Stinger’s Creek, North Central Texas, 1989
The wooden benches were empty and the sprinklers were on. An elderly gardener in a light plaid shirt reached back and pulled the cotton free from his sweaty back. Duke Rawlins stood at a huge sign that told him in fancy green writing that he was outside Pleasance Retirement Home.
In ripped jeans, a black T-shirt and black biker boots, Duke walked the long drive and wiped an arm across his forehead when he reached the cool entrance hall. A smiling nurse pointed him towards the elevator. He got out on the third floor and found the sixth door on the left. It was open. He knocked softly.
‘Mrs Genzel? It’s Duke. Duke Rawlins. From fifth grade?’
‘Still?’ said Mrs Genzel, turning her head briefly from the window. ‘I’d have hoped you moved on.’
Duke smiled.
The room had lilac walls and smelled of perfume and roses. There was no medical equipment, no oxygen tanks, no drips, pills or syrups, no walkers or canes. The double bed at the centre was covered with bright quilted cushions. A string of purple flower-shaped lights were looped through the white iron frame.
Mrs Genzel sat on a straight-backed chair in the window. She hadn’t changed her hairstyle, she hadn’t put on a pound of weight since Duke last saw her, the year she retired, the year he finished fifth grade. She was dressed in grey pants and navy shoes, with a white blouse and a white cardigan with ribbon trims.
‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘I get separation anxiety when I’m away from the window.’
‘It sure is a nice view,’ said Duke, pulling up a soft pink armchair beside her.
‘Yes. Some of the others watch TV all day in there. When hell freezes over, I’ll march right in and join them. I’ve got my regular books,’ she pointed, ‘and my audio books.’ A CD player with oversized headphones lay on the bedside table. Duke looked over.
‘I don’t like those little hearing-aid headphones. They hurt my ears or they fall out…’ She smiled at Duke.
‘I thought you might not remember me,’ he said.
‘I remember you,’ she said. ‘It’s nice of you to come visit.’
‘I heard you were here. How do you like it?’
‘I like it more than you think I’d like it.’
‘Nah. It’s homey. Nice homey.’
‘Yes, it is. And I’ve made some good friends here I get to see every day. And we talk about whatever we want to talk about, books, movies, theatre, their families…’
‘Regular stuff, I guess.’
She nodded.
‘What about you, Duke? What have you been doing? Work-wise.’
‘Aw, different things. You know. I worked in the diner for a while. And at the karting track. That was fun.’
‘Do you still see your friend, Donald?’
‘All the time. He’s doin’ great. Workin’ in a store-room for some big stationery place.’
They spoke about everything they could speak about for two people who didn’t really know each other. Then they sat in silence. Duke eventually leaned forward, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he said suddenly. He spoke without looking at her.
‘What was?’ she said.
‘Who called them that time. After Sparky died. Whatever authority it was…they came to our house, you know. They looked around. They spoke to Mama.’ He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘And they never came back.’
Mrs Genzel reached out and put a hand gently on his arm. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
‘Was it you?’
‘An anonymous caller, I would say.’ She patted his arm.
Duke studied her profile, then turned back to the window.
‘Well, I best be gettin’ along,’ he said, standing up. He pushed his chair into the corner and went back to her.
‘You look after yourself,’ he said.
‘You too, Duke.’
‘Thank you,’ he said from the doorway.
Mrs Genzel pulled her cardigan tightly around her. She took off her glasses and rubbed them with a small square cloth she kept folded in her pocket. She reached back and took a thick travel guide from her bedside table. She slid out the bookmark and tried to read. When that didn’t work, she sat quietly, following the scenes in the gardens.
A young nurse walked through the open door.
‘Well, Mrs Genzel, you
Mrs Genzel didn’t turn around to answer. ‘I wish I knew.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘But who can I call now?’
The nurse shook herself out of her daze. ‘He was
The yellow tricycle sparkled, its rainbow-coloured streamers hanging limp from the handlebars in the dead heat. Cynthia Sloane opened the back door of her house wide. The sunlight shone through her dress, making silhouettes of her slender legs through the sheer fabric. She was tired and cranky. For three afternoons in a row, each time she tried to nap, she had woken up to the sound of a cat crying like a baby in her back yard. With two toddlers and a newborn, sleep was all she dreamed about and waking up to a whining animal was making her crazy. She held a broom in her right hand and waited. She finally heard the mewling and this time she was ready. She charged to the middle of the yard and stopped. She heard a rustle in the shaded corner that backed onto the lane. She moved quietly forward and pushed the broom into the brush. She drew back and pushed in again.
‘Go on, git!’ she said. ‘Git, you little—’ Suddenly a hand reached out and grabbed the broom, jerking her forward, then backwards onto the dirt. She cried out. Donnie bolted for her, pressing his hand over her mouth. She reached down, and picked up the broom, smashing it into the side of his face. He tightened his grip, dragging her out into the laneway where Duke was waiting, the car hidden in the shadows.
TWENTY-FIVE
Joe walked through every room in the house and ended up in the den.
‘Aw, shit,’ he said when he saw his application letter on the floor. He shook his head. ‘Shit.’ He felt the heavy weight of guilt in his chest. His first thought was to lie, to pretend the letter was a back-up plan; he could bat the guilt back into Anna’s court by saying he wrote it when she had told him about John Miller. His next thought was that his wife was too smart for that. She wouldn’t have left if she thought there was an explanation for the letter other than the obvious.
Then he felt a surge of annoyance. He fast forwarded to an argument with her and imagined himself shouting, ‘Being a cop is my life, Anna. Why do I have to go along with whatever you want to do all the time?’ Lame. It wasn’t even true. He’d only done that once, when he came to Ireland. And he knew anything he said in an argument would be useless. He knew that there shouldn’t be an argument if she was ever to forgive him. He wondered what he had been thinking writing the letter without telling her.
He went into the bedroom and pulled open her wardrobe to check if she had taken a suitcase. He let out a breath when he saw the number of bags crammed into the top shelf. He wouldn’t have a clue if she’d taken one. The same went for her clothes, her underwear, her shoes. ‘Shit,’ he said. He sat down on the bed and rested his head on the pillow. He caught the faintest smell of her perfume – citrus and herbs. She never liked strong scents. Everything was subtle with Anna. He frowned. Walking out on him wasn’t subtle. He pushed himself up off the bed and ran down to the phone. He dialled her mobile and heard a bright voice tell him, ‘The person you are calling may have their unit powered off…’
