by Ed Gorman
They made me feel good, these people, watching them tonight. They had a real dignity, the grandfather showing the five-year-old how to skate, the ten-year-old boy blushing when the girl next door took his hand, the six or seven black couples up here with their kids, joining in and being welcomed. Maybe life didn’t make sense but then it was our business, I guess, to impose meaning on it.
I said, “How about a walk?”
“Sure. Where?”
“Oh. Through the woods, I guess. There’s a full moon and plenty of light.”
“Great,” she said.
So we changed into our boots and went for a walk.
We found a winding trail through the low-hanging boughs, still heavy with snow that gleamed blue and silver in the moonlight. The noise and lights of the rink stayed with us for a time, like a memory you don’t quite want to let go of, but then we were in the darker woods, and the silence was deep and wide, broken only by the crunch of our footsteps on the snow and sticks in the path. I knew this area pretty well. My dad and I used to hunt out here. He wasn’t very good and I was worse and in all our years of trying, I don’t think we ever got anything, which was fine with me. I look at dead deer roped across car roofs and it either pisses me off or depresses me.
We came to an open field at the base of a steep, clay cliff. There was a small circular pond where kids swim in the summer.
They also push rowboats and canoes in the water and play around. The pond is too small for motor boats. It was pretty, the pond, and the snow ridged around it, all shimmery and gleaming in the moonlight. The cliffs looked rugged and red and the jack pines atop them were silhouetted perfectly against the winter clouds. Far off, you could hear dogs, and then semis on the highways and then, closer by, the faded forlorn bay of a coyote.
“God, it’s great out here,” Mary said. And then scooped up some snow and made a snowball.
“Bet you I can hit that canoe.”
“Bet you can’t.”
The canoe was a remnant of summer, like the pair of cheap cracked sunglasses you find in the glove compartment around Christmastime, or the tube of suntan lotion you find wrenched like a tube of toothpaste in the back of the medicine cabinet.
Somebody had left the canoe here and it sat in the middle of the pond looking silly and somehow pathetic in its uselessness.
But it made a great snowball target.
“Here goes,” she said.
She didn’t come close, but she came close enough to surprise me.
“Now you try, McCain.”
“I hate to show off.”
“In other words, you can’t do it either.”
God, she looked so great just then, she was the pretty girl up in the Knolls again, young and vital and sweet.
I made a snowball. “Stand back. The velocity’ll probably knock you on your butt.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And there’ll be pieces of debris flying all over when I hit the canoe.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see whose saying “uh-huh” after I hit it.”
“Uh-huh.”
I was Bob Feller of the Cleveland
Indians. I could throw a ball faster than any man alive. And more accurately, too. I was Bob Feller and I was really going to show her my stuff.
I cocked my arm back and threw.
The snowball arced high and looked as if it was going to skid away south of the canoe. But then it dipped abruptly and came down, landing very near the aft end of the target.
“Nice, McCain, but not good enough. How about giving me one more throw?”
“You already had your throw.”
“Afraid I’ll beat you?”
“Hardly.”
“Then give me one more chance.”
She was too pretty to say no to. “All right. One more.”
She made another snowball, packing it good and tight in her red mittens. “I’m going to humiliate you.”
“Sure.”
“I am.” Then, “Here goes, McCain.”
The throw was good but not great. Or that’s what I smugly told myself a few seconds after the snowball left her mitten. But when I saw the trajectory I got this funny feeling that maybe it was great after all. We watched it go up and we watched it come down. Mine had just fallen suddenly from the sky. Hers fell in a graceful downward curve. Even before it landed, she was jumping up and down and slugging me in the arm the way girls do.
From here, it was impossible to tell whose snowball had come closer to the canoe. We were talking less than an inch of difference probably,
both snowballs having gone splat very close to the canoe itself.
“I won!” she said.
“Too close to call. We’ll have to go look.”
“Is it safe? The ice, I mean?”
“Probably.”
“Boy, that’s really reassuring, McCain.”
“I’ll go check.”
“Oh, McCain—”
She grabbed me and held on to me. “You sure you want to do this over some stupid snowball contest?”
Every other winter around here, somebody drowns trying to walk out on the ice. One year, two teenaged valedictorians drove their car out on the ice. I didn’t want to be this year’s dummy. “I’ll just go out a foot or so. See what it’s like.”
“Just be very careful.”
“I will.”
We walked over to the snowbound rise above the pond and then stepped ponderously down the small hill until we reached the ice.
“You really want to do this?”
“I’ll be fine.”
But talking about it sort of spooked me. What if I walked out there and dropped straight down to my icy death?
I decided to get it over with. I walked to the pond’s edge, and for some reason looked up at the full moon. And just then the coyote chose to cry again. And that spooked me a little. Maybe he knew something I didn’t. Maybe he had psychic powers, the way those ads in the magazines claim you can have for only $1.99. Or you can get a truss or a bust enhancer, just in case you’re a little skeptical of the psychic powers deal.
