“Any idea what it was?”
“No. But he knew a lot about the Mainwarings.”
He lighted a cigarette now that the rain wouldn’t soak it. The smoke smelled good in the chilling air. “That note he left, he apologized to his parents for taking his life and asked them to pray for him. And then he said that he never had any luck with women and that he just couldn’t go on.”
“And that’s all?”
Before he could answer, the back door screeched open and barked shut. I saw her coming at me. Nuclear warhead. No confusion about who she wanted and what she planned to do.
Potter saw it, too, and stepped in front of me. “Mrs. Delaney, I asked you to please stay inside.”
She pointed a witch finger at me and screamed: “He killed my Tommy! He wouldn’t leave him alone! Tommy was scared of him! Tommy’d be alive if it wasn’t for him!”
“Please, Mrs. Delaney-please go back inside. This isn’t good for you or your husband.”
But it was great for the living dead, the remainder of the group already pushing their way toward the garage. Drama was almost as good as blood.
She flung herself at Potter, trying to get her hands on me. “He should be the one who’s dead! He should be the one who’s dead! He killed my Tommy!”
Paralysis. I couldn’t move, speak. I was afraid of what I might have done to contribute to Tommy’s suicide- maybe he felt pressure to tell me something but was afraid to and my contacting him scared him-just as I was afraid of her. All that anger, all that sorrow. I wanted to say something to comfort her but anything from me would sound blasphemous now.
“Just let me tell him to his face!” She dove at Potter but a stocky, balding man in a Hawkeye T-shirt came up from behind her and put big workingman hands carefully on her shoulders and began the inch-by-inch process of extracting her from Potter’s body.
He just kept saying, “C’mon now, honey; c’mon now, honey,” the way you might to a small child you were trying to soothe. Soft words, loving words. Hard to imagine this was the same man I’d heard battling this woman when I came here the first time to talk to Tommy. This time he was saying the right thing in the right way.
When he finally drew her to him, she folded herself into his arms and wept. He put one of those big hands on the back of her head and began stroking her gently. This made her weep even more.
This time the paralysis wasn’t just mine. Potter stood in place, too, just watching her collapse into her husband’s keeping. Not even the ghouls said anything, or moved. I thought of a documentary I’d seen about a tiger cub born dead and the mother trekking the corpse nearly a hundred miles across scorching, dusty Africa. Not wanting to ever give it up. Mr. Delaney showed that kind of ferocious protectiveness as he slowly guided her back toward the house. He kept muttering his mantra. She clung to him with a desperation that made them indivisible.
Potter said, “Nothing with kids. And Tommy was a kid.”
We’d had this conversation a number of times, how he could handle just about anything but death scenes involving kids or young people. He said he’d seen too many such scenes in Kansas City. He never elaborated on any of them.
Then he got brisk and officious. He wanted to wrap things up. The M.E. could get here and give his benediction and then everybody-except one unlucky uniform-could go home and catch what remained of sleep before the six-thirty alarm clock.
The remaining ghouls began to fade. A light went on in a back room. Shadows against a cotton blind. A piercing sob, then silence. The light went out.
“I hope this is the end of it,” Potter said. Irritation was clear in his eyes and voice. “No more murders or suicides. My wife keeps reminding me that we moved out here to take it easy. Now my migraines are back, I’m downing a bottle of Pepto a day, and I’m constipated.”
“Pepto constipates you.”
“I know, but it’s either that or having heartburn that damn near knocks me out.”
I stared with great longing at my car. It would take me away from here. I would be back in bed with Wendy. In the morning the sunlight would be golden and pure and maybe we’d make love in it and then have breakfast on the back porch and Wendy would be sweet and fetching and for a time I wouldn’t have to think about everything that had happened in the past few days or whether Wendy was going to marry me sometime soon. Or if my National Guard unit would be called up for the war that was a farce and a cruel joke on the American people.
“You be sure and keep me posted if you hear anything,” Potter said.
“I will.”
As I walked to my car I saw Mr. Delaney in one of the kitchen windows watching me. I almost waved. Instinct. But in this instance waving would be more than slightly inappropriate. I got one quick good look at his face. He seemed to hate me as much as his wife did. Maybe more but he couldn’t express what he was feeling the way she did. He just stared.
In my car I snapped the radio on. Then right back off. Wrong to listen to the radio somehow. Instead I smoked and drove fast. Very fast. I didn’t go back to Wendy’s, I just drove. It was one of those robotic driftings I went through occasionally. Wasn’t aware of where I was driving or what I was seeing. Just driving, the act itself lulling me into a state where nothing mattered but the present moment-my fortress against any kind of serious thought.
The first time I became aware of where my car was taking me was down on D Avenue where the Burger Heaven and the second-run theater used to be. There’d been a used-paperback store there for a while, too. And a tavern where they kept their pinball machines in front so teenagers could play them and not get carded or thrown out. It was all gone now. A supermarket and a new Western Auto took up most of the block. No comfort in those.
Wendy was asleep on the couch in her pajamas when I came in. The TV was on and snowy. Victor dozed on the armchair. I went into the kitchen and got myself a beer and sat down in the breakfast nook.
She came in soon enough. “I tried to wait up for you.” Sliding into the booth across from me.
“You should’ve stayed in bed.”
“You ever think I was worried about you?”
“If you’re so worried about me why don’t you just say you’ll marry me?”
“Boy, you’re in one hell of a mood.”
“If you say so.”
“All right, I’ll marry you. You set the date.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. I’ve been thinking about it. We love each other and even though I’m scared about it I don’t want to ruin everything by putting it off. I just realized that if you ever walked out the door I would be miserable for the rest of my life.”
“Well, probably not for the rest of your life.”
“Goddammit, you’re in a bad mood. I tell you I love you and that I want to marry you and you just keep on bitching about things.”
“Well, I’m happy about it. Of course.”
She was out of the booth before I could say anything more.
“Go to hell, Sam. I don’t want you in my bed tonight. You take the couch.”
Then she was gone. It hadn’t done me any good to take Tommy’s suicide out on her. I gave it twenty minutes and then went into the dark bedroom and told her how much I loved her. She laughed and said, “I was wondering when you’d show up. Now get into bed.”
21
I was in court the next morning. A divorce case. By the time of the trial I’d come to pretty much hate both of them. Selfish people who’d forgotten that they had two very lonely and frightened little girls to take care of. He’d told me, quite earnestly, that as soon as the papers were signed it was “Nookie City for this guy.” There are men
