by John Smolens
AFTER DARK SEAN had left the apartment and drove to the beach. Arnie was out with some girl. And again, he’d asked if Sean wanted to come along, because girls often work in pairs and this girl had a friend. But Sean didn’t want to hear any of it. Pretty soon Arnie would start talking like Loomis, who was only happy with two girls at once. So Sean went down to the water because later Arnie and his girl would return to the apartment. If Sean slept on the couch, he’d have to listen to them go at it in the bedroom.
He walked the beach, his sleeping bag over his shoulder, a pint of tequila in his hip pocket. The air was still but the black flies weren’t bad. He knew this was a dumb idea, coming to this particular stretch of beach, where he and Hannah had first done it. But there was a three-quarter moon, and the only sound was of waves running in from Frenchman’s Channel. They’d gotten started in his mother’s car. They did what they’d been doing for the past several weeks, making out, and she let him get his hands up beneath her blouse. But it was a warm night and it was her idea that they get out of the car and walk. He said there was a blanket in the trunk; he got it out and as they started along the beach she put her arm around his waist. There was that as much as anything else—her arm around his waist. She pulled him snug to her hip so that they had to walk in stride together along the sand. Her hair drifted across his face, his mouth, and she laughed when they fell out of step. He was conscious of how her fingers held the belt loop of his jeans. It was pure possession. When they got down to the beach, they spread the blanket, and she said, “It’s all right now, Sean.”
Now, lying there in the same spot, there were just fleeting images. He remembered that it sounded as if he was gently knocking the wind out of her, until a seagull glided overhead and landed near the blanket. They paused and looked at the bird, which turned its head mechanically, watching in every direction. The gull seemed both aware of their presence and oblivious to what they were doing. Finally, Sean moved a little, and Hannah drew in her breath.
After what seemed like an hour lying in his sleeping bag, Sean was still wide awake. He’d finished the tequila. Bugs had found him and kept diving for his ears. He slapped his head numerous times but they still attacked. Finally, he got out of the sleeping bag and walked crookedly back up to his truck, where there was another bottle under the driver’s seat.
13
MARTIN WAS ABOUT to turn off the light over the kitchen sink when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Didn’t wake you?” Pearly said.
“Where are you? It’s after two in the morning.”
“I’m a guest of the civil authorities.”
“That’s great. The police?”
Hannah came into the kitchen in her bathrobe. “Is that Pearly?”
Martin nodded. “Where are you?” he said to Pearly. “The police station? I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Not that simple this time.” Pearly snorted. “I’m not sleeping it off on my bench. This time we made the big ride.”
“They took you over to Marquette?”
“It’s the only jail in the county,” Pearly said. “Just wanted you to know I wouldn’t be at work in the morning. My arraignment isn’t until one-thirty in the afternoon.”
“What exactly did you do?”
“Nothing!”
“Pearly.”
“Why is it that I’m always considered the guilty party?” There was a pause. Finally, Pearly added, “The fact is I don’t remember exactly what I did.”
“You were drinking, obviously. Where? The Portage.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Stayed until closing?”
“That’s a crime?”
“No.”
“Last call—such a sad, lonesome moment it is,” Pearly said. “But sometimes you get lucky. You know, they ring the bell and shout last call, and it’s like everybody has ten minutes to finish their drinks and fall in love. I only succeeded in finishing my drink.”
“What about your friend there, Sally?”
“Night off. Plus, she’s taken up with a tourist. I think he drives a convertible. Don’t worry, she’ll get over it. Happens every summer. It’s just a seasonal thing.”
“So what happened after last call?”
“That’s a very good question, Martin. It appears I’m guilty of falling asleep.”
“Where did you fall asleep, Pearly?”
“In his car.”
“In whose car?” Martin asked, but he already suspected the answer.
“Well, see, that’s the problem,” Pearly said. “I don’t recall actually getting in the car. I think he found me asleep and placed me in the front seat.”
“I’ll come over,” Martin said.
