by John Smolens
“They let you take Martin’s car back, so you’ll be staying here again.”
“Right.”
“I better go home and dig out another pair of boots.”
“Sure,” she said. “We don’t want to fuel their suspicions, do we?”
“Too late. Did Buzz ask you about your bathrobe?”
She nodded slowly and Pearly knew she’d been thinking the same thing. “He did. Actually, it’s Martin’s robe that I was wearing.”
“Did you tell them that?”
“No.”
“Where is it?”
“In the hamper. I was going to wash it and bring it into the hospital.”
“Can I see it?”
Hannah went down the hall to the bathroom and returned with the blue plaid bathrobe. She held out the bottom, which was stiff with dried blood. “I only knelt next to him in the driveway.”
“Do you have a bathrobe of your own?”
“Yes.”
“Then I should take this,” Pearly said.
She handed him the robe. “Now we’re acting as though we did it to him.”
“I know.”
“I feel like we’re guilty of something.”
“We’re not, Hannah. You’re not.”
She sat on the armrest of the couch and put her hand over her mouth. “I wear his bathrobe, his shirts, his T-shirts all the time. I’m guilty of liking to wear my boyfriend’s clothes.”
“I’d better get going.”
The pretty girl was back. Her hair was clasped behind her head, so he could see more of her face. He noticed when she came into the room that she was wearing a skirt, but he didn’t get a chance to really see her legs. Her blouse was a fine material, and he was surprised when the word satin came to mind. What was satin?
She pulled the chair up so she could lean close to him. She laid her hand on his right hand, the one that didn’t have tubes and bandages. He could smell her perfume. He watched her eyes closely. They were beautiful but they were worried.
“Listen to me,” she whispered. “Listen to me, Martin. Your name is Martin. I know everything is confusing right now and you don’t remember much, maybe anything. I don’t know. So I’m going to tell you a few things at a time, all right? Not too much. If you can let me know you understand, it would be great, but don’t worry if you can’t.” She waited. He wanted to speak, to squeeze her hand, but he couldn’t do either. “It’s all right,” she said. “Just listen to me for now. My name is Hannah LeClaire and I’m your girlfriend. We live together in a house you bought, an old house, which you’ve been restoring with Pearly Blankenship, who’s your cousin.” She hesitated. “That’s all I’m going to tell you for now. If any of that comes back to you, if you remember something, I know you’ll let me know. Somehow you will.” She leaned closer. “You look tired and I’m going to let you sleep. I’ll be here, at the hospital, and I’ll be back later.” She came so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his face. “I want to kiss you, Martin.” She waited, then smiled. “Well, since you haven’t said no, I’m going to assume that it’s okay.” She leaned forward and kissed his mouth.
THERE WAS ONLY one way to go. Pearly couldn’t go back, so he had to go forward, and by early evening he’d been in the Portage long enough to be thoroughly toasted. Someone sitting near him at the bar might have thought that occasionally he seemed to be talking to his feet—that he was swearing at his boots, which were very worn and a good five years old. When he finally left the Portage, his Datsun managed to get him home, with one quick stop at the IGA for a steak and a pint of potato salad. The old brick grill in his backyard was falling apart, but sometimes on a summer evening he liked to cook a piece of meat on it. He piled up the coals, doused them with lighter fluid, and had another beer while he watched the fire.
The fact was he was afraid. Burning the bathrobe seemed like an admission. Hannah was right: They both felt guilty, although they’d done nothing wrong. He couldn’t grasp it, where it was coming from—he was standing out in his yard, preparing to cook a steak, and he felt the whole neighborhood was watching him. There were, in fact, three houses that had a view of what he was doing, all small cottages like his, which had been built back in the twenties, when a logging company set up its operation by the lake. He was convinced that if any of his neighbors looked out and saw him standing in front of the grill, they would see through the ruse: He wasn’t making dinner; he was waiting until dark to burn evidence.
