Goldilocks

by Andrew Coburn

  The voice, hoarsened by the years, belonged to Arnold Ackerman, a retired bookmaker who had been a close friend of Cole’s father and a bearer at the funeral. He was semibald and had moist eyes in a dry and strained face that looked pulled apart at the bottom, the mouth large and rubbery. His small hands encircled a cup of tea.

  Cole, settling in, said, “How you doing?”

  “Ten years ago I was doing better. Today I got pains don’t belong to me, someone must’ve wished me bad, put pins in a doll or something. Voodoo. You believe in that stuff, Barney?”

  “I don’t discount it.”

  “Also I don’t sleep so hot. Happens, you get older. Dead of night you think you hear the phone ring, but it’s just an echo in your skull. Could’ve been somebody calling you two days ago.” He sipped his tea. “Few nights ago I dreamed your dad phoned me from heaven, but I wouldn’t accept the call. It was collect. I regret that, Barney. I would dearly have liked to talk to him again.”

  “Think he’s doing OK up there, Arnold?”

  “Sure he is, and so will I, they let me in. To make sure, I’m touching all bases. I mail my envelope in to the temple, play bingo at St. Pat’s, and tune in to Jimmy Swaggart. Ever watch that guy perform? His timing’s perfect, and he sweats on cue. Say what you want about him, but those glands are God-given.”

  Cole smiled warmly. His father’s old buddy, so many tales told about him. Could talk a dog off a meat wagon, a nun out of her habit. Never paid a dime for protection all his years booking. When cops tried to shake him down, he borrowed lunch money from them. Never lost an argument that counted. When it seemed he might, he mumbled, which made him incomprehensible and indisputable. Cole did not believe all the stories, only the implausible ones. He said, “I heard from Louise Leone.”

  “Did you?” The old face brightened. “Sweet girl. Smart. In high finance now. Bankrolls the big boys, that’s what I hear.”

  “Yes, that’s what I hear too.”

  “And she married blue blood. A guy, I bet, eats branny cereal for his bowels.”

  “His name’s Baker,” Cole said.

  “Makes her an American now. She never did like being a wop. Long time ago we thought you two would marry. Surprised your dad you didn’t.”

  Cole shrugged. He did not have an answer worth giving.

  Arnold sipped his tea, which did not look hot. “Her father’s sick. Something to do with his stomach. She mention it?”

  “No,” Cole said.

  “Maybe she doesn’t know.” The glazed crumbs of a honeydip doughnut lay like flakes of ice on a plate Arnold had pushed aside. He gathered them up and ate them, his mouth moving loosely. “Lot of people are sick. I see your pal Daisy Shea. He sure as hell doesn’t look tip-top.”

  “He’s hanging in.”

  “So’s Manny the tailor. Early last week he had a heart attack. I saw the ambulance guys wheel him out of his shop. They plunked his teeth on his chest, everybody to see. I visited him yesterday, Lawrence General. He looks pretty good now, especially with his choppers back in. Guess who’s in the same room with him. Buddy Pothier, owns the furniture store. Somebody beat up on him, left him with a detached retina and a few other unenjoyable things. Happened at the Y.”

  Cole’s head came up. “Who did it to him?”

  “He’s not talking. Says it was a misunderstanding. There was always something peculiar about Buddy, you know that.”

  “When did it happen?” Cole’s voice was toneless.

  “Few days ago.”

  “I didn’t see it in the paper.”

  “It was there. Little item that didn’t say much in the tiny print they use under police reports. His name was buried in all the Spanish ones.

  “Is he going to be all right?”

  “He’s going to live, that’s what you mean. If you’re asking about his eye, what do I know about detached retinas?”

  Cole, distracted, looked away.

  “I didn’t know better,” Arnold said, “I’d think you were taking it personal.”