I went out one foot, two feet, three feet. It felt as solid as the rink ice.
“C’mon back, McCain. Don’t go any further.”
“It’s perfectly safe.”
“I thought I heard a crack,” she
half-shouted.
“It’s your imagination.”
“C’mon, McCain, please come back.”
“I’ll be fine.”
And I was.
I got bolder with each step. The
ice felt perfectly solid. I kept walking toward the canoe. I even put on a little skit for Mary. “Oh, my God! The ice is
cracking!” And I started windmilling my arms like I was going to sink into the water.
“McCain! McCain!”
“I’m just kidding. I’m fine.”
And to demonstrate that I was fine, I slid across the ice on my boots, right up to the canoe.
Oh, I was the dashing one, I was, showing off for a girl the way I used to try and show off back in seventh grade. I was pretty good at sliding, too. I put on a regular show for her; all the while she kept shouting at me to be careful. And all the while I enjoyed her shouting because it made me feel so manly, the carefree adventurer striking terror in the heart of the woman who loves him so much. Move over, Robert Mitchum.
And that’s when both things happened. I saw the dead girl in the canoe. And the blood all over her tan skirt. And I felt the ice start to fold under me. And that crack that Mary had mentioned hearing? Well, all of a sudden, I was hearing it, too.
And then Mary wasn’t alone. Shouting, I mean. I was shouting, too.
Could I pull myself back up without pulling the entire canoe down on top of me and sinking myself to the bottom of the deep, dark pond?
Part Ii
Fourteen
Don’t panic: those were the two words I remembered from Boy Scout camp. When you
find yourself in a dangerous situation, keep your head and don’t panic.
But of course I panicked. Natural
human reaction after being dumped into deep and icy water.
I wrapped my arms around the end of the canoe and hung on. I did my best not to move. Every time I shifted even slightly, I heard the ice crack some more.
I could hear Mary hollering for help and that was about all.
And then I took hold. The rational part of me did, anyway. I decided that if I could stay absolutely still I’d be all right. I occupied my time by trying to get a better look at the dead girl in the canoe. I thought of the girl missing the next county over. There was at least a chance it was her.
Mary was at the canoe, jerking a wooden oar out. Walking carefully over to me. I guess her slight weight kept her from breaking through the ice.
She pushed the oar at me and said, “Just grab on to it, McCain.”
“Thanks, Mary.”
It always looks easy in the movies but it’s not, pulling yourself out of icy water with whatever safety device is thrown to you. For one thing, you’re cold and soaked and about as mobile as a block of concrete. For another, your hands are numb, so it’s hard to get a grip on anything.
Mary stayed calm. And she looked very pretty doing it, her cocked beret and elegant face outlined in the moonlight. But she was all work: no slacking, no wasted words. She was slowly pulling me back to the ice again.
I finally got the middle of my body even with the ice and, between her pulling on the oar and me grappling with my elbows, I was able to pull myself up. I collapsed on the ice for a few moments, my breath coming in terrible shaken gasps. I heard the noises my lungs and throat were making. I didn’t know human beings could make noises like that.
“I don’t know how strong this part of the ice is,” she said. “Maybe you’d better
get up now, McCain.”
“God, thanks for saving me.”
“I couldn’t just let you drown,” she said. She smiled. “Though sometimes I’ve thought about it.”
I slowly got to my feet. “What’s that sound?”
“Your teeth.”
“My teeth?”
“They’re chattering.”
I hadn’t known until that very moment that teeth actually do chatter.
The flashlights were like insect eyes coming at us through the dark woods. All I could think of were those hokey earth-invasion movies at the drive-in.
I just hoped these folks wouldn’t be wearing papier-m@ach@e masks. They’d heard Mary’s calls.
They came out of the woods in silhouette. You could see their silver breath and you could see the insistent bobbing eyes of their flashlights. But there was no human detail. They could have been phantoms.
They were shouting now, mostly things like “Are you all right?”
A few of them hit the ice and started walking tentatively toward us. One of the women had thought to bring a blanket. When she saw me standing there soaked from the waist down, she forgot about the ice and walked out to me. She threw the blanket over my shoulders. “Bring that thermos over here!” she called to somebody on the edge of the pond.
Matt Tjaden was the man who brought the thermos out. He’s the county attorney and plans to run for governor someday, sooner rather than later. He was the Kiwanis Club’s Man of the Year for the entire midwest two years ago. The only club I’ve joined since reaching my majority is the Science Fiction Book Club, which is to say that Tjaden and I don’t have a lot in common. I suspect he’s a decent guy when he’s not being official, but I’ve never had the chance to find out. He’s the stalking horse for the Sykes clan and I’m the unofficial
representative of the Whitneys.
“I’ve always said you were all wet,” Tjaden said. “And now you’ve proven my point.”
“Har de har har,” another guy said. “Just give him the damn coffee, Matt, and spare him the jokes.”
