by Deb Davies
Trying to work on Claire’s computer hadn’t gotten him anywhere. All three women’s computers were Macs. He was used to department PCs.
Laurel called after him, “Thank you for my defense, with David.”
He stopped and turned back toward her.
“Damn it,” she said. “Why not tell Claire you love her?”
He stared at her, his face bleak.
“At least get your feelings out,” she urged him.
“I don’t want my feelings out,” Arnie said. “I want them inside, where people can’t see them. And I can’t tell Claire I love her.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“I’m married,” he said.
She stared at him.
“I don’t have affairs. They’re too much trouble. And Claire couldn’t be an affair, not for me.”
She still stared. Her bones felt locked in place.
“My boy, Sawyer, is ten. He has insurance through his school, but my wife, Neddie, uses my health insurance. When Sawyer was younger, he came to stay with me every summer, but now he’s in a gifted program in Ann Arbor that runs in trimesters.”
Arnie nodded toward an end table. “There’s his picture.” Sawyer was a thin, tall boy, with no-rim glasses, curly hair, and a shade of dark color to his face. “Neddie’s family is from Bogotá, Colombia. Her dad works at the cancer clinic in Grayling. Her mother’s a dental assistant. My family lived next door to them when we were growing up.”
He lowered himself into a square brown chair. “You want to sit down?” he asked.
She sat down in a chair across from him.
He sat staring at his hands, picking at calluses on his gun hand.
“The girl next door, from Bogotá,” Laurel said.
“Yeah. It’s a beautiful place. Neddie took Sawyer there for his tenth birthday. He’s a neat kid. Very smart, open to new stuff. If he’d grown up here, he’d find it’s not easy, being a cop’s kid.”
He looked away. “There’s another thing. I wasn’t a good reader when I went to school here. My parents worked their butts off. My mom was a nurse who worked second shift; my dad was a cop. They were good parents. They really were. When I was sick, they made me chicken soup from scratch. But I was sick a lot, when I was a kid. When I got to second grade, I knew I was behind, but it didn’t seem to matter. I started growing into a tough, coordinated kid teachers liked. They patted me on the head, passed me along from grade to grade—an average student everyone knew would grow up to be a jock. I could figure out answers to most stuff from class discussion, but by high school, I was starting to sweat the harder stuff.
“Neddie’s two years older than I am. I asked her to tutor me. I couldn’t pay her, so summers, I helped her dad put in a garden, and in winter, I shoveled their walk and drive. She read to me; I read short things back to her, and pretty soon, we were reading more, talking more together. That’s how we got, uh, intimate. That’s how she got pregnant.”
“She got pregnant from reading?”
“Yeah,” he said. He looked up at her, seeming relieved, as though he had confessed a fatal flaw. “I doubt that ‘you win, and we’ll ignore these test scores’ thing would happen these days. But it left me feeling funny about the school system. I wanted to be liked for what I wanted to be, what I could be. And Neddie—she’s pale-skinned, but she is Colombian. I understood when she thought Sawyer would thrive in Ann Arbor, and she didn’t want him to grow up hearing the comments she had heard here: “Oh, Neddie dear, you know we think of you as white.”
Laurel tried to think how she would have felt if Jen, when she was younger, had left with David.
“How old was Sawyer when they moved to Ann Arbor?”
“They moved when he started third grade. By the way, Claire knows I’m still married. Everyone who lives around here knows, except for you and Charles and Jen.”
“Oh. You still garden?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s relaxing. Peas don’t snap like people do.”
“You’ve seen people snap?”
“Oh yeah,” he said again. “Cold coffee sets some guys off.”
“Why do you stay with your job, then?” Laurel asked him.
“I like problem solving. Why do you teach?”
“Problem solving, I guess. Solving problems with students who’ve always had problems with words.”
“Why do you think that happens?” he asked. He was quiet, but obviously had a personal interest in the question.
