Chapter 2

 

At the shopping center twenty miles away in West Plains, he sat in his car watching late night shoppers orbiting the lot looking for parking spots near the doors.  As a car pulled past, the orange glow from the sodium vapor lights high above spilled through the window illuminating the cheek of the lone occupant.  A snapshot.  Portfolio pretty.  Where the words came from, he didn't know.  A moment's hesitation, and then he popped the door, spilling himself to his feet, a he responded to an urgency he had no desire to examine.  Before she got out of the car, he was near.  He slowed his pace and followed her into the store.

I'm not hurting anyone . . . just looking.  A guy's got a right to look.  And looking is good . . . very good.

Then why does it feel dirty?

 He pushed the nagging question away.

Eye candy.  Look at the way she moves.  Look how she does that.  He remained at a discreet distance, drinking in every enticing movement, framing every pose.  It's like hunting with a camera instead of a gun, he thought, never considering the implications of his analogy.

 

Blue Creek, September 21, Friday afternoon

"Have a nice weekend, Mr. Porter," she said, startling him.

Brief eye contact.  "You too," he muttered self-consciously.

One of the young teacher's aids---Alice something-or-other, thought Harold as he walked outside.  He squinted in the overly bright sunlight.  I'm like a troglodyte, a guy who lives in a cave.

The word "troglodyte" brought to mind a favorite song, Wild Thing by The Trogs.

Spent my whole life in a cave.  Good to be out of there.  Just take me awhile to get used to it, I reckon.

Suffocating heat, unseasonable but not unusual, wrapped itself around him as he got into the car.  The sunglasses burned the bridge of his nose when he put them on.  The old Caprice rumbled to life and the high-pitched sound of a small electric motor told him the radio antenna was snaking upward from its hole---one of those odd little things they had done while he was away.  Technology made him nervous.  It was an unwanted reminder of how much the world had changed and left him behind.  He drove with the windows down to dissipate the heat and the musty sourness of the passenger side carpet where the air conditioner drain leaked.  Three Dog Night sang Joy To The World through the single working speaker in the back of the car as he left the chat-covered parking lot of The New Life Academy.

Newly painted dashes of bright yellow divided the two-lane blacktop.

That means two-way traffic---Something else new.  Golly, things have changed.  Drive-in restaurants all over town.  Nobody eats at home no more.

It all made him feel like an alien---like he didn't belong.  If not for the oldies station, he'd go out of his mind.  After a taped commercial for the junior college, one he'd heard a dozen times, the intro to Brandy came on without prelude.

No disc jockeys anymore either.  The whole darn world has changed, Man.  Everything is going down the tube.

Harold ran a sweaty hand over the stubble covering his head, now gone mostly gray.  Even in the seventies his flattop had been out of style, but although it made him look out of place, he wasn't going to change the way he wore his hair.  Too much had changed.

I'll be bumfingered if I do.

Even in his thoughts Porter preferred minced oaths to real profanity, a habit that had bought him no end of grief in prison.

"What the heck you doin', Man---," he said aloud as he braked sharply to avoid a van pulling suddenly into his path.  "Give me a break.  All I got's liability."

He stopped at the Dairy Queen to make his usual order:  a cheeseburger and fries with a medium Sprite to go.  It still irritated him that they didn't offer orange sodas anymore.  Harold waited with growing irritation as a pimply-faced kid pushed uncertainly at the single buttons.  Each button stood for an item so that the kid wouldn't have to enter the numbers, but the kid messed up his order twice anyway.

Machines!  No one learns how to think anymore.  It made him vaguely uneasy to think about it.  Machines are taking over---probably why the danged prices got so ridiculous.

As if cued by Harold's thoughts, the kid finally said, "That'll be five ninety-nine."

Outrageous!  Should be about two dollars.

He took six dollars from his stiff new wallet and slid them across the counter, waiting impatiently for the penny change although he had nowhere in particular to go and the whole afternoon to get there.

 

By a quarter to four he arrived at the decrepit house in Kaleville that had been the only thing he could afford.  The Formica-topped fifties era table creaked as he dropped his takeout on it and hurried through the bedroom to turn on the window unit.  He retrieved his food and flopped on the couch.  From outside came the muffled sound of someone trying unsuccessfully to start a balky lawn mower.  He ate in silence, dismally surveying his few possessions:  the table with three mismatched, cracked vinyl chairs and his mouse-eaten couch were his only real items of furniture.  A serviceable box springs and mattress without a bedstead lay in the doorless bedroom.  If the air conditioning hadn't been going, he could have heard his own breathing echo off the bare walls.

A dump.