“Okay. I need two things. One, call Owen Nault—the younger one, not his old man—and tell him about my arraignment. And two, my truck is still parked on Ottawa Street. I don’t get it off there, they’ll have it towed and then I’ll have to pay to get it back. You have the extra set of keys, don’t you?”
“Yeah. We’ll take care of it.” After he hung up, Martin laughed and said to Hannah, “He’s more concerned about his truck getting towed than spending the night in jail.”
They got dressed quickly and drove into the village. Pearly’s Datsun was parked a half-block down from the Hiawatha Diner. They decided that Martin would drive it over to Marquette.
“It’s almost three in the morning,” Hannah said. “What’s the good of your going over there? He’s probably sleeping it off now.”
“I know,” Martin said. “But I think I ought to be over there. I don’t even know if they’ll let me see him.” She kissed him and he got out of the Mercedes. He leaned down to the open passenger-side window. “Don’t forget the note.”
“The note was my idea, Martin.”
He smiled and walked to Pearly’s truck. Hannah drove a block farther down the street. The Portage was on the corner, and two doors beyond that were the offices of Nault & Nault. Martin had wanted to call Owen Nault III right away, wake him up in the middle of the night, but Hannah said it would be better if he found a note when he got to the office first thing in the morning. She looked at the note she’d written:
Tuesday, June 18 (2 a.m.)
Mr. Owen Nault III,
Pearly’s being held overnight in the county jail in Marquette. Don’t know all the details but it’s more than just drunk this time. His arraignment will be this afternoon at 1:30.
Thanks for your help,
Hannah LeClaire
She got out of the car, went up to the storm door, and stuck the note to the glass with Scotch tape. At first this all seemed exciting to her, a little adventure in the middle of the night. She realized that years from now they might laugh about this—the night when she put the note on the lawyer’s door—but right now there was no humor about it. The folded slip of paper taped to the door seemed pathetic and forlorn.
SEAN HAD PARKED on the dirt two-track lane that was around the bend from Martin’s house. He walked through the woods with the gas can from his truck. This time he’d be more thorough about it, burn that sucker to the ground. She thought he’d just up and run to some city? No, he was going to run them off.
The Mercedes wasn’t there and the back of the house was dark.
Perfect.
In the driveway he unscrewed the gas cap and began to douse the clapboards. He was working his way along the wall when he heard a car—it was slowing down, then headlights began to swing in off the road. Sean ran across the driveway and crouched behind the bushes there.
The Mercedes pulled into the driveway and the headlights and motor were shut off. Only the driver’s-side door opened. Hannah got out, walked a few steps, and then stopped. She looked around—she wasn’t fifteen feet from Sean. He thought she was trying to see through the bush, but then he realized she was looking under the car. The only sound was a ticking in the engine. After a moment, she straightened up and went around to the backyard. He heard the scr
een door open on a dry hinge, then clap shut.
HANNAH WAS EXHAUSTED. It was warm in the bedroom and she took off her clothes, except her panties, and went right to bed. As soon as she turned out the light, Gracie jumped on the bed and curled up down by her feet.
At first she came up out of sleep, partially, in small stages, and then she drifted back down. She didn’t know how much time had passed when she heard the back door open—she had left it unlocked because Martin didn’t have a house key with him. She rolled onto her back as she heard him come through the living room and down the hall. She began to fall asleep again.
But then she was aware of a smell of gasoline. She realized she had noticed it out in the driveway, but now it was here in the bedroom with him. She was trying to wake up enough to tell him about the smell, to say that tomorrow they should check under the car to see if there was a leak. But she was confused and she wanted to say, Don’t you smell gas? Suddenly her arms were held down by hands that tightly gripped her biceps—and his legs straddled her thighs. He lowered his face to her left breast and took her nipple in his mouth. When she tried to turn his tooth tore her skin. Then his mouth came down on hers hard—it wasn’t really a kiss, but more like he was trying to force his face into hers. She could taste beer and tequila. It was worse than the smell of gasoline. She pursed her lips against his tongue until his head slid down next to hers, his stubble sanding her cheek.