  • • •

  Emma Goss hung the gardening tools on sturdy hooks her husband had screwed into the far wall inside the garage, printed strips of adhesive tape indicating where each implement should hang, a precise place for everything. His green-and-white Plymouth, which he had coddled, stood almost as shiny as the day he had driven it home from Clark Motors. Only last week, using the same motions as he, she had run a rag over the hood and wiped the windows. She knew she would never learn to drive the car, but she could no more sell it than she could chuck his clothes or dispose of his toothbrush, which still shared a place next to hers. Hers was the pink, his the green.

  She locked the garage and paused in the breezeway. The sun, which had given her a slight headache, remained relentlessly brilliant, but the texture of the air had changed, as if it had taken on another skin. Entering the cool and quiet of the house, the door locking behind her, she immediately looked for Harold in the glass front of the china closet, but it was only her own image that squinted back at her, somewhat disheveled from her day.

  She took aspirin, ran a bath, and undressed. Always, when naked, chalk-white except for the color of her forearms and face, she suffered dismay. Too much unmitigated fullness, a legacy from her mother, which in her young married years had pleased Harold but had always embarrassed her, the reason that she had worn sundresses, never bathing suits, at their seaside vacations.

  She bathed quickly, her headache still with her. When she rose from the soapy water, she felt dizzy and grasped the towel rack for support, holding on tight as a wave of nausea washed through her. Moments later, her heart thumping, she eased cautiously out of the tub on legs she did not trust. Gripping the edge of the sink cabinet, she stared into the mirror. “Please, let it be just a touch of the sun,” she said aloud, her face full of fear. She feared not death but illness, the sort that would thrust her into the hands of strangers, nothing hidden from their anonymous eyes, her dignity and modesty violated.

  A chill followed the nausea, and she shivered while drying herself. She also suffered barometric throbs in the joints of her knees. Rain was imminent. She struggled into a cotton nightshirt, wrapped herself in a robe, and took small steps into the kitchen, where she heated up chicken broth. Hunched over a steaming bowl at the table, she tried to remember the year of her last checkup and determined only that it was well before Nina Scarito redecorated her office. She dipped her spoon, but her stomach allowed no more than a few sips.

  The rain came a half-hour later, not much more than a drizzle licking the windows, but it dragged the day into an early evening. Ensconced under an afghan on the living-room sofa, she lay listening to the coming-home traffic up and down Mount Vernon Street. The rush and squish was a comforting sound, narcotic enough to edge her into believing that Harold might be in it. She drifted off to sleep waiting for the hum of the Plymouth in the drive, for the scrape of his key in the door.

  The real rain came later, the downpour sudden and clamorous, the winds impetuous. The thunderclaps could have come from cannons. She woke with the afghan on the floor and her nightshirt sopping with sweat under her robe. Her skin burned. She staggered up from the sofa and shed the robe. The room was dark except for a streak of streetlight that gave her a false color. An explosion of thunder, the loudest yet, gave her a fright.

  In the bedroom, guided by the hall light, she scrapped the sodden nightshirt for a frail gown she hoped would let her body breathe better. She pulled back the bedspread and blanket, a chore, for her arms had lost their strength, and then lay flat on her back, nothing over her, nothing wanted, for she was already sweating through the gown. She listened to the rain lash the windows. Half asleep, she heard a tree branch flogging the far side of the house and thought it was somebody moving furniture.

  She slept for more than an hour and woke hot-eyed and dry-mouthed, her gown twisted under her. The house was in darkness, the electricity gone, which alarmed her until she forced her head up fro
m the pillow and saw through the window the flashing yellow light of a utility truck prowling the street for damage. The rain had lessened. She lifted her head higher, her eyes investigating the dark of the room, failing to catch a movement in the depths. Then she heard a footfall, ever so familiar, and smelled rain in the room. A hand touched her, the fingers cool on her burning skin. “Harold,” she said without surprise. She had known all along he would come.

  “No,” the voice said. “Henry.”

  FIVE

  IT WAS a little after ten in the morning. Attorney Cole, due in district court, quickly stuffed his briefcase and paused near Marge’s desk as she was slipping a creamy sheet of bond paper into her typewriter. Without looking up, positive evidence that she was out of sorts, she said, “When are you getting me a word processor? It’d be like having an extra person.”

