If ever there'd been a day when Eichord didn't need to come home to noise and aggravation, it was today, so perhaps that's why the little guy was on his mind so much as he threaded his way through the drive time outbound to Buckhead Springs. He decided he would will the night to be a good one. He wanted a little quiet time, and then dinner, and then some TL & C and early to bed.
When he'd interviewed the old couple in Vega, and the Amarillo people, he'd reached out for all the Spoda trails, paper and otherwise. Between MCTF and the locals it was all starting to funnel down his way now. Massive, useless, time-wasting printouts from the tangled tentacles of law enforcement. Man-hour-eating wild-goose chases that were endearing him to his colleagues in Buckhead not at all. All the wheelchair possibilities. All the institutional possibilities. Identikit feedback. Just the hospital records alone were impenetrable, it seemed, even with the computerized brain of the task-force sorting chaff.
Around a quarter to four he tried for the second time to pick up the gist of some material Doug Geary had sent him. A weighty thesis with the lighthearted title
“The proximal causes are multidisciplinary,” he read, “societal, political, environmental, military, industrial/technological, religiostic, economic, organizational...” He skipped a paragraph, stifling a yawn. “...intellectualized value-judgments reached within the scholarly/academic communities and practical-solution- related theory generated experientially within...” Boring boring fucking boring. He closed his eyes and rubbed, yawning until his jaw cracked.
It wasn't even four and he felt guilty, so he picked up some of the reports and started wading through them, reading and making notes with his felt-tipped pen as he read, and by four-thirty he had completed an ornate set of printed notes that surrounded a huge legal-pad-size doodle of a stick figure in a wheelchair, titled in big printed cartoon letters ARTHUR SPODA? A stick figure of a man in a chair holding an icepick over the question mark. Enough, he said, round-filing it and getting up with a sigh. Nothing was more tiring than nothing.
Jonathan, as if he'd read Jack's mind somehow, was again on his all-time best behavior. He'd become particularly docile in Donna's hands, or so Jack thought, when she'd started using their videocassette recorder to tape an afternoon cartoon show that was a great fascination of the boy's. Two shows really, a kid-participation show of a man dressed as a fat clown, and a cartoon show of the most violent hero-villain antics imaginable. Eichord was especially grateful for it tonight, guaranteeing as it did a still and blissful after-dinner hour with their son hypnotized by his electronic baby-sitter.
Jack truly felt love for the boy even in the worst, most anxious moments. He'd never regretted their decision for a heartbeat. He adored the Foster Services people for having cut through the antediluvian codes and usual incogitant coldness of the faceless bureaucracy to make it possible for the Eichords to become instant parents. There'd never been a moment when he'd felt less than complete paternal love for the child—but in quiet moments he realized how much MORE he cherished what he thought of as a more or less normal domesticized home life.
“I love this time of the night,” she told him from across the room.
“Yeah.” What's not to love? The cartoons had the boy frozen, his arm around a flea-free Blackie. All was right in God's world.
“He loves this show,” she whispered reverently.
“Unn.” He smiled. Trying not to be too analytical about the business he'd seen a few moments ago. He came from the era of funny animal cartoons. The Fleischers’ Popeye and Terrytoons’ Mighty Mouse. They'd come a long way, baby, he thought, when the head of a barbarian was sliced off before wee Jack Eichord's rapt gaze.
He would no more let such thoughts intrude on their heavenly peace than he could run out screaming into the night. Goodwill to men. May the canoes of your people forever glide across still and tranquil seas, Jack Eichord. When the taped show ended, it would be nighty-night time and then we'd move right along to the touchy-feely portion of the evening's activities.
He looked over at Donna, turning the pages of a magazine, and he was struck by the innocence in her face. The skin he loved to touch, smooth as silk and baby soft.
Smooth as silk was, in fact, precisely Eichord's thought as he and Donna stretched out side by side, she reading, Jack noodling and schmoodling, the look of her in that lace-covered teddy, propped on a pillow, her back to him, suggesting the feel of just that fabric. So maybe it was machine-washable, tumble-dry nylon, or Lycra Spandex, or nylon tricot, or...
“You know,” she purred, “this looks like a great lawn mower for us. It's one hundred and twenty-five dollars. On sale.” She was reading hardware ads in the Buckhead paper. She turned slightly and the teddy tightened over a delightful-looking swell of beautiful breast.
“I like the way it's cut,” he said, admiring the way her recently bathed skin glistened in the high-cut leg opening.
“Um hmm. I think it would do a good job.'
“It certainly would,” he said. Her legs looked so long and smooth and there was a little opening that beckoned and he snuggled up beside her.
“Why do I get the feeling you're not really into lawn mowers at the moment?” She moved back against him.
“I can't imagine.” He sniffed her. Essence of Donna. She smelled of woman. “You sniff good.'
“Bet I sniff like soap.'
“Ah. Sorry. A wrong answer. You folks playing the game at home, you know that means, Mrs. Eichord must lose another piece of clothing. So...” He began helping her.
“Hey,” she protested.
“Sorry again, but rules are rules.'
They made tender, romantic love together and Donna fell asleep immediately. They slept on their own sides of the big bed, but tonight Jack had stayed close to his wife. As close to her as he could without touching, letting himself slowly wind down as he listened to her breathing change and then deepen into sleep, and he felt like he might have been asleep for about five minutes when the phone made its jarring noise.
“Yaaaa,” he groaned into the telephone, nerves jangled by the rude awakening.
“What?” Donna said just as a Metro detective told him he was needed on the scene of a homicide.
“Huh? What time is it?” It was after five a.m., he was told. Woman in an antique shop. Custodial-service dude found the body. Bad jazz, the detective told him.
“What is it?” Donna said.
“Okay,” Eichord said, writing down the address. “Hold it. Shit.” He couldn't read what he'd just printed, still squinting through half-shut eyes.
“Wha—” Donna turned, waking up, seeing he was on the phone. Her head fell back into the soft pillow.
Eichord sat on the edge of the bed and took several deep breaths and then pretended that an electric charge was going to be sent through the bed and if he didn't stand up in three seconds he'd be electrocuted. An old technique from his hangover days. He lurched to his feet and stumbled into the bathroom, forcing himself to splash water onto his neck and face. He emptied his bladder and started throwing clothes on.
A few minutes later he was passing the early-risers, red ball on, shooting over a bridge that led to an impoverished Buckhead suburb he always thought of as Hubcap City. It reminded him instantly of Vega, Texas, this time.
Eichord's car clicked over the metal expansion covers that drew lines across the bridge in a percussive, foot- tapping metallic rhythm of fast rim shots. His mouth, bereft of toothpaste or even coffee, tasted foul.
“Tunk-ka-tunk-ka-tunk-ka-tunk-ka-tunk-ka-tunk,” paradiddle Joe, “ka-tunk-ka-tunk,” to-kill it suggested, “to- kill, to-kill, to-kill, to-kill, to-kill.” And the metronomic metal rim shots echoed the steady staccato of the drummers paradidles and “to-kill-to-kill-to-kill” played counterpoint to the ensemble as it swung into the reprise of an old dance number, “tunk-ka-tunk-ka-tunk-ka” hypnotic and unrelenting, and Eichord would be so glad when it stopped. He needed coffee. Badly.
