my relationship with these people. Maybe he was a little jealous. He'd
seen Casey. And maybe he was already thinking what I was not- not yet-
that they represented a way out of Dead River. They'd met Rafferty but
had shown no interest. I hadn't pushed the matter. There was me and
Casey and Steven and Kim. Two boys, two girls. Rafferty was not
included.
'If anybody was out there, I'd know. They'd have to come by for gas
now and then. Your friend was mistaken.'
I knew that last bit was meant to soften it slightly.
'I guess he was, George.'
We sipped our drinks. Rafferty stared straight ahead at the old Pabst
clock over the bar. Then I saw a grin starting.
'Of course, I wouldn't know about kids playing out there.'
I smiled back at him. 'Now, what kid in his right mind would want to
do that?'
'Wouldn't know.'
It had been me and Rafferty once. We'd wanted to. And were much too
spooked to try. We'd managed to get as far as the garbage cans and a
peek through the cellar window before Jimmy Beard cried wolf on us and
ran us off. Maybe kids were bolder now. The memory of it reunited us
once again.
'You'd have to be completely crazy,' he said.
'Completely.'
He pulled on his beer, emptied it.
'God knows.'
It had been a miserable day at work. Too much heat. It frayed the
customers' nerves and it frayed mine. I kept thinking of the beach, of
Casey's belly tanning in the sun. It made me restless but it got me
by.
I went home and showered and shaved, drank a cup of coffee and wolfed
down a hamburger to go from The Sugar Bowl, a local greasy spoon. I
dressed and went downstairs. The old black pickup, all body rust and
squeaky hinges, stood waiting for me across the street. I drove to her
place and parked it.
It was a very big house for three people to live in. I wondered if her
mother had help with it. Help would be easy to find and cheap to hold
in Dead River.
I climbed the steps to the freshly painted white front porch and rang
the bell. There were lights on in the living room. I heard a deep
sigh, then the sound of slow steps crossing the room.
Her father opened the door.
He was a big man, broad across the shoulders and still trim at
somewhere around fifty, with thinning gray- brown hair, black-frame
glasses and an inch or two of height on me- six-two or six-three. He
looked tired. His color wasn't good. He blinked at me through the
half-open door and I could see where Casey's eyes had come from, though
his own were maybe one-quarter shade darker.
'Yes?'
I put out my hand.
'Clan Thomas, Mr. White. Casey's expecting me.'
He looked sort of muddled and shook my hand distractedly. I wondered
if the bad color came from drinking.
'Oh. Yes. Come in.'
He moved aside and opened the door wider. I walked in. Inside the
house was very handsome. A lot better than the usual summer rental.
Most of the furnishings were old, antiques, not exactly top quality but
in good condition. The wood looked freshly polished. And there was an
old rolltop desk off to one corner that was a beauty.
He called up the stairs to her. The answer sounded rushed and
faraway.
'Coming!'
Neither of us sat. Nor were we able to think of much to say. I
guessed he'd been reading the paper when I rang, because he was
clutching it now, rolled up tight, in one big meaty fist. Sick or not,
I wouldn't have wanted him mad at me.
Casey had said he was a banker, but it was hard to picture him hunched
over a desk toting up a row of figures. Except for the sal low color
you'd have pegged him for outdoor work. I wondered how he'd gotten
those shoulders. Then I looked around the room a bit and saw the big
framed photo on the wall over the desk, and that told me.
He saw me looking and smiled.
'Wrestling team. Yale, 1938. That's me, last one on the left. Had a
pretty good record that year. Twelve wins, two losses.'
'Not bad.'
He sat down, sighing, in the big overstuffed chair beside the
fireplace. There was no enthusiasm in his smooth baritone. It was
flat, dead. Like the eyes were dead. They were Casey's eyes but there
was nothing in them, no animation, not even the strange fathomless ness
I found so attractive in hers. His eyes could have been colored glass.
I wondered if he was sick, or even dying.
There was the inevitable small talk. What do you do for a living?
'I sell lumber.'
He nodded meaninglessly. There was silence. He was staring at
something in front of him. I tried to follow his gaze, but his
question called me back.
'Can you make a living at that?'
'Barely. But there aren't too many options here. Boats make me
seasick.'
'Me too.' He laughed. He wasn't amused, though. The laugh was
meaningless too.