  “We have an extra person. Isn’t he in yet?”

  “He’s no help to me. No, he’s not in yet.”

  Cole grimaced. He had wanted Henry to deliver documents to probate court in Salem, but mostly he had wanted to see him for another reason. “Did you call the Y?”

  “Yes. He’s not there.” She flicked back the hair from her jawline and raised her eyes, her face set in a recalcitrant frown. “Maybe we’ve seen the last of him.”

  Cole rested his briefcase on the edge of her desk. “You still don’t like him, do you, Marge?”

  “What’s there to like? Even when he’s ten feet away I feel he’s breathing all over me. Maybe I’m being silly, but that’s the way I am.”

  “Should I get rid of him?”

  “That’s your decision,” she said, and returned her eyes to the typewriter. When he gripped his briefcase, she said, “Your lady friend from Boston called while you were on the other line.”

  “Kit?” He gave a fast look at his watch. “Does she want me to ring her back?”

  “She won’t be there. She just said to say hello and to keep the faith.”

  “That’s all?”

  “It sounds enough to me, but what do I know?” She pressed a button on the typewriter, and a red dot flashed above the massive keyboard. Her shoulders stiff, she began typing too aggressively.

  Cole swept his briefcase up and stepped away, then looked back with an obscure sense of guilt. He knew her life was not easy at home. “How’s your mother?” he asked.

  She went on typing. “You don’t want to hear.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to. How is she?”

  “Difficult,” she said, and punched another button. A blue dot appeared.

  Cole said, “It took you a month to learn to use that thing. How long would it take with a word processor?”

  “A day.”

  “OK,” he said, “I’ll get one.”

  “When?”

  “You order it.” He moved to the door, looked back. “And I’ll see about Henry.”

  • • •

  Louise Baker and her husband lunched at the Mallard Junction Country Club. They had a choice table against the glass wall overlooking the flawless green of the links. Most of the patrons were women redolent of good breeding, fine schools, and scented late-morning baths. Some who had not known Ben was home from the hospital paused at the table on their way in or out. “Ben, you look wonderful.” Most patted a shoulder of his apple-green blazer, the breast pocket of which bore the cachet of the club. “No, no, don’t bother,” he was told each time he started to rise, as if he were a precocious but sickly child, the illness unmentioned. An older woman, deeply tanned, president of the conservation commission, bent over him and pecked his cheek. “You’re doing simply marvelously. Isn’t he, Louise?”

  Alone, he said, “People are grand, aren’t they, Lou?” He smiled at her over his amber drink, an orange rind clipped to the glass. The drink contained just a touch of rum, not enough to interfere with his medication. He said, “Now I know why I’ve never wanted to live elsewhere. I’m so happy here. Are you as happy here as I am, Lou?”

  “More,” she said. She tore bread. “I have everything.”

  “You’re the most beautiful woman here,” he said.

  She glanced around. “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

  He ate sparingly until dessert, which was strawberries and peach slices with a dip dish of sour cream and brown sugar. Watching him manipulate his spoon, she felt him keenly. He seemed at once more alert and relaxed than ever, as if all the right spices had been added to the brew of chemicals simmering in his brain. His neat mustache glistened. His color was good. He said, “There’s so much more to you than there was to Janet.”

  Janet was his first wife, glamorous but useless, with forebears nearly as prominent as his. She had demanded much of him and little of herself, and the result for each had been zero. She was now married to a New York stockbroker who had everything, including a clear mind. Louise said, “Don’t think about her, Ben. Think only about me.”

  He finished dessert and patted his mouth with a napkin. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “I should start doing something useful. I shouldn’t depend on you for everything.”

  She eyed him thoughtfully. “What would you do, Ben?”

  “I thought perhaps I could help you with your investments, give you advice.”

  His voice was shy. Hers was firm.

  “That’s not where your strengths lie. That should be obvious to you.”

  “Where do my strengths lie, Lou?”

  “In being Benjamin Baker.”

  “That’s enough?”

  “That’s more than enough.” She motioned to the waiter. “You were somebody the day you were born. For me, Ben, it took a while.”

