fancy suits and leather dress shoes while getting smooched by a beautiful actress. Montgomery, no kind of name for a man.
I glanced at the few keepsakes I displayed as decoration in my repair space at Southland’s. A black-and-white photo of our squad before getting shipped out to the Pacific, all smiles and bravado. A keychain doodad of tubular, see-through plastic, about three inches long. Three red rings floated in the clear fluid. The game was to place all three thin rings onto a woman’s lone leg extended in the liquid. Rosalie’s gams had looked like that when I married her. The long line of perfect white skin extending up and up from her dainty knees. With her illness, the blood got throttled in her legs’ thick blue veins and splotched her thin skin with a thousand red lines like smashed spiders. Just looking at them gave me the heebie-jeebies.
I had just put out the nut driver and wire cutters for the first job I had to tackle when Officer Linehan came in through the back entrance off the parking lot. His usual entrance for his usual coffee. Today, he was rushing.
“Morning, officer.”
“Hey, Otto. I need some D-cell batteries. Five of them. Quick. They got a dead body under that railroad trestle on the bayou near the rice silos.”
I handed him a pack. “Pay us tomorrow.”
“Thanks. These damn runaways. You’d think they could get themselves killed somewhere else. You know, like Dallas. This girl’s supposed to be young-maybe fifteen. They’ll never find out who she is.”
I watched him scuttle back to his patrol car. Not even eight a.m. and we were all sweating.
Later that day, Linehan shook his head back and forth. “That poor kid. She was as scrawny as a half-starved pullet. Whoever killed her did it good-back of the skull crushed.”
“What did they use?” I asked, setting out a screwdriver to take apart a clock radio.
“Who knows? Who cares? Looks like she ran off to be a free-love hippie. Dripping with love beads and peace symbols. What a bunch of crap.” He smiled into his afternoon coffee. “The only good thing about this flower-power B.S. is that none of them hippie chicks wear bras. Makes for some good visuals when they ain’t dead.”
My younger sister Lilly had run away to follow that handsome city dude. Before she left she had tried to confide in me. But I’d refused to listen, angry with her for always causing problems. Why couldn’t she follow the rules of the household, like I did? I had enough problems of my own; I didn’t want to listen to hers. She wasn’t out of high school yet, although none of us were a book-learning family. It broke my momma’s heart that we never knew for sure what Lilly did or where she went.
“Lost,” Momma would murmur, eyes tearing. “My daughter’s lost.”
That evening when I got home from work, I went into Rosalie’s bedroom first, as I always did. She lay under the faded yellow bedspread with pillows propping up her head.
Her dark eyes flickered open. “Hello, Otto.”
“Hello, Rosalie. How you feeling today?”
“All right. Nothing better; nothing worse.”
“I’ll get your dinner after a while. Where’s Monty?”
“Montgomery.”
“Where’s your son?”
“Practicing at St. Thomas.”
“Okay.” No point in continuing. The little strength she had, she used for her son-like all those phone calls to find a voice teacher, whose lessons I had to pay for. “Did he do his chores today?”
A small smile lit her thin lips. “I told him to go ahead on to practice. He couldn’t wait to get out of the house.”
I patted her hand and made sure my voice didn’t show the anger I felt. “I guess I’ll rustle up some dinner.”
Monty came home after I’d fed Rosalie and me, washed dishes, and was sitting on the screened-in front porch waiting for the July evening to cool off.
He sidled in the screen door.
“You missed dinner.”
“I… I ate already.”
“Where?”
“At Mr. Nichols’s house. He… he had extra and he invited me.”
“You need permission to eat dinner elsewhere. You know that. Why didn’t you call?”
“I forgot.”
“Don’t forget again.”
He sucked in air through his wide-spaced front teeth, a childhood habit never broken, “Yes, sir.”
The next day, Monty’s voice teacher Nichols came into Southland’s while I was waiting on customers up front. I knew who he was, but the man didn’t know me from Adam and barely glanced in my direction as I asked him what he needed.
“Pipe wrench.”
“For what size pipe?”
“Residential work. One-inch pipe.”
“Follow me.”
Walking down the aisles made me happy. Boxes neatly arranged on top of one another, edges as precise as finely honed knives. Nichols was whistling between his teeth, following me. When we got to the pipe wrenches, he picked a big one up and held it, balancing the weight in his hand. The clean angles of his blond crew cut meant he had a good barber. The hippie fever for girlie curls on men hadn’t got ahold of him. But I’d bet those hands were soft on the palm side-not the hard-working hands of a real man.
A few weeks later, Linehan came in later than usual. I almost missed him because I was caught up on repairs and he was near the front register. He was angry at missing his early-morning coffee with us. “Man, we got another homicide last night. They sent me to hold the scene. White female, about sixteen, ice pick. She had more holes than a sponge. Homicide had better get busy and find the S.O.B.”
That evening Monty came home late. I’d left him a Pyrex pie plate of food covered in tinfoil, warming in the oven.
“You’re late, son.”
“I lost track of the time.”
“What were you doing?”
At that question, he raised his eyes just for a piece of a second. If he had said it was none of my business or even looked like he’d say it, I’d have backhanded him. But he didn’t.
“I’m learning a new piece of music. I lost track of time.”
“What’s the phone number of that teacher of yours?”
His slouch turned into an alert posture. “Why?”
“I don’t have a mind to keep wasting hard-earned money on someone who’s late for dinner.”
His dark eyes found me immediately and he almost wrung his pale hands. “Oh no, I got to keep going to voice lessons. They’re… they’re… the only thing I got.”
This was the most he’d said to me at once in recent memory.
“I want to get my money’s worth. Your mother’s medicine costs plenty. I don’t earn a lot of money.”
He looked like he was going to cry-something no man should ever do. Hell, I’d made it through island after stinking island fighting Japs in the Pacific without crying, as my platoon was killed one by one. On some days, we were killed in vast numbers. None of us cried, not one single damn time. Not even the seventeen-year-olds who’d lied about their age to enlist. Or me, the oldest, balding even then and nicknamed “Pops.”
Later that evening I sat on the front porch. The cicadas’ latesummer droning had started this first week of August, like every other year.
I thought about that voice teacher. He made my skin crawl. What was it? His haircut was sharp. He had clean nails. Each time he was in the store, his shoes were fully shined, his jawline a little red from razor burn. All these should have added up to a regular Joe. But I didn’t trust him. His slacks fresh from the cleaners, his dress shirts starched and new, long-sleeved even in Houston’s humid heat. And the wicker picnic set the voice teacher had bought today? It carried an ice pick. Standard item, along with forks and knives.
Before I went to bed to sink into the deep sleep I’d been fortunate enough to have since childhood, I peeked in
