Spencerville

by Nelson DeMille

  The only road was a few hundred yards further to the south, and he couldn't see it because it lay on the opposite side of the rise, but now and then he saw the top of a big rig go by.

  He looked at his watch. It was a quarter to nine. He wondered what had happened between the time he'd seen her two nights ago and now.

  At a few minutes to nine, he saw the nose of a car crest the rise, then descend through the high grass toward the pond. But it wasn't a Lincoln, it was a Ford Fairlane, which was what the Spencerville police used for their marked and unmarked vehicles, purchased no doubt from Baxter Motors.

  The car, which bore no police markings, stopped at the edge of the grass where the muddy shore began, and Keith raised his binoculars. The driver's-side door opened, and Annie got out, wearing a red skirt and white blouse. She stood beside the open door a moment, looked around, then closed the door.

  She walked down to the water's edge, carrying a loaf of bread. Keith watched her as she absently ripped open the wrapper and threw whole slices into the water. A few dozen ducks and geese swam toward the floating bread. Every few seconds, she looked over her shoulder.

  Keith let a few minutes pass, then walked out of the tree line and waved to her.

  She saw him, threw the loaf down, and hurried along the shore toward him as he came around to meet her.

  As they drew closer, he saw by her expression that she was anxious but not terrified. She smiled and sprinted the last ten yards and literally jumped into his arms, wrapping her arms and legs around him. Hello, Mr. Landry.

  They kissed, then she slid down and took his hands. She said, It's good to see you. She glanced at the barrel of the rifle rising above his shoulder and said, Maybe you didn't need that.

  I'm just out varmint shooting. Let's walk into the woods.

  They walked side by side along the shore, and she glanced back a few times. She said, I don't think I was followed. I brought my Lincoln in to Baxter Motors this morning and said I had a knock in the engine. They gave me a loaner. The damned Lincoln sticks out like a sore thumb around here. I think that's why Cliff's father gave it to me.

  He smiled and said, Sounds to me like you have had a few affairs.

  No, sir, but I've given some serious thought to how I would go about it. How about you, wise guy? Leave the car door open if you've been followed.

  That was my vocation. My avocation was tennis. He asked her, Did Aunt Louise blow it?

  Sort of. But it wasn't her fault. Cliff made it his business to stop by and see her and, for some reason, she told him I had dinner with her, and he asked me what I had for dinner.

  The devil is in the details.

  You can say that again. I'm just not good at this, Keith. Anyway, he's suspicious. He's always suspicious. This time, he's right.

  They reached the trees and walked along the bank of the stream. It was cooler out of the sunlight, and the trees, mostly birch and willow, were just starting to turn. Keith had always liked autumn in the country, the trees ablaze with color, pumpkins and cider, the hunting season, and the harvest. He hadn't seen anything like it anywhere else in the world, and perhaps more than summer, it was the autumn that he thought of when he thought of home.

  Annie tapped him on the shoulder and pointed up ahead. Is that your horse?

  It's a loaner horse. The Jenkinses' across the road.

  So that's how you got here. Are they still following you?

  Maybe. I didn't want to find out today.

  Can't you get a court order or something?

  I sort of enjoy the attention.

  I don't. Annie walked up to the mare and patted her neck. This is a nice animal. We used to ride. Remember?

  I do. You still ride?

  No. But I'd like to. She took off her shoes and slipped off her panty hose, then untied the reins and led the horse around to drink from the stream. She's thirsty.

  Keith unslung his rifle and binoculars and laid them on a tree stump. He sat on a fallen trunk and watched her.

  Annie asked, Has she been fed?

  I fed her about seven. No one's fed me yet.

  She laughed. Bachelors are so dumb. If you move their plates six inches to the left, they'd starve to death. Without looking at him, she asked, Who took care of you all these years?

  Uncle and Amex.

  She glanced at him as she led the horse up the bank and tied the reins. Did you have a good life, Keith?

  I did.

