s full of shit,’ Raymond said.
‘I can prove it,’ Don told Sergeant Tomlinson, ‘the aunt’s bus can’t have left yet. We were only a few minutes behind her cab heading to the station. You can check with her.’
‘No,’ the deputy sheriff said, ‘I don’t believe that’s necessary. I’ve wasted enough time on this foolishness. I know you well enough, Don. Some people just got themselves a little worked up over nothing.’
He turned and walked back over to where Sarah, smiling, stood with her mother, not to verify March’s story, but to see for himself as the ‘book’ required that there were no marks or signs of assault visible on the girl. His flashlight flickered on; Sarah, apparently fascinated by the light, continued to smile as he checked her over briefly. Seemingly satisfied, he lowered its beam. They did hear him whistle softly in surprise as he caught sight of the fresh stitches on Ellen’s forehead.
Edward watched the brief examination worriedly and then said, ‘Raymond – we’ve got to get going. Dennison….’
‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ Raymond answered. There was barely subdued anger still in his tone. ‘Go on!’
Edward nodded, glanced at Don and walked away. When Edward was out of earshot, Raymond bent down and said through the window, ‘You’re not through with me yet, punk. I’ll be around. I’ll find you again, and when I do I’m going to kick your ass.’
‘You might,’ Don agreed. ‘But then again, you might not. I’m not your son, Tucker, and I’m not a woman. I fight back.’
Raymond Tucker glared at him through the window glass for a long time. Finally, he slammed the flat of his hand against the station wagon’s roof and walked off, cursing and biting at his torn fingernail.
Edward had already started the Roadmaster’s engine. As Raymond approached, he slid over on the seat and let his father get behind the steering wheel. Raymond pulled away almost immediately. Sarah was in the back seat beside her mother, and as the Buick drove off, she turned to look back at Don. She did not lift a hand, but as the Buick exited the alley and disappeared onto the cross street, she continued to look back at him.
Don finally clambered out of the car. Tomlinson looked at him, lifted a hand in farewell and returned to his cruiser, shaking his head.
Jake stood waiting in the garage doorway, hands on his hips.
‘Man, what a bastard, huh!’
‘He’s all of that,’ Don agreed.
‘Pretty stupid, too, wanting to get into a fight in front of a cop.’
‘Yeah.’ Don still stared toward the head of the alley. His world seemed to have suddenly shrunk quite dramatically.
‘Kind of a rough day, was it?’ Jake asked. He draped a friendly arm over Don’s shoulders.
‘Rough,’ Don answered, ‘and strangely wonderful.’
Tomlinson had started his police car after writing a brief report. He tooted his horn, lifted a hand in farewell and backed from the alley.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Jake suggested, ‘why don’t we put the station wagon away in the garage and walk down to Nellie’s and have a few beers and a long talk?’
‘Sure, Jake. Sounds like a good idea,’ Don told the blackbearded fisherman.
It was something to do anyway. Talk. It wouldn’t solve a damn thing, but Don had been trying all day to come up with an idea of how to help Sarah and had come up empty. There just didn’t seem to be a way. None at all.
Jake started the station wagon and pulled it forward into the oily-smelling garage. He locked up the Chevrolet and turned off the lights inside the building. Fog had begun to drift in from off the sea. The night had gone, empty and lonely. Sarah was gone; it would be empty and lonely for a long while to come.
The heavy garage door bang
ed shut and Jake snapped a padlock on its hasp.
‘Ready, Don?’
‘Sure.’
Jake slapped his shoulder, ‘It’ll be all right man. I’m a Christian, you know. I believe things will work out if that’s the way they’re meant to be.’
But Don was not so sure. He hadn’t spoken to God for a long, long time. Even then, they hadn’t communicated too well.
They shuffled along the broken pavement toward the corner bar where the music was usually a little too loud and the conversation slightly stupid. It didn’t matter; everything was OK in Nellie’s. It was just another place to be.
Jake went to the bar and, with much banter between himself and the bar girl, returned to the scarred wooden table where Don sat, carrying four longneck bottles of beer.
Jake placed two bottles in front of Don, seated himself with a slight grunt, and asked, ‘OK. Want to tell me about it?’
Don began to reply, but stopped. He had been looking the place over, watching a game of eight-ball in the open adjoining room, noticing who was here. Jake was waiting for an answer; Don gave him none. He was looking incredulously at the end of the bar where it curved around to meet the wall next to the pay phone.
Eric Tucker was seated there, staring moodily into some nowhere land. He was pouring down shooters of whisky, chasing them with beer. Don thought that he had to be mistaken, that it couldn’t be. But no – he could see Eric’s black eye, the heavy bruise on his jaw; recent gifts from his father. What in bloody hell was Eric doing here?
Don mentally shrugged it off. Screw Eric Tucker. He had a right to be wherever he wanted to be, didn’t he? Don was through worrying about the Tucker family.
‘What did happen today, Don?’ Jake was asking. ‘Was everything just the way you told Tomlinson?’
‘Everything I told Mark Tomlinson was the truth, yes,’ Don answered. He took a drink from his bottle of beer. ‘But there’s more to this mess, Jake. Quite a bit more.’
‘Such as?’ the bearded man wondered.
Don told him.