“Lots of reasons. Some students do have physical problems. Or they were sick, or shy, when other kids forged ahead, and that messed up how they think of themselves. Some are more visually connected, rather than gaining understanding through text, but the smarts are there. Others never had anyone listen to them.”
“I like that phrase—visual connections,” Arnie said. “Kirtland Community College has a course in literacy that includes film studies. Shows films at the Rialto on Monday nights. You don’t have to be a student to see the movies, though parents have to sign off if kids are under eighteen. You ought to come.”
“You think I need to be more well-rounded?”
“I’ve been wanting to ask. Why are you so thin?”
“That’s rude!”
“Cops work with school kids. We start in elementary schools, talking about problems they face—not just drugs and drinking. Image problems. Getting beat up. Cyber bullying. Laurel, you look like a beanpole that’s been on a cleansing fast.”
She stood up, angry, and then slumped back in her chair. “David, my ex. He likes beanpoles. And when you’re not used to eating much, you don’t just pig food in.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he said flatly. “People ought to be able to enjoy what they’re eating. What would you do if your daughter lost weight to make her dad proud?”
Laurel changed the subject. “Why did you and Neddie separate?”
“It’s none of your business,” he said. And then, surprising her, he added, “Neddie found she didn’t want to be a cop’s wife. Sometimes, the people we love when we’re twenty aren’t the people we can live with when we are older.”
“When did you two separate?” Laurel asked.
“The important issue was the school system, so Neddie looked around until she found the program she wanted, and then found a job doing tech stuff for an Ann Arbor firm. Grayling to Ann Arbor is only a three-hour commute. But two years ago,” he said, “we stopped visiting so often.”
“What happened?”
“Changes. Sawyer plays soccer. He’s on a chess team. I try to get there to see him, but now that he’s got a schedule, my life can’t always fit with his.”
“Does she have a lover?” Laurel shook her head. “Oh hell, Arnie. I’m sorry I asked that.”
“Neddie sees someone. He goes to Sawyer’s games when I can’t.”
“But you don’t see a woman you like.”
“I don’t like that many people.” He seemed to be receding from the conversation. The muscle that flexed just above his jaw let her know she’d gotten into territory that still was raw and personal.
Laurel thought frantically. What did she know about Arnie?
“When I first saw you at Claire’s house, Claire said she thought you’d be home, watching a movie. What’s your favorite?”
He concentrated. “Strictly Ballroom is my favorite. Newer stuff: Get Out.”
Interesting that he liked a movie where the precinct police are idiots.
“I didn’t like La La Land,” he added. “Pretty colors, but the whole thing seemed fake. Maybe that was the point.”
“I’d forgotten Strictly Ballroom,” she said. “I loved that movie.”
“You want to see what else I’ve got? I stream some movies, but my collection’s in the, uh, bedroom. More room for shelving, and I keep my movie collection pretty much private. You see what books someone reads or what movies they watch, and you know who they are. Sometimes, that’s not so good—for a cop.”
>
The bedroom, like the living room, was square, but was predominantly white. A navy blue polyester bedspread was drawn up neatly over white sheets under two identically sized pillows. Dacron stuffing, Laurel guessed. Against one wall, on the far side of the bed, was a large mahogany chest of drawers. There was a faint smell of woodsy aftershave, but not one thing on the dresser. The other wall shelves were lined with a colorful array of videos; larger shelves held boxes labeled in neat block letters. Her first impression was: very John Wayne. A guy’s room.
She read labels. “Sci-fi. Drama. Action. Comedy.”
“I used to have more kids’ movies,” he said. “I still have a few, but Sawyer’s taste outpaced me. We both like Groot.”
“I watched the first Guardians of the Galaxy with Jen,” she said. She walked across the room, skirting around the bed, and flipped the top on the box labeled “Drama.”
“What’s your favorite Shakespeare movie?” she asked.
“Richard III set in fascist 1930s Europe. Ian McKellen. That scene at the end, when the car breaks down.”
“‘A horse! A horse!’” Laurel said. “‘My kingdom for a horse!’”