  I did, too, despite my marriage. I learned how to enjoy other things.

  You always found something good in any situation. I was always looking for the dark lining in the silver cloud.

  Not always. You acted more cynical than you were.

  You read me too well.

  Well enough. Still barefoot, she walked to where he was sitting and lay down along the length of the trunk, her feet in his lap. They're cold.

  He dried her feet with his handkerchief and rubbed them.

  Feels good.

  How are we doing for time?

  Who cares?

  We do.

  Oh, we're all right. I'm doing Saturday errands around town. He's fishing up at Grey Lake in Michigan with his cronies. We have a hunting lodge there. He won't be home until late afternoon.

  You're sure?

  The only thing he enjoys more than bothering me is fishing and hunting with his friends. She thought a moment and said, God, I hate that place, but I'm glad he likes it. Keeps him away . . . we can be together when he's there.

  Do you go with him?

  Sometimes. She added, The few times we went up there alone, without the kids or without company, he was another person. Not necessarily better, and not actually worse . . . just another person . . . quiet, distant, as if he's . . . I don't know . . . thinking of something. I don't like to go up there with him alone, and I can usually get out of it.

  Okay, so what happened?

  She closed her eyes and, as he massaged her feet and calves, she said, Well, we had a little scene at dinner last night. First, about the dinner being burned. She laughed. I did it on purpose.

  You sound like fun to live with.

  No comment. Anyway, then he tried to trap me about dinner at Aunt Louise's, then we got onto the subject of Wendy in a coed dorm, then we got to Keith Landry, the guy who fucked me for six years— quote, unquote—and who's now living down the fucking road, then he tried to trap me again by asking if I'd seen you. I figured he already knew, so I told him I bumped into you at the post office.

  Keith nodded and said, Good thinking.

  Well, it didn't improve his mood much. He's still very angry and suspicious. That's what I wanted to tell you. But I guess you know that. She said, He told me he came out to your place yesterday.

  Keith didn't reply.

  She took her feet out of his lap, sat up, and slid over beside him on the trunk. She took his hand. I'm sorry. You don't need this.

  Annie, when I got in my car in Washington and drove here, I knew where this was headed. And I also knew what I wanted here.

  She squeezed his hand. But you didn't know the whole situation.

  The only thing I had to find out was how you felt.

  Keith, you knew. You had to know how I felt.

  He smiled. Your letters could have been read by your aunt and my aunt without a blush.

  My letters? You signed yours 'Sincerely.'

  I did not. He added, I meant 'Love.'

  They sat for a while listening to the stream, the horse snorting, the rustle of the leaves and the birds. Finally, she said, You understood, didn't you, that I still loved you, and I was waiting for you?

  I understood. But I may never have come.

  I always knew you would. She picked up a twig and scratched it around on the ground. She said, But if you didn't, then there was no one else. She wiped her eyes, and, still looking at the ground, she took a deep breath and said, Oh, God . . . I thought you'd get killed, I thought you'd get married, I thought you'd stopped loving m
e.

  No.

  But why did you wait? Why?

  I don't know . . . I mean, right after I left, we were both angry at something . . . then, before I went overseas, it occurred to me that I might get killed, or lose a leg or arm, or something . . .

  If I was your wife, I would have taken care of you. If I was your widow, I'd have honored your memory.

  Well, you didn't need any of that. Then, when I got home . . . I don't know . . . we couldn't connect. Then you got married, and I hated you, then I hated myself, then the years just went by . . . the letters came, they didn't come . . . you had children, you had a life . . . I could picture you here with friends and family . . . you never wrote much about your marriage . . .

  You never wrote a word about how you felt.

  I did.

  You never wrote a word about us.

  Neither did you.

  I tried . . . I was afraid. Afraid the letters would stop.

  Me, too.

  She wiped her eyes again and tried to smile. We're idiots. We used to talk about everything, then, for over twenty years, we couldn't even say 'I love you' and 'I miss you.'