Tjaden has the kind of bland Van
Johnson good looks that old ladies like and men don’t dislike. He probably believes at least half the corny things he espouses, and if he isn’t especially bright, he also isn’t especially mean or vindictive, which is a lot more than you can say for the Sykes clan. The only time he can get you down is on the Fourth of July when he gives his inevitable death penalty speech right before the fireworks. If Tjaden had his way, we’d be hanging people every other week. Tjaden sees our state’s unwillingness to execute more people as “the subtle and nefarious influence of Communism.” The quote by the way is from J.
Edgar Hoover. I think Tjaden carries a photo of J. Edgar in his wallet.
Tonight, Tjaden looked like a skiing ad in Esquire magazine. He had on some very fancy red and blue ski togs and some blue boots that came up to his knees. He looked like a superhero in a comic book. Except for his slight jowls. And slight paunch. And slight baldness. And slight nearsightedness. After he poured me a cup of coffee, he started telling people to go back to the rink, that everything was under control here.
I said, “There’s something we need to talk about.”
“You should be more careful, McCain.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“You’d never catch me out on this ice.”
“I hate to point this out,” I said, shivering inside my blanket, “but you’re on this ice now.”
“Oh,” he said, and then looked down at the ice. “Well, you know, I meant standing where the ice is weak.”
“There’s a body in the canoe over there.”
“What?”
“A body.”
“Dead?”
“No, she’s sunbathing.”
“Who is she?”
“I was going to find out but then the ice gave way.”
He looked over at the canoe. “You think it’s safe to go over there?”
“If we walk wide and come in from the north.”
“God, this town is going to hell in a handbasket. First, Kenny Whitney goes nuts and kills his wife and himself, and now there’s a dead girl in a canoe.”
What I really wanted to do was go
home and soak in a hot bath and drink some brandy while steaming out the head cold that was already mounting a cavalry charge.
Tjaden wouldn’t go to the canoe. I had to do it.
This time, I got a good look at the girl. She wasn’t at all familiar. She was probably Ruthie’s age. She had on a winter coat but it was open. I had an irrational thought, about how cold she must be. I wanted to put my blanket on her. Then I remembered that she was dead.
I moved closer. In the moonlight, the blood that soaked her tan skirt looked black. There was blood all over her hands and legs. Her white blouse was clean, as was her face. I wondered what could have caused this much blood.
I walked back up and grabbed the stern of the canoe and dragged it across the ice. I pulled it up on the snowy shore.
“God Almighty,” Tjaden said. “Look at that blood.”
I didn’t say anything.
“What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“You see any bullet holes or cuts or anything?”
“Nope.”
“Me either,” he said.
Then he got pious on me. “The way girls run around today, just like our pastor says, you dress like a whore, people are just naturally going to think you are a whore.”
“She isn’t dressed like a whore.”
“If she’d stayed home and done her schoolwork at night, she wouldn’t be in this canoe right now.”
“What if she died during the day?”
He shook his head. “She didn’t die during the day.”
“How do you know?”
“I can just tell is all.”
Who needs scientific detection when you’ve got Tjaden around?
I heard voices.
To my right, coming down the hill from the gravel road that fronted this section of timber, I could see more flashlights bob
bing in the gloom.
“Looks like Cliff,” Tjaden said.
“Thank God,” I said. “We’re all
saved.”
“He’s a lot better lawman than you give him credit for, McCain.”
“That wouldn’t be hard, since I don’t give him any credit at all.”
It was Cliffie all right, gunbelt slung low, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He still wasn’t wearing a jacket. My hero.
“What happened to McCain?” he asked Tjaden.
“Fell in the river.”
Cliffie smiled at me. “Too bad he didn’t drown.”
End Of Volume I
The Day The Music Died
by Ed Gorman
Volume Ii of Two Volumes
Pages i-Iii and 169-340
Published by: Carroll and Graf
Publishers, Inc., New York. Further reproduction or distribution in other than a specialized format is prohibited.
Produced in braille for the Library of Congress, National Library Service for the Blind and Physically Handicapped, by Clovernook Printing House for the Blind, 2003.
Copyright 1999 by Ed Gorman
Special Symbols Used iii
In This Volume
@ (4) Accent sign. Placed immediately before the print letter marked with an accent.
The Day The
Music Died
Part Ii
Fourteen
(continued)
I wondered if Tjaden would do one of his har-de-har-har routines.
Two other people came up behind Cliffie. One was Paddy, Sr., from the bar and the other was Jim Truman, the handyman.
Paddy didn’t bother with amenities. He went right over to the canoe and looked down at the girl. He looked over at me. “This looks like somethin’ that coon friend of yours might’ve done.”
“We don’t even know that it was foul play yet,” I said.
“All that blood and it’s not foul play?”
Paddy said. “You’re some goddamned lawyer, you are.”
“Any of you ever see her before?” Cliffie said, playing his flashlight on her face.
Everybody took a turn gawking at her.
Each shook his head.
