seen that effect before. Change was possible. He was changing, getting smarter. Black snow was an interesting idea, for example, the kind of interesting idea someone in the art business might have, someone like him. Someone like me, you bitch, he thought to himself, meaning the girl on the bus. He crossed a street and entered the Public Garden.
Roger was waiting under the statue of George Washington, just as he’d said he’d be. Snow clung to the brim of George Washington’s bronze hat, and to Roger’s hat, too, a black fedora, or some other hat with a name. Roger even looked a little like Washington, except he was smiling. He held out his hand, gloved in black suede. Whitey shook it, squeezing harder than normal because his own hand was bare, so it was a bit of an insult, like Roger was a prince and he was a peon or something.
“Ever play any tennis, Whitey?”
“Tennis?”
“You’d have been good.”
Whitey wasn’t sure how to take that: tennis was for fags. “Well, here I am,” he said.
“I never doubted you.” Roger handed him an envelope. “A week’s salary, plus an advance I hope you’ll find suitable.”
Whitey took it. Was he supposed to open the envelope and count the money? Only an asshole would take money without counting it. But the envelope stopped him, although he didn’t know why. Whitey stuck it unopened in his pocket.
“Familiar with the city, Whitey?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why don’t you take the day to get situated? Saturdays are difficult for me, this one especially.”
“Okay,” said Whitey, who would have bet anything it was Friday.
“Come here tomorrow, same time. If it’s convenient. I may have something for you by then.”
Something? Convenient? Whitey was a little lost, but he said, “Sure, I can make it.”
Roger’s smile faded. “Tomorrow, then,” he said, and walked away.
Whitey watched him go. Roger followed the path around a frozen pond and headed across the park. He wore a long black coat that matched his hat and gloves, looked rich, untouchable; and was almost out of sight, obscured by distant trees and thickening snowfall, when Whitey’s mind finally processed what his eyes had seen at once: Roger had been wearing slippers, plaid ones lined with sheepskin. What did that mean? That Roger couldn’t be trusted? Whitey ripped open the envelope, found ten fifties. What had Roger called it? An advance? What did that mean? Five Cs for something he didn’t even understand: that bought a lot of trust. But slippers? Whitey tapped the bills against his palm: slippers. And then he thought of the cut-out label from the leather jacket and realized this had to be Roger’s neighborhood-he was close to home. And where would that be, exactly? Whitey went after him.
Roger came to a street that bordered the park, crossed it. Whitey closed the distance between them until he could distinguish the red of Roger’s slippers. Too close, probably. If Roger glanced back he would certainly recognize him. But Roger didn’t glance back. Whitey knew why: because he was a prince and Whitey was who he was. Roger kept to a steady pace, up a hill lined with big brick houses, all with fancy grillwork, fancy doors, fancy knockers. He turned left on a street that mounted still higher, stopped at a door, took out his keys, opened it, and went inside. Whitey walked past, noted the number and street name, kept going.
He’d accomplished something; what, he wasn’t sure, but it gave him a good feeling. He walked to the top of the hill, down the other side-stepping carefully, because his cowboy boots were slippery on the snowy bricks-found a bar at the bottom. Money in his pocket and a day to kill. Whitey went inside and ordered breakfast: a draft and a large fries. Same again. Then another draft. He was free, and feeling good.
The bar began to fill up. Someone next to him ordered oysters. Whitey eyed them, glistening on crushed ice, felt a little funny. He started thinking about Sue Savard. Strange, how the mind worked: he hadn’t thought about her in years, would have supposed he’d completely forgotten what she looked like, but now that he was back up north, back up north and free, he could picture her, especially her eyes the moment he’d gotten himself inside her. The truth was that he’d never had sex like the sex he’d had with Sue Savard. And he hadn’t meant to hurt her at all-that business with the glass cutter had been mostly just to tickle her, give her a little added pleasure. Women had an enormous capacity for pleasure, according to Rey, and his amateur housewife videos proved it; real housewives, even the social worker said so, real housewives with video cameras. Someone-a mustached man with thick lips- slurped down one of those oysters. Whitey paid his bill and left.
Money in his pocket. A day to kill. Whitey returned to the bus station, got on the bus to Nashua, took a taxi to Lawton Ferry, 97 Carp Road.
A dump, as he knew it would be. He knocked on the door five or six times, called, “Ma,” then walked around the side, peering in the windows. He saw dirty dishes, dirty clothes, pictures of Jesus, but no one was home. Fine. He didn’t really want to see her anyway. What he wanted was the pickup.
He found it in the rotting barn behind the house. His old pickup, but painted white now, with LITTLE WHITE CHURCH OF THE REDEEMER stenciled on the side. That, and the fact she’d never mentioned it, pissed him off, so much that he started kicking with his new cowboy boot, kicking a hole right through the wall of the barn. What gave her the right to do that? He calmed down when he realized that if the pickup hadn’t been used he’d never have gotten it started after all these years. Besides, he’d soon be able to afford something much better. Whitey opened the door, saw a cat curled up inside. He yanked it out, found the keys under the seat, fired up his old car.
Whitey drove east to Little Joe Lake, took the rutted road that led to the far end. Nothing had changed, or if it had, the snow was hiding all the signs, but everything seemed strange. He had changed: he was bigger, stronger, smarter, and that made all the difference.
Whitey parked by the footbridge to the little cabin on the island. He sat there for a long time. Square one, and he was back. If only Sue Savard was inside now, everything would be different. This bigger, stronger, smarter him would make sure of that, would know how to stop the screaming in some harmless way.
Not that it had been his fault, all that screaming. Why hadn’t she realized what it would lead to? Why hadn’t she been able to stop it herself, to keep her own goddamn mouth shut and not force him to do it for her? Her fault, but still Whitey was filled with regret-he’d blown his chance with Sue Savard, the sexiest woman he’d ever known. What would Sue Savard have been like now?
19
“Hello. Is Francie there?”
“No.”
“Well… I… This is Anne Franklin. Her tennis partner? We spoke once before.”
“Yes.”
“We-did Francie mention the dinner plans?”
“Dinner plans?”
“We were thinking of going out to dinner after the match.”
Silence.
“The finals, tonight. Didn’t Francie mention it?”
“I’ve been out of town.”
“Oh. I was just calling to confirm the time: seven-thirty at Huitres. I booked a table for four in nonsmoking, if that’s all right with you.”
“Four?”
“Ned’s coming, too.”
“Ned?”
“My-my husband.”
Silence.
“I’m not sure I caught his name.”
“Ned. Ned Demarco. Francie’s never mentioned him either?”
“Perhaps I’ve been inattentive.”