  I know. He thought a moment, then said, You know, it's twenty-five years this month since we said good-bye in your apartment in Columbus.

  I know. Hard to believe. She put her hand on his leg. After you left, I cried for weeks. Then I got myself together and buried myself in schoolwork. I didn't date—

  It's all right. Really.

  Let me speak. So, anyway, I started to realize that . . . I started getting angry at you . . . and when women get angry, they get spiteful.

  I didn't know that.

  She punched his leg. Listen. So I went to see this campus shrink, and he was helpful. He said that I was manufacturing an anger toward you because it was the only way I could deal with the possibility of losing you to another woman, or of your getting killed. He said I really loved you, and I should tell you.

  I don't remember that happening.

  Because you never got that letter. I ripped it up. Then I wrote it again, and I ripped it up. I did that about a dozen times. Then I realized I was still angry, I was hurt, I felt betrayed. I remembered a line I read somewhere—men who are happy at home do not go to war.

  But even happy men get restless.

  Well, but you weren't there to tell me that. And when you called, you sounded distant.

  You, too.

  I know. I hate telephones. So I got myself all worked up, and I decided to see other men. I want you to know, Keith, I never loved any of them. Not the way I still loved you. In fact, not at all. She laughed and said, I got dumped by all of them. They all had the same complaints. Annie, you're cold, stuck-up, selfish, self-centered, and so on. I was none of those things. I was in love with another man.

  You don't have to tell me any of this.

  Sure I do. So I went to Europe, to get away, and I was stunned by the beauty—I mean, where had I been? Spencerville, Bowling Green, and Columbus. And every time I saw something that moved me, I'd say, 'Keith, look at that. Keith, isn't that beautiful?' She put her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands. I'm sorry . . . I haven't cried in years, and I've been crying for weeks now.

  It's okay.

  She found a tissue in her pocket and blew her nose. Okay . . . so then I came home, and my cousin was getting married, and I was her maid of honor, and at the reception I met Cliff Baxter.

  I heard that from someone who was there. I also heard from my mother that you got engaged to him, and that I was a fool.

  Your mother was right. So was my mother. She told me not to marry him. Funny thing is that my father liked him at first. Most guys seemed to like him, and a lot of women did, too. The women liked him because he had a new car every year, he had some charm, and he was good-looking. He still has a new car.

  Annie—

  Quiet. So I was still sort of inexperienced with men, and I couldn't judge . . . I thought, well, there'll never be another Keith, but Cliff is the boy next door, Cliff has a responsible job, Cliff is draft-exempt, and the other guys are married, or in the Army, and Cliff always liked me. Can you imagine such narrow, immature, small-town thinking?

  Sure. This is who we were, Annie.

  Yes, it was. So . . . he asked me to marry him . . . down on one knee, if you can believe that . . . I was flattered, I was feeling low about myself, I was stupid.

  Keith asked her, Annie, why did you marry him? Really. You have to know it, and you have to say it.

  She glanced at him, then stood and replied, To get back at you.

  He stood also, and they looked at each other.

  She said, You bastard. Do you know what you did to me? Do you know? I hate you. I hate what you did to me, what you made me into, what I did because of you.

  I know. Feel better?

  She nodded.

  He took her hand, and they sat on the edge of the stream and watched the water. She said, Thank you. I do feel better.

  Me, too.

  She said, I don't hate you anymore.

  Maybe just a little.

  No, I don't. I'm angry at myself.

  So am I. But I think we can forgive ourselves if we do it right this time.

  She asked him, And you're sure you aren't still angry with me? I mean for the way I treated you when you went off to the Army and for marrying Cliff?

  Well, I was. You know that. But I came to understand it a little. I mean, we never wrote about it, but just the act of writing and keeping in touch was sort of our way of saying we both made mistakes, we both regretted what had happened, and we were sort of apologizing, forgiving, and still loving—without saying 'I'm sorry, forgive me, I love you.' He added, I'm glad you decided to bring it up. I'm glad you feel you can talk to me.

