'Let me ask you this if I may. What is the most pressing need in America today?'
'Patriotism,' she said. 'Our sons must return to their mother. She is waiting with open legs. Killing the pig-eyed and the slope-headed must once again become a matter of national priority.'
'Did the Zebra have piped-in music? Please answer at once.'
'Yes,' she said.
'Did the regular crowd ever have friendly arguments about the name of a certain tune?'
'That used to happen all the time. Carl Stoner, who was in premiums, was always having arguments with Martha Leggett. Martha Leggett was the funniest little girl you ever saw. She was less than five feet tall and Freddy B. used to let her take puffs on his cigar. We surrounded ourselves with smoke and loud noise. That's the way we chose to live. I'm prepared to defend it.'
'Did the rumors about Carl Stoner and Fred Blasingame's wife have any basis in fact?'
'Come on now. There weren't any rumors like that. And anyway you haven't even asked me about the summerhouse.'
I ordered two more scotches. I didn't know where we were headed and I was in no hurry to find out. It was obvious that the feints and jugglery of the moment did not confuse her one bit. Her answers were almost too easy in coming. Her voice changed, even the structure of her sentences, and as we went along I realized she was no mere student of theatercraft. She seemed perfectly relaxed, almost bored, content to let me find a pace and theme, breaking inflection from sentence to sentence and yet never relinquishing the bedrock irony, the closed fist of the Midwest. Her eyes emitted quick blue light. She was far from being the worst thing you could expect to find in an old firehouse in Iowa or Missouri or Illinois.
'Have you ever been to New York?' I said.
'We used to go over to the pier on Gansevoort Street and watch the sun go down. We used to eat soul food on Tenth Avenue.'
'After several or more drinks, did any of the men in the regular crowd at the Zebra ever slip their hands under the table and try to caress either of your thighs?'
'I guess that sort of thing is unavoidable if you're going to have a few drinks in mixed company. But there was never any trouble about it. I mean all I did was sort of shift in my chair a little and they would get the idea and that would be the end of it.'
'Did tiny Martha Leggett shift in her chair?'
'I have no way of knowing.'
'I applaud your loyalty.'
'She was a plucky little skylarking girl. She and Fred Blasingame were like a comedy team. George and Gracie. That's what we used to call them. My father's name was George.'
'That brings us to the summerhouse,' I said.
'Tall grass and lemonade. Those lazy afternoons at auntie Nell's. I was such a silly thing at fifteen. This is difficult.'
'Please try.'
'He came from the base to visit me, taller than the grass, so bright and shining in the sun. He was in uniform. Nell made lemonade. We sat out front beneath the big elm, just the three of us and John Morning. Daddy had brought me a book of poems, sonnets written by a southern lady whose lover was killed at Vicksburg. Nell went inside to start dinner. John Morning sang a spiritual and then went off to the stables. Daddy read the sonnets to me and I cried and called myself a silly thing and he laughed softly in that gentle way of his. We drank the lemonade and watched the sun go down over the big elm.'
'Where was the Jamison boy?' I said.
'The Jamison boy had drowned in Loon Lake just three weeks before. Daddy knew about it, of course, but was gentle enough and wise enough to make no mention of the tragedy. After dinner we walked through the tall grass beneath the moon. We listened to the crickets and daddy held my hand. Then we went back to the house. Nell made some lemonade and John Morning told us the yearling was coming along just fine. Daddy went out to the stables to look at the yearling. I went to my room and he came up later and spoke softly in the darkness of war and death, touching me softly in soft places. He made no mention of the tragedy of the Jamison boy and he said nothing about the summerhouse.'
'At what hour were you awakened by the strange sound?'
'It was almost dawn when I was awakened by a strange sound. I got out of bed and put on my riding pants and the green sweater with the button missing. I still have that sweater. It was the sweater I was wearing the last time I saw the Jamison boy, two nights before he drowned. We were on the back porch drinking lemonade. John Morning was singing a spiritual. The Jamison boy asked me whether I'd be spending the whole summer this time or just a few weeks as in the past. I said it was up to mother. He said he was tired of all the mystery about mother. He wanted to know the truth.'
'So you told him about the summerhouse.'
'Yes, I told him,' she said. 'He was the only one who knew the horrible secret. And two nights later he drowned. I still have that sweater locked away somewhere in a trunk. Do you have any idea how difficult this is?'
'Carol, when did you first realize that his death was not an accident?'
'When I was awakened by the strange sound. I knew what the sound was and I realized the Jamison boy had been shot to death prior to being drowned. I put on my red satin dress with the plunging neckline, the dress I wore to mother's second funeral. Needless to say, the sound was coming from the summerhouse. I walked through the tall grass, which was wet with dew. The sun was coming up over the big elm. I opened the door of the summerhouse.'
'What did you see?'
'It was daddy. He was naked except for his uniform.'
'What was he doing?'
'Really I can't go on.'
'What was he doing, Carol?'
'He was firing bullets into John Morning's drowned body.'
'What did you see in John Morning's hand?'
'The locket. Mother's silver locket.'
'Did any of the men in the regular crowd habitually break his swizzle stick with a loud plastic snap?'
'Bob Kirkpatrick.'
'Perfect,' I said. 'What can you tell us about him?'
'He looked like a redwood tree.'
'Can you identify the governor of California?'
'There is no such place.'
'Excellent. If a redwood tree falls in a deserted forest, does it make a sound? Or is sound dependent on a sentient being?'
'It makes a sound.'
'What kind of sound?' I said.
'One hand clapping.'
'You're going too far, Carol. But I'll try to stay with you. You mentioned your husband earlier in the evening. Was your husband part of the regular crowd?'
'My husband is part of no crowd, regular, irregular or otherwise. He's black. Blackest black.'
'You're telling me he's a Negro.'
'What used to be called an American Negro.'
I was getting drunk. The bartender put two more drinks in front of us. I lit another cigarette for her and she turned away when she exhaled and then swung her head slowly back and looked at me with a grieving smile. The three mechanics were at the pinball machine. Four young men drank beer at the other end of the bar.
'What are you doing here?' she said.
'I wanted to escape from the regular crowd. It reached the point where I was seeing ghosts. I was asleep in a loft one night. I was tired and drunk and I fell asleep. I dreamed about the town where I grew up. When I opened my eyes I thought I saw my mother's ghost in the room. But it was just an apparition I dragged up out of the