Harold had taken to talking to himself, but not aloud.  If he had learned anything in prison, it was to be inconspicuous.  There, he had kept up an almost constant internal chatter, speaking to himself in extended dialogs.

A dump?  Maybe "hovel."   Yeah, That's a better word.  And the guy's charging me an arm and leg for this pile of crap.  Better than where you've been though.

He chewed his cheeseburger slowly savoring the brazier taste.

Ah, real food!  Just take awhile to get used to it again.  Settle into the job, make myself some friends, find me a good woman, and get on with my life.

Shifting to ease the cramp at the small of his back, he wondered why the little work he had done had made him so tired.  His forty-one year old body felt heavy although he weighed less than one fifty.  He had heard a fool of a woman at work refer to him as middle aged.

Middle aged?  That's a laugh.  You're just out of shape, Harold. 

By eight he was bored, restless.  He decided that what he needed to do was cruise the main drag looping from the A & W at the west end of town to Frosty's on the east like he did as a kid.

The root beer stand was now a danged car lot.

Once back in the car, however, he impulsively took the highway toward West Plains.  Forty-five minutes later he pulled into the lot of the Walmart superstore, where he killed some time walking the aisles, aimlessly surveying the items offered for sale and wondering at the high prices.  A display of televisions stopped him.

Maybe by the payday after next I can afford one---a little black and white one.

All the models he could see, however, were color, each displaying the same static picture.  Then he saw the keyboards.

Darned computers!

Turning away in disgust, he saw a sign advertising DVD's and VCR's.

Those are movie players like they had at Jeff.  You can rent movies for a couple of dollars, if you can figure out how to hook up and run the machines.  No thanks.  I'll just run down to the Criterion or out to the Southland Drive-in if I want to check out a flick.

Before he left he bought some potpies and TV dinners, although he probably wouldn't have a TV in the foreseeable future.

Maybe you should get a tape player, he suggested to himself as he noticed the MacDonald's tucked into a corner just inside the west entrance.  He shook his head in wonder. 

Whoever heard of a drive-in inside another store?  Whole darned world's gone crazy.

Outside he bought an off-brand orange soda for forty cents, popped the tab and took a long swig, relishing the tart sweetness and the bite of the carbonation.  Two newspaper vending machines sat nearby offering shoppers their choice of the Springfield paper or the Hawthorn County Journal, a biweekly.  The headline across the top of the local caught his attention, and for a long moment he just stared, trying to comprehend its meaning.  Finally, he put two quarters in the box.  In his haste he pulled the door too quickly, causing it to lock up.  After retrieving the coins from the return he inserted them, managed to get the door open this time, and took out a paper with trembling fingers.  Certain that someone was watching him, Harold folded the paper under his arm and walked quickly to his car like a shoplifter making his escape.

Back home he threw the bag with the frozen entrees onto the table and stood staring at the headline, unable at first to make himself read the article below it.

Local Woman's Body

Found After 23 Years

With his stomach twisting, he finally managed to make himself read the article.  With a sickening feeling, he realized that, as miserable as his life was, it was about to get even worse.

"Why now?" he muttered.

His eyes drifted over the words again.  It was all there---and it wasn't.  Just like when it was happening, he seemed to be propelled by something beyond himself.  Willing it to stop, but with a weak will.  How many times since had he rerun it?

If only I hadn't gone with David that day---if only I had driven more carefully---if only you hadn't come to the intersection at the same time---if only---if only.

He threw the paper down.  "Why couldn't you just stay buried?" he shouted.

He snatched the paper from the floor again and reread it.  The article named both David and himself.  Focusing beyond the print and through the page, Harold found himself twenty-three years in the past.

David looked across the courtroom at him, dark eyes saying it all.  Betrayal.  Harold had sold his cousin out.  Throughout the trial, David's lawyer had kept him off the stand, hoping that the lack of a body would prevent the jury from delivering a murder verdict, but they had, mainly due to Harold.  As David stood to hear his sentence, Harold crossed his fingers beneath the table, hoping, hoping.  The judge's words echoed through the briefly silent courtroom, as David inclined his head only slightly in acknowledgment.  Death.  The gas chamber.  Then David looked him in the eye again, a slight smile at the corners of his mouth.

It was like Marie was a ghost coming back for him.  Harold sagged into the couch, wrapped in the darkness of his empty, silent room.  His life had grown stale, like cigarettes and bad coffee through a never-ending night.  He'd thought the hopeless drift of alternating self-recrimination and self-pity would end when he got out.

Nothing to live for and afraid to die---and no one cares.  Why did you want out, Harold?

"It had to be this way," he said.

Although only a little above the level of a whisper, the words seemed to echo and hang in the still air.  He lit a cigarette and held the first drag, feeling the deep harsh tickle of the smoke particles stimulating the nerves in the tender tissues.