  I do. You're the first man I've called a bastard since . . . well, since you—that time you had lunch in the student union with that little bitch, whatever her name was.

  Karen Rider.

  Bastard. She laughed.

  They watched the rippling water for a long time, thinking their own thoughts, then Annie said, It's peaceful here. I used to take the kids fishing at the pond. I taught them to skate there. I think you'd like them. They take after me.

  That's good.

  They're not actually kids anymore, are they? They're very mature.

  Then they're doing better than us. We don't want to grow up.

  We grew up. I want to be a kid again.

  Why not? Pick an age you like and stick with it. That's my new motto.

  She laughed. Okay, twenty-one.

  Well, darling, you have the body for it.

  You noticed. I'm the same size as I was in college. I'm very vain about my looks. Very shallow.

  Good. Me, too. By the way, you looked good in jeans the other night. What are you dressed for today?

  Well . . . he wants me to dress when I go into town. I can't even go to the public pool and be seen in a bathing suit. One time he came by the high school where I was taking an aerobics class, and he got one look at what I was wearing in a coed class and he freaked out, so now I work out at home . . . sorry. You don't want to hear this.

  Are you allowed to have sex with a horseman you just met in the woods?

  That happens to be one of my recurring sexual fantasies.

  Good. He stood and looked around. A little rough here.

  Oh, be inventive, Keith. Here—we'll do it on that log. She took his hand and led him back to the big fallen trunk they'd sat on. She took off his shirt and laid it on the log. Sit. No, first you have to take your pants off.

  He pulled off his shoes and then his jeans as she undid her blouse and bra. She slipped her panties off under her skirt and said, We shouldn't get completely naked in case someone comes by. I can say I'm picking mushrooms, and I don't know who you are.

  Good thinking. Well . . . He sat on the trunk, still wearing his shorts, and Annie, still wearing her blouse, bra, and skirt, held his shoulders and
threw one leg at a time over the log, then lowered herself into his lap. She put her hand under her skirt, found him, and slid it in. Oooh . . . that's nice . . .

  She wrapped her arms around him, and he steadied himself with his hands on the log. He said, We're going to fall backwards.

  So what? She rested her head on his shoulder as she moved up and down on him. Oh . . . that feels . . . different . . . how are you doing?

  Just fine.

  Are we going to fall?

  No, I've got it.

  She pressed her breasts against his bare chest as she moved slowly up and down on him, then quickened her movements and began breathing harder. She suddenly stiffened and climaxed, and he ejaculated.

  Her body went limp in his arms, and she held him loosely as she caught her breath. After a minute, she said, I feel like such a whore. It feels great. How do we get out of this position?

  Wait for a forest ranger. He put his arms around her, stood, and stepped away from the log. She slid down from him, and they embraced and kissed. He said, That was very nice.

  I had fun. She put her hand on his groin and said, We have to clean you up.

  I like to wear it.

  Is that so? She picked her panties up, wet them in the stream, then cleaned him off and cleaned herself. There. Can't go around sticking to things.

  You're funny.

  I feel funny. Giddy. She threw her panties in a bush. I feel like a kid. I haven't done this outdoors since high school. Next, we'll do it in your barn, then the backseat of my car.

  Maybe we'll get a motel room.

  That, too.

  He picked up his pants, but she said, No. Take off your shorts. I've never seen a naked man in the woods. I wish I had a camera. Your socks, too.

  He slid off his shorts and socks. You're embarrassing me.

  Turn around. She came up behind him and ran her hands over his back and buttocks, squeezing his cheeks. You're all muscle.

  You been in jail, or what? Can I get dressed?

  No, turn around.

  He turned around, and she moved her hands over his chest and down to his stomach. I told you, I can't keep my hands off— She looked at his stomach. What's that?

  A bruise.

  Oh . . . She hooked her bra and buttoned her blouse. He got dressed.

  She went back to the streambank and sat in a patch of sunlight near the water, her back to a willow tree.