A Peculiar Grace Page 13

  All things someway are connected. Jessica was disturbed and disturbing but she was no dark angel. And, however he looked at it, neither was she an impediment to any plans that might result from this tragedy dropped from the sky.

  What plans?

  A sudden image of himself arriving in Bluffport by bus, if such service even existed anymore, and then what? Stroll over to the home of the recent widow and present himself? As if Emily would be waiting for him?

  He could send a cautious condolence note. And wait each day for the return letter in the mail. Which might or might not come. And saw clearly this could take him down again. He wasn’t sure he could endure a version in his forties of what he went through in his twenties. He should be wiser. In fact he thought if anything the expansion of the years would render him less capable of surviving another episode, another hurling into the morass of self that might very well prove endless this time.

  He had no idea. But his agitation was severe and growing more so as the evening ticked along. A literal ticking since the only audible sound was the steady drone of the old electric clock on the shelf over the sink, next to the AM radio of similar vintage. For farm and weather reports and the daily noontime call-in Trading Post.

  He was shaking. Walking the room and shaking. Each thought that ran through his mind seemed to reach out and snag some arcane or nonsensical tag that played along as if mocking him. He felt himself suddenly dangerous. Serious slippage. The fucking clock was driving him nuts. He walked to the sink and reached a hand down under the shelf and was about to pull the plug when he thought The clock is driving me nuts?

  He went to the cabinet over the sink and took down the bottle of whisky and rolled it in his hands. The seal unbroken. What better time than now? Or worse. He put the bottle back on the shelf and went to the telephone, lifted the receiver and dialed.

  Eight long rings. Hewitt knew to wait. On the twelfth a voice broke into his ear.

  “What.”

  “I need you,” Hewitt said. His voice a radio wave.

  The shortest of waits. Then, “Ten minutes.”

  Hewitt started to say Thanks but the line was dead.

  WALTER BOYNTON WAS eight years older than Hewitt and so was the remote teenager with the motorcycle when Hewitt was a boy. When Walter returned from Vietnam, Hewitt looked with silent fear upon the long-haired man with his wornout fatigues and permanent sunglasses who was home only six months when his wife of five years moved out, taking their three-year-old daughter with her, moved back to Pennsylvania and then, last Hewitt had heard from Walter, on to Oregon. Hewitt stayed away from him and Walter seemed oblivious to his existence. For Hewitt then the war was not complicated but simply wrong and thus, sophomorically, fighting in it was also. At the time he’d already made up his mind to go to Canada if it ran on that long. They only became friends after the three-year disaster that began with Thomas Pearce’s death, the bad next year with Emily and then the final winter after which Mary Margaret decamped for warmer climes. It was then Walter came into Hewitt’s life, just showing up one afternoon and letting himself down into the forge and making small talk. He was the only person Hewitt had never thrown out for entering without an invitation. Walter lived with his grandmother who took him in after his wife and daughter left, Walter later telling Hewitt, “She was deaf so she slept right through my bad nights. My father was nervous about it, afraid I’d prowl around the house and strangle the old woman in my dreams. But I’d a never hurt anyone and my grandmother piped up and told them to mind their own business, she’d been through it with my grandfather after World War One and could do it again. That shut em up.” Hewitt went a few times to have dinner with them, the old woman with her massive hearing aids seated at the end of the cherry dining room table set with the good china and lighted candles and at Walter’s probing told stories of her life, wonderful tales of humor and tragedy and without being too greatly aware of it, herself at center stage and always trudging through, head high. Walter said, “I’ve heard em all at least a dozen times but it does her good to tell em and truth is, long after she’s gone I’ll hear that voice and those tales and if anything except my own cussedness saved me it was her. And not just putting a roof over my head.”