“I want to get something out of a drawer for you.” Arnie’s voice was tentative. “Not a gun. Not a condom.”
“Jesus, Arnie. Why would I think you’d want to show me a gun or a condom?”
“You don’t know how some cops think,” he said.
She stepped back, and he sidled around her. She sat back on the bed, the polyester slippery and cold on the back of her legs.
“Let me explain this first,” he said. “This isn’t a gift. But if you’d like, I’d loan it to you for as long as it helps. I picked this up at a pawn shop. Did a favor for the owner, and he gave me a good price.”
She looked at the small square box he held out to her. Then she looked up at him, looked down, and pried the lid off the box.
Inside, there was a ring sporting a large citrine in a faceted older cut. It caught the light coming through the window over the dresser, and directed it into a ceiling corner, like a flashlight beam.
“Your ex-husband is a horse’s ass. That’s an insult to horses’ asses. He’s coarse, and you aren’t. He’s slippery, and you’re honest. You’ll find someone better than he is, and it won’t be hard. You deserve someone a lot better than he is. In the meantime, you’re likely to see him, with Jen, at least, and I thought it might be interesting if you were wearing something new, something to make him think about what he lost.”
Laurel handed him the box.
“No?” he said.
“Would you put it in the dresser again, for now? I think I might take it with me, if you’re willing to trust me with it. Someone could kill everyone in Claire’s house and strip the jewelry from our lifeless fingers.”
“I won’t let that happen,” Arnie said. He put the ring box back in the drawer.
When he turned back, she’d turned down the bedclothes.
She patted the bed. “Come lie down,” she said. “You have god-awful pillows.”
“Laurel,” he said apologetically. “I sounded like Steven Seagal, just now, didn’t I?”
“Ah,” she said. “The Refrigerator.”
“You’re supposed to be intellectual,” he told her.
“There should be a little leeway for trash in everyone’s life. Arnie, will you come to bed with me? I’ve never slept with anyone but David. I could use your help getting the taste of him out of my mouth.”
Their fumbling lovemaking didn’t last long. He peeled his clothes off, and they started out under the bedspread, but it soon landed on the floor. He pulled a sheet across them both. She pulled him toward her, hard, feeling his erection, and no sooner had he slid his penis into her than she arched her back and spasmed with a long, aching moan. He thrust into her—a few hard, quick, desperate thrusts—and collapsed on top of her. The sheets were wet with a thin, viscous puddle pooling beneath them.
At last, he said, “I must be squashing you. I think I weigh twice what you do.”
“You lose weight. I’ll gain weight. We’ll fit together next time.”
“I gotta think about Neddie and Sawyer.”
“That’s what’s nice about you,” Laurel said.
Jen walked through Claire’s house again, surveying the way her redecorating looked to people who stopped by. The gray paint in George’s bookroom had been covered with soft ivory. Two Oriental rugs, found under a bed upstairs, brought blues and golds and crimson into the room. Charles stacked them when he slept there at night and spread them out in the morning.
In the celery-green living room, the gold pine floors reflected light now that the rug had been removed, and the furniture gave off a faint scent of lemon polish. The enormous leaf-green couch that Zoe had sent faced the unadorned piano.
Zoe had sent a note with the couch, which had been delivered by Dannie’s brothers. “Whit apologizes. Please, Claire, don’t leave.” Whit had sent Elaine certificates for massages. On both notes, Zoe had jotted a postscript, “We will catch the son of a bitch. I’ve promised Whit.”
Over the piano hung a wordless apology Whit had also sent: a one-of-a-kind artwork made by an anonymous quilter, who had captured the range of hues the Great Lakes displayed during sunlight, moonlight, halcyon evenings, and storms.
“The quilt should be in a museum,” Jen had said. Charles went so far as to say that letting a bird destroy it would be sacrilege. Zoe, when Claire told her she couldn’t accept the gesture, had waved a hand dismissively as if swatting away a fly. Claire’s favorite recliner picked up a frothed-cream lake color in the quilt, and the rocking chairs and old quilts gave the room warmth.