“Easy,” Sean whispered against her ear. “Easy!”
Then she realized that he was already naked from the waist down. She could feel the hair on his legs and his hardness against her pelvis. His weight seemed to be pressing the air out of her and she was having trouble inhaling. When he let go of her left arm, his hand tugged at the elastic band until her panties ripped. She tried to roll to either side, but he was so heavy and his wet mouth kept kissing her cheek and ear as he whispered, “Easy,” over and over. It was as if he were talking to some animal, a young dog or perhaps a horse that needed training. His voice was both kind and loving, yet it threatened punishment if she continued to resist. She spoke his name many times. She said no over and over. She said, Stop it. But he only seemed more determined. He got one knee and then the other between her thighs and pushed her legs apart. Her panties were torn, but the fabric was crumpled between them. His hand was down there trying to guide him inside her, but she kept moving, trying to roll each way. Because his face was buried against her neck, she couldn’t get at his eyes, with her hands. She thought she might have been yelling by then, she wasn’t sure. His weight against her chest made her cough and gasp. He raised his head up away from hers and she could barely see his face in the dark. She pawed at his cheek, but felt so slow and weak. “Wait,” he pleaded. “Just wait.” And then he became still and his hand started to guide him inside her. She raised her left hip and he let go and then he came down on her, his body tense, his hips thrusting, as he came on her belly. Then, lowering her free arm to his back, she pulled him tightly to her, wanting to keep the hot spurts up on her stomach. As he finished his thrusts he whimpered, and she believed at that moment he thought she was embracing him, accepting him, and he was thankful. But her only thought was to keep it outside of her.
Then they were still except for their hoarse breathing. Hannah didn’t know how long he lay on top of her. She felt as though she had run up a steep hill and could only think of getting air into her lungs. It was a surprise when his hands became affectionate. They stroked her face, her hair. He kissed her ear and whispered, “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t—I just couldn’t . . .”
And she pushed with her arms until he rolled off of her. She grabbed the bedsheet and rubbed her stomach. He sat up on the side of the bed, his back arched in the near-darkness. She got up and almost tripped on his pants, which lay on the floor. His belt buckle glinted next to her foot. She leaned over, the floor seeming to tilt, and pulled the buckle, drawing the belt out of the loops of his pants. As she gathered air into her lungs, she felt more alert, stronger. He was just sitting there on the edge of the bed, his back to her. She knelt on the mattress, and holding the ends of the belt in her hands, dropped it over his head, then pulled the ends together quickly. He made a loud noise as though he were trying to expel something caught in his throat. She pulled the belt tighter at the base of his skull and he fell back on the bed. His arms were moving, his legs kicking, but because she was kneeling behind him, he couldn’t get at her. The more he struggled, the more tightly she held on. It seemed to last forever, his thrashing and her putting all of her effort into just keeping her hands tight on the belt. Then his legs and arms suddenly lost their spastic energy. They writhed weakly until they hardly moved at all. In her hands she could feel a tension in his neck, as though he were holding on tightly. It made her think of someone doing a chin-up, how the body becomes rigid as it dangles straight down while the hands and arms hoist the neck up to the bar. Then suddenly he let go. Everything about him turned soft and heavy. There was no tension, only weight.
She let go of the belt and he rolled off the bed, his bones seeming to knock hard on the wood floor. She was out of breath again and sat on the end of the bed for a moment. It was so dark she could barely see him curled up on the floor. Her torn panties were bunched around her left ankle and she kicked them off. Standing, she went down the hall to the bathroom, where she ran the faucet until hot water came out of the tap. She yanked a towel off the rack and soaked it with water until her hands couldn’t take the heat, then wiped her stomach hard—hard, as though she could scrub off the top layer of skin.