Once the coals were white, he put the steak on and cooked it till it was medium. He sat in an old folding lawn chair and ate steak and potato salad, then had another beer as the light faded to the west of the village. Throughout the neighborhood there were the sounds of kids, dogs, screen doors. Nobody seemed to notice him, except for Larry Bundt, who waved as he walked from his car to his back door with a pizza box cradled in his arm. When it was just about dark, Pearly went into the kitchen and poured himself a shot of Scotch and stuffed the bathrobe in the paper bag he’d left on the kitchen table. He took the bag and the glass of Scotch outside. The coals were fading embers now. The night air was cool, but the brick grill gave off a pleasant heat. He tossed back the Scotch. He was so gone that all his movements seemed slow yet animated—this in itself would be nothing new or extraordinary to his neighbors. He took the bathrobe out of the paper bag, laid it on top of the coals, and waited. Like a magic trick, the garment smoldered for several minutes until it suddenly burst into flames, giving off a heat that made him step back from the grill.
It burned quickly. As Pearly watched the fire, he started to recognize the source of his guilt. He rarely envied someone, or so he told himself, but he had to admit that there had been moments when he would feel something close to envy toward Martin. The differences between them were clear: Martin was making a life for himself, while Pearly was simply living the one he had been given. That old house was an achievement. Everyone knew that; they recognized that its restoration—its very survival—was the result of Martin’s labor. Yet he was doing work that Pearly could do better. Pearly, who lived in his mother’s house. And then there was Hannah. Pearly needed to be careful here, to make a fine and clear distinction. Few men could look at her and not be stirred by desire, if not lust. But when you got to know her, to know the kind of person she was, the nature of that desire changed. She was someone a man could get lost in, and never regret it. It had happened to Sean Colby, it had happened to Martin. This had never happened to Pearly. Standing before the fire, watching the flames die down, he had to admit there had been a few moments when he wished that Hannah would look at him or touch him in a way that meant she loved him. The fact that he was more than twenty years older did nothing to diminish this desire. It seemed fitting that his cousin should get the house and the girl. Not get, earn. For Pearly, the man who had neither, the future seemed barren.
He remembered the grass. It was June, the last week of school, and all fifth and sixth graders got to take school buses into Wrigley Field. Their seats at the ballpark were in the sun, well down the first-base line, and the late-afternoon sun had turned the grass a brilliant green, an unreal color, the green equivalent of fire. The Cubs were leading the Phillies, 5–3, in the seventh. He was sitting next to a boy named Teddy, who had a harelip. The vendor passed their hot dogs down the aisle. They were wrapped in aluminum foil, which kept them hot. When he peeled back the foil, the hot dog smell was so good it made his mouth water painfully. He ripped open the mustard packet and drew a thick yellow bead the length of the dog.
“No ketchup?” Teddy asked. “No relish?”
“Just mustard,” he said.
“Then gimme your ketchup packet,” Teddy said.
He handed the packet to Teddy and everyone jumped to their feet. Looking up, he saw that it was a high foul ball, arching toward them. It seemed to be falling right for him. He stood up, and as he raised both hands, he dropped the hot dog. He knew he should have brought his mitt. The ball came down toward him, get
ting bigger and bigger, until he could see the spinning red laces. Suddenly he was afraid—the ball might hit him right in the head—and he closed his eyes. He was bumped from behind as the ball hit the seat with a loud crack. Turning around, he saw several boys scrambling under the seats, screaming and pushing one another, until one boy stood, holding the ball high over his head like a trophy.
He looked down at the mustard streak on his T-shirt. The hot dog had rolled out of its bun and it lay on the dirty concrete by Teddy’s sneaker.
“How are we feeling today?” the woman asked.
“I would like another hot dog,” he said. “I dropped the first one.”
“Did you?” She didn’t seem angry. “Well, I think that can be arranged.”
“Just mustard. Please.”