Cancer.  That's what I need.  That would be the perfect end, wouldn't it?

 

September 23

Hamm Kinder took the first of the unwelcome but predictable calls before breakfast, this one from a trustee, one of his nominal bosses.  "A leopard can't change his spots", for crying out loud!  He ran the trite observation through his mind with growing irritation.  Right up there with "where there's smoke, there's fire."

As he clicked off the phone, Pam came into the living room still dressed in her pajamas.  "Who was that?" she yawned.

"John Bryant.  He wants me to fire Harold Porter."

"Are you going to?"

"I don't think we have a choice.  New Life is a business after all and---"  Hamm flinched as the phone rang again while it was still in his hand.

"Yes?" he said wearily anticipating another complaint.

"Is this Hamilton Kinder?"

"It is.  How may I help you?"

"You can help me and everybody else by firing that murdering son of bitch you got working out at your school."

"I understand your concern, Mr.?" Hamm said as calmly as he could manage.

"Want to know my name, do you?  Well I don't mind telling you.  This is Steve Preslar---as in Marie Anne Preslar.  She was my cousin, and I'm calling to tell you that if you don't get rid of him---and real quick---I will.  You'll be sorry!"

"Are you threatening me?"  Hamm could think of nothing stronger or more original to say.

"I done said what I said.  You got any brains at all---which I doubt---you'll get rid of him."  A sharp click punctuated the message.

"What was that all about?" asked his wife.

"Another vote in this morning's referendum on Harold Porter," he said, using the softly modulated tone he often adopted in moments of stress.

"Well, if I had a child, especially a daughter at the school, I wouldn't want him working there either, dear."

"He's only a janitor, for crying out loud.  He has nothing to do with the children.  Besides, he was just a kid when it happened, Pam.  Don't you think twenty-three years is enough to pay for being in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

"I know you're trying to help him, dear.  But charity begins at home."

Another damned cliché.

"Porter's harmless," he said with annoyance.  "And he's trying to make something of himself after all these years.  Can you imagine what it's been like for him, being blamed for what his cousin did?  Now it's going to start all over again."

"Maybe he wasn't all that innocent," she said, tousling her sleep disheveled gray hair.  "This is his fault, Hamm, not yours."

"Got to go to work, dear."  He came over to give her a mechanical peck on the cheek.

"Have a nice day," she replied with a yawn, not bothering to cover her mouth.

Like her frumpy robe, her sour morning breath irritated him.  Pam seldom put forth the effort to make herself look good for him anymore.  He still loved her he supposed, but his passion had long since died.  Their silences had grown, and he seldom thought about her when they were apart.  They were disconnecting, becoming only a convention.

On the way to the car, he thought that it hadn't always been that way.  Pam's modesty, gone now, was what he missed the most.  How he'd loved the way she had shyly concealed herself while changing into her lingerie before coming to his bed.  His shy bride had become a comfortable bedfellow too quickly and too thoroughly.

"You've changed too," he said as he checked his appearance in the rear view mirror.

Hair perfectly coiffured, but more silver by the day, cheeks getting a little jowly, nose a little sharper.  Hamm assessed himself objectively.

More distinguished than handsome now---not a bad trade off.

He readjusted the mirror.  As he backed into the road he decided not to report Preslar's threat.  The man was just venting.  It wasn't smart, but most people weren't.

So, what do I do about Porter?

An image of the middle-aged man came to him.

Man?  More like the perennial adolescent.  That's what he is---an old, worn out and beaten down boy---but a boy who once had made a horrible mistake.  Harold was as much a victim of his psychopathic cousin as Marie Preslar was.  Knauts took away two young lives that day.  Why can't people see that?

Hamm sighed, resigned to no longer having a choice.  New Life was a business, and Porter would have to go.

"Damn it!" he muttered.  "Now I have to add to this tragedy."

At eight o'clock Harold Porter spared him all that by calling the office to say he was quitting.  Hamm was relieved not to have to fire him or even look into the man's eyes.  Muttered expressions of sympathy and vague promises of help should the need arise painted a hasty closure to the awkward conversation.  It was comforting fiction.  If ever a man needed help, it was Harold, and if ever there was a time of need, it was now.  No job, no money, no prospects, and living in a town where everyone knew his past and no one wanted him.  Harold had cooperated in the pathetic fiction, thanking Hamm for his help.

Never one to rest comfortably with difficult decisions, Hamm continued to second-guess himself throughout the morning.  He hoped Porter would move away.  A picture came to him of the frail man sucking Thunderbird from a paper sack and sleeping in a doorway.

We both should have known better.  Small towns have long memories.