  When the old woman died Hewitt was, excluding great-grandchildren, the youngest person at her funeral. Hewitt remembered well the autumn weekend Walter summoned his brother and three sisters and they arrived to find all but the most simple furniture arrayed on the front lawn. Take what you want, was Walter’s command. He allowed none inside the house to see what he’d reserved for himself but this didn’t matter because the pile of lovely ancient pieces on the front lawn produced a near comic effect amongst his siblings. Hewitt was there. By two in the afternoon the yard was bare except for an old chair with a burst rush seat. Walter had walked over and lifted it and said, “Brian Cranmore will recane the seat for eight dollars. The chair was made around 1790.” He’d looked then at Hewitt and said, “The world is full of fools.” And led him inside.

  He withheld enough so the house was furnished but just. And already had begun to transform the place, painting over the white plaster walls in each room according to his fancy or Hewitt suspected, some unspeakable plan. The dining room was still white—Walter had not yet coated those walls with the aluminum paper. What few people saw was the empty room off the kitchen that had once been a living room and was now heavy plank bookshelves, with a single upholstered wingchair and stacks of more books in random spirals on the floor. There was also a writing desk—a secretary jammed against one wall with an old three-legged milking stool before it as a seat. What Walter was up to in that room not even Hewitt knew.

  Everyone assumed Walter had inherited enough money, along with his benefits, to live this quiet life. Perhaps he had, but the old cape village home had an extensive and complex garden in the basement. On certain days if the weather was right, despite the ventilating system that entered the furnace chimney in that same basement you could sit upstairs and smell the plants below. This was not a worry for Walter. No one came to his house uninvited. His customers were all far from the area. He wouldn’t even sell to Hewitt. Although once a year he’d appear and chat and leave a small gift behind.

  Walter walked in without knocking because he was already invited, with a fat spliff just lighted clamped in the side of his mouth like a comic hoodlum and without removing it let loose a burst of rich smoke into the room and said, “S’up, bro?”

  Then took the bomber from his mouth and handed it to Hewitt. The small end as dry as if it had never known a mouth. Hewitt held it, looked at it, considered where it might take him which this evening was anywhere at all and handed it back.

  Walter said, “Oh it’s bad, huh?”

  Walter laid it fire end out on the counter. Hewitt said, “I’m in a world of shit.”

  Walter nodded, pulled out a chair from the table and turned it around so the back was facing Hewitt, swung a leg over it and settled down, his arms folded gently over the rounded back of the chair, his chin resting on the arms. He said, “You want to tell me?”

  The old part he didn’t need to go into. Just the news and the absolute benumbing confusion of what to do next. If anything.

  Walter listened through it all. Without moving. And sat a time after Hewitt stopped, still silent. Then he stood and retrieved the joint and fired it and in a floated cloud said, “So what’s the plan?”

  “I don’t have a plan. Why do you think I called you?”

  “To tell you what to do? I hope not.”

  “Fuck you. You’re the only person who really understood the whole deal with Emily.”

  “And?”

  Hewitt paused. Then said, “And you kicked my sorry ass out of the ditch. And I’ve got no idea what to do.”

  Walter squinted and said, “Not necessarily the sort of situation that will do you much good.”

  “I can’t ignore it.”

  “I imagine not. So?”

  “I don�
��t know Walter. I really don’t.”

  “Of course you do.” Walter shrugged. “You held it for twenty-some years. Suddenly things have changed. What makes you think you should know tonight?” He smiled and said, “You’ll have it sorted out by tomorrow afternoon.”

  There came a crash on the back porch and both men turned toward the door. Beyond which there was dim cursing and futile struggles with the door that opened out trying to be pushed in before it popped back—the sharp sound of wood against flesh. Jessica came into the kitchen. Across her forehead was a bright red slashmark. She was a mess, clothes wet with dew and smeared with dirt and mud and grass stains but she was upright in the kitchen and was waving the handgun back and forth, but holding it by the barrel and then stopped and drew tight to herself upon seeing Walter, the gun loose down at her side.

  Who said, “Hello there.” To Hewitt, “What’s this?”

  Hewitt walked right across to her and put one arm around her shoulders and with his other hand took the gun away like waltzing, set it on the sink drainboard, kissed Jessica on the cheek and said, “Walter. This is my friend Jessica.”

  To Jessica, “And this is Walter. He’s an old old friend of mine.”