22
THE FIRST FEW TIMES Pearly went to Marquette General with Hannah, Martin was groggy and tired, and he often complained of a terrible headache. He remembered more every day, it seemed, including a lot from his childhood. He and Pearly talked about Aunt Jane, about years ago, when the entire clan would gather at her cabin during the summer. Martin would suddenly mention some obscure fact, something from sports or history. More recent events were less clear to him. He understood that he’d bought the old house and that they’d been restoring it. But he didn’t remember the fire at all. When they were in his hospital room, he watched Hannah closely. He liked the attention she gave him, and the fact that she lived at the house with him, but he wasn’t clear on how that had come about. She would describe the spring afternoons when he’d taught her to drive standard shift in his Mercedes. But they could see it in his eyes: He was trying hard to conjure up something, one image that he could see in his mind, but it wouldn’t come. Then his eyes would lose focus, and at times they’d become confused and fearful. Sometimes when he was speaking he’d stop suddenly, and it was obvious he couldn’t find the words to express what he wanted to say. More than once he became so frustrated he got teary-eyed. After a few days he seemed to level off—which was something the doctor had told them to expect: His vocabulary remained quite limited, and much of the time he didn’t form complete sentences. Once he was asked to write his name, but he couldn’t. He remembered nothing about how he was injured, and no one even mentioned Sean Colby to him.
When he was stronger physically, taking long walks in the halls and eating well, the doctor said that it would be okay for him to go home. He would have to keep quiet, but there was no point in staying in the hospital any longer. This was a relief for a number of reasons, one being the cost, because Martin had no health insurance. Pearly had called Aunt Jane in Florida and she said to have the hospital bills sent to her. So after nine days, which seemed an eternity, Martin was released from Marquette General and went home with Hannah.
Pearly knew how this was going down in Whitefish Harbor. People discussed all this with a muted enthusiasm that did not belie their keen interest. Martin—some still referred to him as the “Chicago boy”—had returned home. He was living again with that Hannah LeClaire. And Pearly Blankenship was over there at the house every day. What were those people up to in that old house?
Pearly could see it in people’s eyes, when he entered a shop, a restaurant, a bar. Some stares clearly intended to tell him that they were certain of his innocence. Pearly Blankenship simply was not the sort who was capable of crushing another man’s skull, for love, money, property, or whatever. But there were more averted stares, and these confirmed what Pearly suspected all along: Proof has nothing to do with anything; it’s what people believe that matters. They believed that he was responsible for Martin’s injury—his own cousin, which, when you thought about it, only strengthened the case for his guilt. It was, in part, a blood feud.
The other thing, the other point of interest, was the Colbys. The day after Martin returned home was Frank Colby’s last day of active duty. Since the town council voted that he should be suspended from the police force, Frank had taken just the one sick day after he first learned of their unanimous decision. His final days on the force he was out there walking his beat. Some people admired him for putting a good face on things. His only act of defiance came on the last afternoon. He drove his cruiser through the village real slow so everybody could see him once more in full uniform. A few ardent supporters stopped on the sidewalks and applauded. He did not wave in acknowledgment, which seemed fitting, and his meaty bare forearm lay on the top of the car door like a reptile sleeping in the sun.
Sean suffered a less dignified demise. When he appeared before Emmett Anderson, the judge determined that he would have to pay for the replacement of the headlight he broke on his father’s cruiser and, furthermore, he would be required to perform a hundred hours of public service at the town hall. “Odd jobs,” the judge said as he raised his gavel, “performed during regular business hours—wash the police cars, clean the windows, the bathrooms, sweep the floors and front walk, trim the hedges.” He tapped the gavel and said, “Dismissed.”
BECAUSE MARTIN NEEDED rest and quiet, Pearly didn’t do anything at the house that required hammering or power tools. Instead he taped and joined Sheetrock. Then he rolled primer on all the new walls. After a few days Martin began coming upstairs, first to watch, then, for short periods, to help. Downstairs, Hannah was finally completing the paint job in their kitchen.