 

At two, Gary called begging for money to weather another in his succession of temporary crises.  His son was well on his way to making a mess of his life:  no steady job, minor trouble with the law which Hamm was just waiting to become major---already a major embarrassment for his parents---and, most irritatingly, never to blame for anything.  To hear Gary tell it, the whole world conspired against him.  The twenty-four-year-old had never worked for a boss who didn't mistreat him.  Whenever he got fired or quit, it was always because someone had lied about him, or cheated him, or played favorites to his disadvantage.  Hamm had long tired of hearing it all, and had ceased to believe a word his son said.  Yet, he always found a rationale to justify bailing the kid out.  Money was easier to give than love.

He couldn't honestly say that he even liked Gary anymore.  How could he?  The boy was selfish, dishonest, and manipulative.  Hamm felt nothing but emptiness as he listened to his son's latest version of inequities suffered and resolves to get himself straight.  Instead of listening---there was no point in that---he found himself wondering what he had done to make Gary turn out the way he had.  He had no clue, but kids didn't just turn out bad.  He had failed as a father.  Gary droned on, but Hamm wasn't listening.  Instead, a cascade of pictures flipped through his mind: 

Gary as a baby, Gary taking his first step, little league, a school play, but it was as if the images were of someone else, not the person whose present earnest tone failed to disguise his lies.

You should never have been a father, said Hamm to himself.

"How much do you need?" he asked, just wanting to get in over with.

"A couple of hundred---to make the payment.  If I don't get it to the guy, I'm gonna lose the Camaro.  I wouldn't ask, but . . . Dad, I got a really good job lined up . . . in a couple of weeks."

"You're not working now?"

"They let me go, Dad.  Just like that.  I thought everything was going fine.  I came in yesterday and the guy says I'm gonna have to let you go.  My brother's kid needs a job and I promised I'd take care of him.  Just like that, I'm out of a job."

Hamm responded with silence, increasingly his way of expressing disapproval to Gary.

"I don't know what I'm gonna do, Dad.  I'm trying.  I'm really trying.  I just can't seem to catch a break."

"You've quit any number of good jobs, Gary," he said, breaking his resolve not to give another useless lecture.  His son never listened and seemed incapable of taking good advice.

"I've never been without a job.  Sometimes you just have to hang in there and take whatever it is they're dishing out.  You've got to be tough---keep your priorities straight."

"He fired me, Dad.  Look, I really need the money or I wouldn't ask.  I'll pay you back.  I wouldn't ask if . . . I mean, I know I'm always asking you, but I got nowhere else to turn and . . . I really hate this."

"Okay, Gary.  Drop by the office this afternoon."

"Thanks, Dad.  I love you."

"I love you too, Gary."

 

"So, how did it go?" asked the teenage girl as Gary got back in the car.

"The guy tried to put me off," he said as he adjusted his shades and fired up the Camaro.  "But when he found out I wasn't buying any of his bullshit, he said he'd come through with what he owes me this afternoon.  Knew if he didn't, I'd kick his ass."

Jessie placed a proprietary hand on his thigh as they pulled away from the pay phone.  Gary made her feel like a real woman because he didn't treat her like a kid.  Sometimes he was mean, but only when he was really stressed, which was kind of okay.  She could deal with it because she was grown up now---something her folks didn't understand.

Gary covered her hand, guided it up his thigh.  She was young, but he liked them that way, compliant, uncomplicated.  They let him make the decisions, and they appreciated him.  If they got out of line, a stern word or a little slap was enough to bring them back their senses.  When he got tired of them, he'd just walk away, and the worst they ever did was cry.  And even that was good.

 

September 24, a very warm night at the Carters

Drinks and finger food were set out on the dining room table, ice in the sink, and coolers on both the front and back decks.  To Jill's relief, the fickle Ozark weather had cooperated.  Temperatures inside and outside were in the low seventies and the house was filled with guests, conversation, and a mix of country and soft rock music.  As yet there was little integration of the town and gown sets, but she had her hopes and would do her best to stir the pot.

One of her guests stood alone, wearing an expensive suit cut a little too snug for his present size.  He nursed his drink and looked over its rim to appraise a passing woman with a bit more discretion than a breeder assessing horseflesh.  His dark, craggy features had begun to soften with age.  When younger he had been quite handsome.

That must be Richard's new colleague, she thought.  Ron Guidry?

She was still trying to decide if she should go over and introduce herself when Raven touched her on the shoulder.

"Jill, if you don't need me anymore, I think I'll go home.  Shane doesn't know anything about babies, and I don't know which of them will be more upset, him or Mirabelle."

Jill noticed the tell tale signs of her young friend's nervousness.  The girl was eager to get away, not to her fiancé, but away from the party and away from attention.