She reached out and switched on the light above the mirror. A long scratch, beaded with tiny drops of blood, ran diagonally across her left breast, and her nipple was raw and puckered. The skin around her navel was wet and red. She remembered standing before mirrors when she was in her early teens, studying her breasts, her hips. For months they swelled and changed, and she grew pubic hair. Her skin then seemed so taut, so perfectly smooth. Now when she touched that skin it was sore as though she had been scalded. She was suddenly very tired but there was no place to lie down. She stared at the stained porcelain bathtub. Gracie was sitting in the corner by the tub, her eyes wide and alert.
Then the cat looked toward the bathroom door as a floorboard in the bedroom creaked. The sound seemed to transform Hannah’s bare skin. It was a warm night, but she was immediately chilled, and she felt her flesh rise on her arms, her thighs. There was movement as he struggled to get to his feet. He began coughing, trying to clear his throat. Gasping for breath, he came out into the hall.
Hannah stood still in the bathroom. She saw the pair of scissors in the basket on top of the toilet tank and picked them up. Sean’s footsteps were slow as they moved down the hall toward the living room. He went into the kitchen and let himself out the back door. She was holding the scissors so tightly that they hurt. She put them back in the basket. The scissors had left two deep circular impressions in her palm.
14
OWEN NAULT III showed up at the Marquette County Courthouse a little after noon. He and Pearly had known each other since they were kids. You could say that Owen first “represented” Pearly in high school, when he was elected president of the student council during their junior year. Since returning to the U.P. with a degree from Cooley Law down in Lansing, he had handled all of Pearly’s legal matters and never billed him. The barter system still thrived in northern Michigan, and when his roof leaked, when his toilet didn’t stop running, he called Pearly.
They were in the first-floor corridor of the county courthouse, awaiting Pearly’s arraignment upstairs. “Attempted theft. Of a police vehicle?” Owen said. “Jesus, Pearly, this isn’t going to be the usual program.”
Marquette County Courthouse was an old sandstone building with a fine rotunda. Its interior was full of marble, which gave a resounding echo to even the slightest noise. In one of the offices a radio was playing “Peaceful Easy Feeling,” to which a man with a baronial voice was humming totally of
f-key.
“What do you think you were doing?” Owen asked.
“I was sleeping is what I was doing.”
Owen sighed for effect, to set the tone. “In Colby’s squad car.”
“That’s what he says. But I really don’t remember getting in. I remember that I left the Portage and went down to the beach by the harbor. I took a piss, then I sat down in the sand and, boom, that’s the last I remember.”
“You’re saying Colby found you on the beach, picked you up and carried you up to his cruiser, and put you in the front seat. That’s bullshit, Pearly.”
“Well, obviously he had help.”
“Oh, right: an accomplice.”
“Exactly. I think I was set up. I think he found me down on the beach, fast asleep, and he got one, maybe even two of his pals—you know, they all drink coffee in the middle of the night over at the Hiawatha because it’s the only place that stays open to serve breakfast after last call. I think he got them to carry me up to the cruiser and—”
“Now it’s a conspiracy.”
“It’s all a conspiracy, Owen. Don’t you get it?”
There was a sprinkling of dandruff on the shoulder of Owen’s dark blue suit coat. Pearly reached over and brushed it off. To his credit, Owen bought decent suits, but he wore them to death. This one had been in play for at least five years. Standing this close to him, Pearly could see pulled threads, the pucker in a seam. To offset the fact that he wore suits all day, Owen had for years maintained his long brown ponytail. “Well,” he said. “Let’s consider another scenario, okay?”
“Why not, Owen? I have an open mind.”
“You come out of the Portage utterly blasted, you stumble past the Hiawatha on the other side of the street, and you see Colby through the window at the counter having coffee—with or without his accomplices. His cruiser’s parked right there in front of you and without thinking you try the door. Oh look, it’s not locked. It’s one A.M., the village is dead, and Colby wouldn’t dream of anyone messing with his car. But you think, Why don’t I just take it for a little ride? Leave it someplace. Just for laughs.”