But a hard realization was setting in: Martin did not seem to be coming back “in full.” He approached some things with the wide-eyed innocence of a child, while at times he descended into a fathomless torpor indicated by a slack mouth and dull eyes. One afternoon while he was sleeping, Hannah said to Pearly, “I asked him to bring me a gallon of paint, and he looked at me and said, ‘What’s a gallon?’ ”
They became a family of sorts, resembling, say, a mother and an uncle who are extremely protective of a child. Pearly had never been a father figure to anyone and found it strange, but he liked it. Hannah seemed to accept the maternal nature of her role, but once Pearly found her cleaning paintbrushes at the kitchen sink, her face streaked with tears. There was nothing he could do or say, so he took the brushes out on the back steps and laid them out to dry.
One afternoon Martin went with Pearly into the village on errands. They parked in front of Deitz Hardware and Martin said he wanted to stay in the truck and listen to the oldies station on the radio. When Pearly came out of the hardware store twenty minutes later, Martin wasn’t in the truck. The keys were still in the ignition and the radio was still on. Pearly walked a block south, looking in stores, but didn’t find him. Then he saw him, standing in front of the town hall, talking to Sean, who was on a ladder, washing windows. Pearly crossed the street quickly.
“So this isn’t your job?” Martin was asking.
“You fucking with me?” Sean looked around. “He’s fucking with me, Pearly.”
“No, he’s not,” Pearly said.
Sean put his squeegee and bottle of window cleaner down on the top of the stepladder and said patiently, “Okay. No, this isn’t my job.” Then he added, “You know why I’m doing this?”
“To make the windows clean,” Martin said.
“Right,” Sean said. “How am I doing?”
“Looks good to me!”
“I’ll just bet they do.” He came down the ladder and stepped up close to Martin. “You’ve had your fun, now get away from me.” Then he asked Pearly, “It’s not contagious, is it?”
“Sean, the question is, how did it happen?” Pearly took Martin by the arm and, as if he were a child, began to lead him back across the street toward the Datsun.
But Martin pulled himself free. “What’s your name?” he asked Sean.
“What?”
“Do I know you?” Martin asked. “I remember . . .”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sean put a foot on the bottom rung of the stepladder, but something made him hesitate.
“I’ve seen you before,” Martin said. “In a bar. There were people, and a ba
seball game on TV. Yes! You were mad—what were you saying to me? And then . . .”
“Then what?” Sean said.
“Then—then someone hit you. Punched you. Because you were about to punch me. I remember that. It was Arnie! Arnie did it! Remember?”
Sean looked at Pearly for an explanation, for help even, but Pearly simply took hold of Martin’s sleeve again, and this time he didn’t resist. He seemed weary, and as they drove back to the house he fell asleep.
MARTIN LIKED GOING on errands and the following evening they were in the village again. Although the tank in the Datsun was more than half full, Pearly stopped at Superior Gas & Lube. Martin got out of the truck, walked around to the driver’s side, and watched Arnie start the gas pump. At first Arnie didn’t acknowledge Martin. He kept his head down, one hand on the gas nozzle. Finally, Arnie gazed back at him.
“What?” he said.
“Arnie?”
“Yeah?”
Martin wanted to speak. His mouth opened and closed, as though he was forming the words, but he remained silent. Pearly had seen this before, but it struck Arnie like a revelation. Then Martin went back around to the other side of the truck and got in the cab, holding both hands tightly between his knees.
After the tank was filled, Arnie came to the window and said quietly, “Jesus, Pearly, I’ve heard people talk, but . . .”
“Well, it’s coming back slowly. But he remembers you fondly.”
“He does?”
“You nailed Sean in a bar once, right?”
“Yeah, but I was pretty drunk.”
“Martin remembers who his friends are. It’s only a matter of time before he remembers the rest.”
After a moment, Arnie said, “That’s eight even.”
Pearly gave him a ten. “Tell me something. You know what people are saying around town, that I had something to do with it. You believe it?”