"Okay, dear.  I really appreciate your help getting everything ready tonight.  I don't know what I would have done without you," she said, drawing the girl to her for a quick kiss on the cheek.

"I'll bring her down in the morning then.  Shane's doing carpentry work inside tomorrow and the dust and the fumes and everything wouldn't be good for her.  I'll be glad to help clean up tomorrow if you need me---of I could just do it myself if you want."

"Richard and I will clean up some tonight.  But I could use some help if you're sure you don't mind?"

"Not at all.  You and Richard are doing so much for us."

"It's a shame both of you can't be here tonight.  I should have gotten a sitter.  By the way, you look lovely."

Jill reflected that most of the time Raven went to lengths to disguise, or at least, de-emphasize her figure.  Her simple pale blue calf length sheath of thin cotton cinched loosely at the waist didn't accent her shapeliness, but that wasn't necessary.  Dark shoulder length hair and the nearly black irises of her eyes lightened her smooth bronze complexion to a glowing golden color.  Her young friend did look lovely.

Raven returned a tight smile at the compliment that rent Jill's heart.  The girl seemed incapable of enjoying her considerable beauty.  A nightmare of a childhood had robbed her of that among other things.

"Go on home, dear," she said.  "And don't let my daughter get away with anything.  Her father has been spoiling her and she's becoming a little tyrant."

"She's a perfect little angel, Jill.  I'd love to have a daughter like her."

 

Guidry's eyes flitted around the room in disinterest until they settled on the dark haired girl talking with Carter's wife.  The two of them were easily the most interesting things in the place.  What was she, late teens---early twenties?  Whatever.  Young beauty like that was years behind where he was now.  Way out of reach.  It shouldn't be that way.  He felt betrayed by the unfairness of the advancing years that took away everything but a longing for things forever denied.

Things you pissed away, he said to himself as he threw back the remainder of his mixed drink.  You need to get drunk.  The advice lacked conviction.  Alcohol had become an inconstant friend, one he could no longer count on it to do more than blur the edges of reality.  It dulled only his thinking, not the memories, and it turned his lingering sadness into maudlin self-pity.  He hated that.

Young Thing's leaving, he said to his glass with a last lingering look over the rim until she was out the front door.  He turned his attention back to Carter's young wife, and was surprised to see her floating toward him through a surreal mélange of blur and sharpness.

Coming my way---interested, or just being a good host?  Eyes on mine---a small smile, but it's work.  She's beautiful---not really a lot older than the sweet young thing.

He was surprised to feel envy tinged with resentment.

How does he rate that?

Guidry clicked the thought off, and did his best drunk-but-in-control.

Jill studied the face her husband's new colleague as she made her way over.  His smile seemed to overlay a scowl, and the lines of his face suggested youthful cockiness overwritten with grimness.

"Mrs. Carter," he said raising his glass and smiling unsteadily.

"Jill," she corrected.  "Mr. Guidry, is it?"

He nodded, "Ron, like that Cajun pitcher, but that was before your time."

"I knew the name sounded familiar.  American League, I think.  Yankees?"

"Right," he said with an arch of his eyebrows.  "No relation, however.  You a fan?"

"I love baseball.  And, since I'm a historian, I especially love the older franchises and the older parks.  Richard and I have been to Wrigley Field, and I hope to be able to see some games in Yankee Stadium and Fenway Park.

"Got a thing for older stuff, huh?"

"Tradition is important.  It reminds you of who you are and where you came from.  Back in the 50's and 60's America's passion for the new and modern resulted in the destruction of many of the old parks.  Wouldn't it be wonderful to take your children to see a game in Ebbits Field, the Polo Grounds, or even old Sportsmen's Park in St. Louis?"

"Gotta make way for the new, I suppose."

"New doesn't necessarily mean better.  I mean, look at what the American League did to the game when they instituted the designated hitter.  They traded strategy for a few extra runs a game."

"Who would you rather have at the plate when the game's on the line, Mrs. Carter, a weak hitter or a guy with a big bat?" asked Guidry, deciding to indulge in a double entendre he was confident she wouldn't pick up on.

"Well, I think I'd like to give the manager that choice."

Guidry looked at her intently, enjoying his private game.  "Well suppose you had the choice.  Would you stick with the weak hitter, or would you maybe take your chances with the other option?  After all, there's a lot to be said for a big bat."

Jill began her answer with her head down.  "I think I'd dance with the one that brung me, Mr. Guidry," she said, and then looked up at him with a small smile.  "No matter how big your bat is, a good pitcher can saw it off in your hands."

He stared at her, unable to decide if she had caught onto his game.  When his eyes lingered on hers too long, Jill wondered if perhaps she might have misjudged the intent of his conversation.  She decided to err on the side of being a good hostess.