Laurel’s pride in Jennifer reached new levels. How had she doubted her own smart kid? Did David have any idea how talented Jen was, not just seeing ways to make the house more authentically Claire’s, but motivating so many people to help?
Outside, the chairs Tansy had sent helped make the transition between home and wilderness. Between the chairs lay the kit for a fire pit, with a note from the woman who had sold Tansy the chairs.
“We never used the fire pit,” shaky writing confided. “Turned out Best to Be wasn’t insured for them. My children tell me they’re fun for younger people. My Robert and I did s’mores over a gas stove burner. They turned out fine.”
Barbara and Bill Marsh had bought pizza at All Things. They laid the offering out on the kitchen table on an old checked tablecloth. The cheese was thick and bubbly, the ham was lean prosciutto, the tomatoes were homegrown, and the scent of garlic warmed the room. The white china bowl held kidney bean salad full of crunchy celery, sweet onion, and red and green pepper, with fresh-grated horseradish in a glass dish on the side. Pears filled an old wooden bowl sitting next to a pewter pitcher brimming with iced tea.
“We have to get back to the farm,” Barbara said. “If we do any redecorating, house or barn, I’ll get in touch with you.”
“I,” Zoe said, snagging a piece of pizza, “will write a fantastic letter of recommendation for you.”
“Thanks, Zoe,” Jen said. “That might not help me get into a design school.”
“I’m going to send it to millionaires I know.”
Dannie and her brothers had chopped away brush that had invaded an old trail down to a swimming hole.
“What happens to fishing if people swim?” Claire had asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dannie had said. “Trout like to be under banks and bushes lining the water, so we won’t touch alders or tamaracks. Alders hold banks in place. Tamaracks give shade in summer and sunlight in winter. I want to get rid of the raspberry canes that ripped up Elaine’s legs before that horse plowed into her.”
Their work gave anyone in the living room a view of the path Whit had traversed. The rotting stump Elaine had fallen against was gone. Trailing net-sized swatches of wild grape had been cleared from around small apple trees. Once branches from long dead trees had been dragged away
, you could see the river, its sand bottom reflecting sunshine and an aura of peace.
Black Pearl sat in front of the patio doors, eyeing changes with disapproval. No one had consulted him about clearing the bramble tunnels that had never failed to yield chipmunks. Since he hadn’t been able to stop Dannie’s crew of workers, he marched away with his ears back and his tail straight up.
There was beer in the refrigerator, but nobody was drinking alcohol, not even Claire. The day kept getting hotter. By 2:00 p.m., the temperature hovered at ninety-six degrees. Laurel retired to the basement with her laptop to type up Arnie’s notes. Charles sat at the far end of the driveway, sketching wild turkeys that were nesting in aspen trees.
Claire curled on the bed in the room Laurel had been using. At times, she talked to George, though they remained one-way conversations. In Claire’s world, heaven was like a James Herriot village, including a set of houses with roses lining front yards and maybe some lavender and a few daisies near the brick front steps. The houses would face a winding street, and the opposite bank would slope to a slow-flowing river. Sturdy cast-iron benches would accommodate sturdy behinds. People would bring dogs to splash in the shallows, where there might be offended ducks, but no ever-pooping Canada geese or aggressive swans. One could simply sit on the front steps of a brick house and pat—say—a black cat.
She had never opened the door to his house. It seemed an intrusion. He had crossed into a world she couldn’t enter, but she could still sit on the steps and talk to him, and he could hear her, because of course the windows were open.
She sat down on the steps.
“George,” she prayed. “I’m happy here, dear. I desperately miss you a thousand times a day. I even miss the way sometimes, you’d come to bed and your hair would still smell like cigars.”
There was no sound from the house.
“George? I had an affair. I think that’s what you’d call it. It wasn’t sleazy. I feel like I’m waking up. Is that wrong?”
The black cat climbed up next to her. It stretched out on the steps.