  The waiter brought them coffee, regular for her, Jamaican for him, another treat. He sipped through a layer of whipped cream, the rim of the glass sugared. “Lou,” he said.

  “Yes, Ben.”

  “I’d rather be you.”

  Fifteen minutes later they left the clubhouse and walked onto the green, where three men in bright jerseys waited at the tee. Two were semiretired businessmen, and the other was the president of Mallard Junction Community Bank, where Ben had once been a trustee and Louise, shortly after marrying him, had negotiated his hopelessly outstanding loans while opening accounts of her own, the deposits substantial. The banker stepped forward with the flash of a smile for her.

  “Always a pleasure,” he said, his heavy hand swallowing her slender one. He was stocky and full-faced, with a prominent nose and genial eyes. Swiftly he turned to Ben. “Glad you could make it, Mr. Baker. Magnificent day.”

  “Certainly is,” Ben said jauntily, and glanced toward one of two motorized golf carts where his bag of clubs awaited him, everything provided, including his studded shoes. Louise had seen to everything.

  “You won’t need this,” she said, helping him off with his blazer and draping it neatly over her arm. Close to his ear, she said, “If you get tired, don’t be embarrassed to quit.”

  “I won’t,” he promised, and sauntered off to the cart bearing his gear.

  The banker shifted close to her, placing his back to the others, his hand dangling keys hooked to a leather tab, the extra set to her Porsche. “I put your money in the trunk,” he said in a low voice. “All twenties make quite a bundle. If you could return the satchel this time …”

  “Why not make it a gift from the bank,” she said, taking the keys.

  “Yes, of course.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Your husband seems eager to play.”

  “Let him drive one of the carts. He enjoys that.” She swished back her black hair. “And go easy on him. I want him to have fun.”

  “Yes, that’s something people don’t get nearly enough of.” His genial eyes were suddenly narrow with insinuation, and his smile grew. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Baker?”

  Her face took on the hard silence of stone. He started to say something more but quickly changed his mind. As he stepped back with a shrinking smile, she called out to the others, “Have a
good day, gentlemen.”

  In the Porsche, the windows open, she followed a back road away from the country club. The sky, swept clear of clouds, looked perfectly new, and for a while she drove slowly, savoring the smell of broom and timothy of a hayfield. Flowering dogwood flanked the entrance to a riding academy, where she had taken lessons a year ago. Then, with a glance at her watch, she speeded up.

  She drove to the far edge of town, past the Birdsong Motel, and swung onto the highway to Springfield. A few miles later she veered into a tree-shrouded car stop and pulled up beside a sleek Lincoln Continental, two men in the front. She peeered out at the one on the passenger side. “How are you doing, Sal?”

  “Pretty good, Mrs. Baker.”

  “Everything OK?”

  He turned his head and looked back at the highway, his pitted face soaking up a stray scrap of sunlight. “I don’t see a problem.”

  She struck a button under the dash, and the lid of the trunk popped up. Seconds later the trunk on the Lincoln sprang open, and the driver, John, climbed out and lumbered to the rear of the Porsche. She heard him grunt when he lifted out the bulky satchel.

  Sal said, “Any more problems with the Polack?”

  “None. What’s our return?”

  “Eighteen,” he said.

  “I thought we were going for twenty.”

  “They figure they got a track record with us. I didn’t want to argue.”

  “You wouldn’t shit me, would you, Sal?”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  John slipped back into the Lincoln and strapped himself in behind the wheel. She eyed them both and then said to Sal, “New York or Newark?”

  “Newark,” Sal said.

  “Call me when you get back.”

  “I always do.”

  “Have a good trip,” she said, shifting into gear and pulling away first.

  • • •

  After finishing up in district court and lunching alone at Bishop’s, Barney Cole drove to Lawrence General Hospital, where a security guard let him park in a doctor’s space. The guard, named Alfred, was a retired cop Cole had once represented in a claim for disability in the line of duty. Cole, squinting in the sun, said to him, “I understand Buddy Pothier’s a patient.”