"Richard tells me you lived in New Orleans," she said.

He nodded.

"It's a beautiful city, isn't it?"

"The topside is."

"I suppose all cities, even towns like Blue Creek have a . . . what, bottom side?"

"Underbelly, I suppose."

Cities are a lot like prostitutes, he thought.  Smiling faces and eye-catching clothes show you what you want to see, but when they drop their pants and flop on their backs it's, "Take anything you want but too much time."  And who's using who?

Why's this crap always running through my head? he wondered. Sure can't say stuff like that to civilians.

He'd learned that lesson when Marge walked out on him.

" . . . when we went there last year," she was saying.

He had missed most of that.

"Let me tell you about the Big Easy, Mrs. Carter," he began, realizing as he did so that he was about to dispense more of the inebriated profundity for which he was so beloved.  He should stop, but of course he wouldn't.

"She smiles at you like some innocent young thing, but she's just a whore.  And that smile of hers is a leer if you'll look close.  All you gotta do is just open your eyes and look at the body language."

"Quite a metaphor, Mr. Guidry.  Are you trying to shock me, or merely impress me with your worldliness?"

That he took her question as anything but rhetorical testified again to his state inebriation.

"Hell.  I don't know," he said with a silly grin.  "Both I suppose.  Is it working?"

"No."

He started to take another drink, but his glass was empty.  He scowled at the traitor and set it carefully on the table.

"Don't pay any attention to me, Mrs. Carter.  You're booze has made me misplace whatever brains I might still have left.

It would have been a good line on which to end the conversation had he not been positioned so as to bar her easy escape.  Jill wasn't quite sure if that was his purpose or just an accident.  Nevertheless, she was beginning to feel like his captive.  He stood too close, and stared at her too intently for comfort, but drink did that to some people---not all of them men.

"How do you like Blue Creek?" she asked, hoping to change the subject until she could extricate herself.  "I'm sure it's nothing like New Orleans.  Richard refers to it as the sticks, but I don't think he really minds the lack of excitement that much.  How about you?"

Guidry was encouraged.  Instead of making her excuses and moving on, she had decided to continue the conversation.  He tried to figure out what that meant as he considered her question.

"It's all the same---police work, I mean.  Things just move slower here."

"Do you miss the faster pace?"

"At times. But . . . I don't know.  There might be . . . something here for me.  What do you think?"

"I wouldn't know.  What brought you here?"

"Drift," he said, turning solemn as only drunks can.  "How about you, Jill?  Richard tells me you're a French girl.  How does this rural life suit you?"

"I like what I'm doing," she said after a moment of reflection.

He smiled and shook his head.  "Nah.  You're not telling me everything.  I'll bet you've got a little itch of some kind."

"What do you mean?"  she asked sharply.

If Richard had been sharing private family matters at work she was really going to be angry.

"Never mind.  Interrogation gets to be a habit.  I suppose I'm trying to provoke you, to get you to reveal more about yourself than you intend to.  It's rude and I apologize.  Can I blame it on the booze too?"

Jill remembered the purpose of her party, and decided to be more charitable in her judgment.

"No need of that," she said.  "You're actually right.  Sometimes I . . . feel isolated I suppose.  But I think that is because I feel that I should want more than I actually do."

"Maybe you've had enough to drink that you're starting to see the truth," he said, fixing her with silly grin that did all the wrong things to his face.

"Maybe I should visit some of my other guests," she said, moving to go around him.

He put a hand on her shoulder.  "Hey, don't leave me here all alone."

Taken by surprise, Jill was rooted to the floor, his hand hot through the material of her blouse.  As inconspicuously as she could manage, she removed his hand.

"Sorry.  I didn't mean to do that," said Guidry.  "Forgot how to act in polite company.  Kind of unattached, you know."  He let his hand drop but not his eyes.

"It's okay," she stammered, forcing a tight smile.  "It was nice meeting you, but I think I should see to some of the other guests now."

"Call to duty, huh?  Too bad, but I sure am glad I got to meet you.  I need to make friends if I'm going to stay here."

"Yes," she said, her smile growing tighter.  A slight nod, then she moved away.

Guidry's eyes followed her.  Dream on, Putz, he mocked himself, all the while focusing on her narrow waist and flaring hips, enjoying the way she moved.  That sweet young thing ain't interested in an old broke down cop.  Still, a lot of them got an itch.  All it takes is the right guy to scratch it.  If her and her old man don't get along real well . . . who knows?  After all, Ronnie boy, it happened to you, didn't it?

 

Richard dropped shards of broken glass into the trashcan under the sink as Jill came into the kitchen.