  Jessica said, “Are you alright Hewitt? I didn’t hit you, did I? Damn I didn’t know what I was doing—”

  Hewitt said, “No, honey. I’m glad you missed. Now be polite and say hello to Walter.”

  Jessica looked at Walter. “I don’t know you.”

  Walter glanced at Hewitt. Back to Jessica and said, “Did somebody throw you down a mountain?”

  “It’s dark out. I was in a hurry. I had a little misunderstanding with Hewitt earlier and wanted to clear it up.”

  “I guess that explains the gun.”

  She looked at Walter. “I don’t mean to be rude but I really need to talk to Hewitt.”

  Walter said, “That’s funny. Because Hewitt really needed to talk to me. I guess this is the night everybody’s in a tear to talk.” At the same time walking to the sink.

  Walter looked at Hewitt. As he did he lifted the gun from the drainboard of the sink.

  “Hey,” said Jessica. “What’re you doing? Put that back.” She turned to Hewitt. “I got something to tell you and got all clear about it this afternoon and then was driving back and my shit fell all apart … I said put my gun back.”

  Walter ignored her, turning it over in his hands. He said, “A nasty little piece. Thirty-two caliber, cheap.” He slid out the clip. “Good for sticking up a convenience store except the clerk is likely to have a better weapon. But it’s your gun.” And replaced it on the drain-board. Hewitt saw him pocket the clip, the deft motion of a man used to such things.

  Walter turned to Hewitt and said, “I’ve got to get going. Walk out with me?”

  “Sure.” He turned to Jessica. “Settle down, Jess. It’s okay, whatever it is. I’ll be right back.”

  She picked up the fat joint. “Hewitt. I gotta talk to you. Okay if I finish this?”

  “No. Can you just sit tight a moment? Have a beer or something.”

  “Can I take a bath? I’m wound like an eight-day clock.”

  “You’re too young to know what an eight-day clock is. Go ahead, have a bath.”

  The crescent moon of a week ago was gone but the night sky was awash. Hewitt and Walter stood in the dooryard next to the 1958 Thunderbird, black with red leather seats—his only noticeable display but even this was disguised by knowledge; the car had been his grandfather’s and then his grandmother’s and he’d simply kept it. No local cast a second eye. Even the sheriff deputies and state troopers knew the history of the car. Walter was golden.

  “What the fuck is she all about?”

  Hewitt was gazing up at the night. He said, “She showed up about ten days ago. Out of the blue. She’s one fucked-up girl, although sometimes she’s normal as you or me.”

  “Not saying much.”

  “All I’m trying to do is help her along.”

  “Along to where?”

  Hewitt looked at his friend and said, “I couldn’t say. I got a kind hand a couple times myself.”

  “Don’t blame me for that.”

  Hewitt grinned in the dark. It was quiet.

  Then Walter said, “You’re going to go see her.” Even in the faint light his eyes were bright. He said, “You can take the Bird.” And reached down and ran a hand over the rear taillight.

  “Walter you know I can’t drive.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “Not legally.”

  Walter sighed. He said, “You know, sometimes you’re a real pain in the ass. I mean what, twenty-some years ago your license was suspended, right?”

  “I don’t know what my legal status is but let’s just say I haven’t gotten any letters from the state inviting me to retake the exams, and most likely be on some sort of probation with the whole deal.”

  “Well, it’s your business. Although you risk becoming a colorful character.”

  “An ornery cuss.”

  “That would be it. But you’re going to roll in out there, and when you go, you’re going in style.”

  “Jesus, Walter.”

  “I trust you. If you get out there and things go to hell and you smash up the Bird I’ll be pissed. But it’s the right thing to do. Maybe not for Emily but certainly for you.”

  Quiet again for a time. Then Hewitt said, “I’m already pretty fucking nervous.”

  Walter reached out and took Hewitt’s shoulder in a firm grip, the touch of love between men. He said, “Of course.”

  Hewitt said, “Then there’s this other deal. The girl inside.”

  “Fucking her?”