"Disaster," said Jill as she came in.

"No big deal.  I cleaned it up already."

"I meant the party."

"Come on, Kid.  You're giving it your best shot."

"It's like oil and water, Richard.  They just form into separate groups."

"More like wine and beer, I'd say.  My guys just feel uncomfortable around---"

"Outsiders?"

"I suppose.  Mainly they just have nothing in common."

"How do they know that if they don't talk to each other?"

"Right," he said.  "Let's get out there and remind them what they're here for.  Tell them to quit goofing off and get to mixing like they're supposed to."

Jill's look told him that she didn't appreciate his levity, so he decided to forego telling her that her party was a rousing success, having morphed into two parties, one for his friends and one for hers.  As the evening wore on, it became apparent to him that that was exactly the case, but most of their guests were enjoying themselves even if they were grouped into two separate camps.  At least hostilities didn't break out.

 

After the last of their guests had gone, they took care of the clean up that couldn't wait until morning.

"It's worse than I thought," she said, stepping from the shower wrapped in a towel and picking up the conversation where she had left off fifteen minutes before.  "It's like there's this mutual aversion."

"They make each other nervous, Jill."

"I know.  Couldn't you feel the tension?"

Richard had picked up little of that during the evening, but his wife was more attuned to such things.  Once he had made the mistake of remarking that women were more intuitive to interpersonal relationships, implying, of course, that they had nothing better to do.  Jill insisted that they were just more perceptive.

"You academics make my guys feel a little inferior.  They know they're less educated, less well dressed, and less sophisticated.  They're not stupid, Jill."

"No one was trying to make them feel inferior.  Besides, what I sensed was . . . I don't know, maybe a kind of contempt.  Couldn't you see that in their faces?"

"No, but if you saw that, then it was mostly defensive, I imagine.  They also probably think your people are ivory tower ignorant."

"What does that mean?"  Jill spoke better English than anyone Richard knew, but occasionally American idioms gave her trouble, which always surprised him.

"They think your friends are book smart and don't know anything about the real world.  Mostly they look down their noses at the academics because they think the academics are looking down their noses at them."

"So," she said, slipping beneath the covers.  "It is just prejudice on both sides.  That's the product of ignorance.  It's why I thought the party would be a good idea.  If only they could just get to know each other.  All they did was clump in little groups."

"Just trying to get comfortable, dear."

"Thanks for trying anyway," she said, snuggling closer.

"Well, you did your part.  I saw you talking to Guidry.  What do you think of him?"

"He had too much to drink, I think, but---is he always like that?"

"Like what, cynical?"

That's not what she meant, but she decided not to tell Richard how uncomfortable the man made her.  After all, they had to work together.  She hoped the man might remember enough of his obnoxious behavior in the morning to be embarrassed.  A sober apology would be a hopeful sign.  If on the other hand he continued his flirting with her, she would be forced to tell him "where to get off."  A wonderful idiom, she thought.  She was more than capable of telling him where to get off, but the trick would be doing it so that Richard wouldn't find out and become either angry with Guidry or embarrassed by her.

"He's not cynical, Richard.  Bitter and irreverent perhaps.  I think he enjoys shocking people."

"That's pretty much him.  He's a good policeman though."

"He's not a pleasant man," she said.

"That's the consensus.  I don't think he's had a pleasant life.  Doesn't fit in real well, not that he tries.  Superior attitude, doesn't have a clue when to not say something, all hard edges."

Although Richard had used words that she wouldn't have, his assessment meshed well with her own.

"Why do you think he's like that?"

"Defensive, I suppose.  Something boys learn on the playground and in the street.  Never give in.  Never let them see you react to pain.  Shake it off, preferably with a crude joke or profanity.  You get style points for that."

"Hmmph."

"Then there's cop objectivity.  If you don't harden yourself, the job'll eat you up."

"Isn't that dangerous?  I mean, can't a person become what he is only pretending to be?"

"Occupational hazard, I suppose."

He wished he hadn't said it as soon as the words were out of his mouth.  It was the crux of Jill's opposition to his career.  But Jill let it pass.  She had no enthusiasm for his work, but had made a kind of peace with it because he needed it.  However, it was a peace akin to learning to live with a debilitating health problem.  She would never be at ease with his career, but realized it was part of the man she loved.

"I keep listening for Mirabelle," he said pulling her close.  "It's odd knowing she's not here, isn't it, Hon?"

"I don't know if I can sleep," she said.

"Raven will take good care of her."

"I know.  I just wish she were in her own bed."

"Want to go out to the canoe rental and get her?"

"No.  I'm just being silly.  She'll be all right.  Raven and Shane are responsible.  Besides, if I start being overprotective now, can you imagine how spoiled she could be?"

"Too much of your Aunt Mirabelle in you for that," he said pulling her over on top of him.  "Now, what can we do until we're tired enough to fall asleep?"

"I am sure that you will think of something."

"Something's coming to me," he said, running his hand over the smooth contours of her back beneath the satiny shift she wore to bed.

"Yes, I think I can feel it coming to you," she giggled.

"Think we could get you out of this thing?" he asked tugging gently at the ties of her negligee.

"Maybe."

She pushed herself up and sat astride him.  In the dim glow from the clock he watched as she peeled her nightgown over her head slowly, revealing first her trim waist, then her breasts.  Finally her shoulder length auburn hair cascaded from the opening of the gown.  She posed for just a moment with a playfully seductive smile and a look in her eyes that most men never have the fortune to see.

 

It didn't work.  At first everything was fine, but then the urgent need of her that he always felt began slipping away and he found himself unable to perform.  It was as if he was forcing it, going through the motions.  Frustrated by his sudden inability, he worried Jill would know something was wrong, which, of course, she did.  And that was the end.  From then on it was useless---and humiliating.  The more he tried to drive it away, the more it persisted until all he could feel was failure and embarrassment.  When he finally gave it up, he was glad the lights were off so that she couldn't see him.

"Sorry, dear . . . it's . . . maybe I just had too much to drink or something."

"Probably," she agreed, trying not to sound condescending.  "Don't worry about it . . . It's . . . all right."

He hasn't drunk too much.  He never does.  Maybe he's just tired, she told herself, trying not to acknowledge the hurt she felt.  Or is he just tired of me?  Maybe I'm no longer exciting enough for him.  Is this what it will be like for us from now on?

Richard too was asking himself questions, but they were all versions of the one that came to him now.

What's wrong with me?

"Richard," she called softly.

He pretended to have fallen asleep.  It was the coward's way out, but he was too ashamed to talk about it, and more than a little irritated that she wanted to.  Jill blamed herself.  Unable to sleep, she rummaged through her memories seeking the source of her failure.  So they lay together silently, each awake until after three, and each trying not to wake the other.  Life had thrown them a curve, and they were frozen at the plate.  They should have talked, consoled---but they didn't, and, in the morning, they compounded the error by pretending that nothing important had happened.

 

Call her Lara.  She looks tough---that's the main thing---hot.

He flexed his fingers as if he could grasp her, take possession.

Not that I really would---that's not what this is about.  I'm just window shopping, daydreaming.  That doesn't hurt anything.

He had been following her through the store, fascinated by her graceful and, oh so feminine, actions---the way she caressed the fabrics and bit her lower lip just so.  She was wondering how she would look in all those frilly things she was thinking about buying.  In the parking lot she had drawn his attention by her seductive movements---just the right mixture of sway and bounce to be natural, not put on.  He could tell she wasn't one of those stuck on herself types.  Now, driving behind her, he pretended that he was a detective who was tailing her.  He liked the sound of that.  First a car back, then two, then right on her bumper, back again, trying to blend in with the traffic so as not to alarm her.

See the way she flips her hair?  I love the way they do that.

He tightened his grip of the steering wheel.

Where are we going?  Home?  Do you live alone?  I doubt it.  You're a high school girl.

At Mimosa and Maud she pulled into a graveled drive.  He drove past without turning his head, but made a quick U-turn near the corner.

Dumb thing to do, but I got to see you get out of your car.

He imagined shapely tanned legs swinging out as she demurely exited the car, high heels on her tiny feet.  Of course, she was wearing only tennis shoes.  He had seen that in the store.  Coming back on the opposite side of the street, he glanced sideways, trying not to be too conspicuous.

Too late.

He was just in time to catch a brief glimpse of her as she bounced up the stairs and disappeared behind a screen of evergreens.  He stopped on the next block to light a cigarette and to replay what he had just done.  He closed his eyes, trying to recall the images.

What if you had known I was following you?  Would you have been scared?

An image of her with fear-widened eyes, flashed into his mind.

No need to be afraid of me.  If you were my girl I'd take good care of you.  I'd make you happy.

He flipped the butt through the window.

You'll never know, so where's the harm?  Besides, I was only looking, and man, were you ever good to look at!  Dressed like that---you wanted me to look, didn't you?

He imagined a hidden smile whenever she noticed a man looking.

You live for that.

It occurred to him that a lot of people would think there was something sick about what he had just done.  His mother certainly would have thought so.

But what's more natural than wanting to looking at pretty girls?  Lot more natural than looking at those disgusting magazines.

He snorted contemptuously.

What sort of woman lets herself be photographed like that?  Certainly no decent one---not one with any self-respect---not one like you, Lara.