  “Not even close.”

  “The necessary friend.”

  “I hope. I’m trying.”

  Walter said, “Well don’t let her stop you. Ten days is not twenty years.”

  “Christ there is a world of assumption in what you just said.”

  “That’s why I’m here, buddy. Listen, I’m serious about the Bird. If you call in two hours or two days or two weeks the deal stands. And if you need someone to watch over your little orphan of the mind I can do that too.”

  “Walter.”

  “Don’t even go there Hewitt. Remember who you’re talking to. The one with a single ex-wife and child, my dear heart Kimberly. She’ll be thirty in August. I’ve been kind of hoping the last ten years or so, you know? But she’s going to do what she’s going to do. I can’t imagine she thinks much of me. But I have to hope. Hope she has some curiosity. So if you need I’ll poke my head in time to time and see if I can’t at least be a friend to your little roomie. She seems to like to smoke—maybe we can make peace over that. There’s nothing stopping you. All right?”

  Hewitt was quiet. After a bit he said, “You’re an ace Walter. I’ll let you know, okay?”

  Walter paused too. Looked up at the night-smeared sky. Then he looked back to Hewitt and said, “So are you. So are you buddy. Just don’t think too hard. Go with the gut.”

  “The gut,” Hewitt said, “is all I have left.” And turned to the house.

  “Wait,” Walter called. When Hewitt turned back Walter was holding out the clip from the .32. He said, “Whatever happens, I don’t want her to think I stole this from her. The rest is up to you. But I’m clean.”

  Hewitt held the clip in his hand. It was heavier than he’d expected. He slid it into his pocket and said, “Yup. You certainly are.”

  Back in the house the gun was gone and he took the clip and placed it on a high shelf over the sink. The remains of the monster joint were also gone and ash was scattered over the front page of the Bluffport newspaper. So she’d read it, perhaps put together some of what his night held.

  He went into the living room. From the upstairs came the fine mixed smell of steam and soap and the lavender bath soap she’d bought. All floating down the stairs. Jessica, whoever she was, invited his trust. Wanted his trust.

  He sat on
the couch and gazed into the darkened living room. His brain for long painful moments so full it stopped altogether, some chemical shutdown against overload or the swamping emotion and fear. He was close to weeping but would not.

  With the smell of a woman bathing over him as a lovely thoughtless caul.

  SHE CAME DOWN barefoot in clean black jeans and a black T-shirt and her hair wet and black-shining. “Could I drink one of your beers?”

  “Sure. Hold on. I could drink one myself.”

  He went to the kitchen and popped the tops off two bottles and carried them back. They sat in silence for a time, both taking small sips like ladies drinking tea.

  After a bit he said, “Let’s get this out of the way. What was that all about this afternoon? I don’t mean just the gun but disappearing for three days and then roaring in and hiding the car and all that shit.”

  She said, “I was over in Hanover and realized I needed to tell you something and started back here and halfway back chickened out.

  “What happens is everything becomes twisted and weird. I get in the car and drive and the only thing I believe in is my bottle of water until it’s half gone and then I wonder what’s in the rest of it and I’m too scared to throw the fucking thing out the window. Or I’m on an interstate and the road is empty for miles and I don’t know why even if it’s snowing and raining all at the same time but the only thing I know is that way back in my rearview mirror is a trucker drifting along after me, thinking he’s far enough back so I don’t notice him. And then I’ll drive really fast until I get to an exit and get off and go in and there’ll be thirty or forty rigs out in the parking lot idling against the snow and cold and I walk in and every one in the place turns to look at me and each and every one smiles at me but there is no joy in their smiles, the welcome is the same as the truck that was behind me that maybe does or doesn’t stop but I just go to the bathroom and pee and get a cup of coffee even while the waitress is telling me the highway’s been closed down but the cash register is barking hard at me to Go go go.

  “When I took off the other day it was because all the sudden I was crowded. Way crowded. You remember when we sat and the flowers were dancing? I knew then I had to go. A good man was what I thought. Who doesn’t need this shit in his life. So I got out.”