“You're a good kid,” he said.
“I'm not sure.”
“I mean it. You're a good kid and I'm proud as hell of you.”
She nodded and cleared her throat again and smiled at him and he smiled back sympathetically.
“I think I need some air.”
“Alright.”
Outside, she sat against the brick wall that wrapped down around the lawn, field, whatever it was, down toward the ravine, out over the empty woods and hills, the long high ridge in the distance. The old man knew about her and Poe, it wasn't that surprising. He forgave her—she was surprised by that, of course she was. But maybe those were the things her mother had seen in him.
She wondered what he really thought about Simon, and her new life, and the fact that she never came home. He was not a simple man, he only acted that way when it was convenient. He wanted peace with her at all costs. Only he was wrong about Poe. She thought about that. She thought about Simon's accident, the feeling had begun to nag her—what if he hadn't been trapped in the car? What if he could have walked away, left that girl pinned there?
That was the thing about Simon and all the others, so pleasant on the surface, always knowing what to say, but underneath there was something else, they were not the kind to sacrifice themselves—they'd all been taught they had too much to lose. No more verdicts, she told herself. But there was John Bolton, caught in Manhattan with all that cocaine—charges dropped—and later you find out there was another man with Bolton when he was arrested, but everyone knows better than to ask what happened to him. Meanwhile Poe goes to jail for something he didn't do. For your brother.
She wondered where Isaac was now. California, Poe had said. It didn't make any sense. She could hire a private investigator or something to follow him, he would have left a trail, airline tickets, bus tickets, something—four thousand dollars is what her father said he'd taken—that would be more than enough to pay for his trip and leave plenty of seed money to settle down, Isaac was happy to live on macaroni and cheese. How had he reached this level of desperation? But she knew it was simple. Not hard to understand at all. You simply chose not to. Always knew his life wouldn't be easy, he didn't know how to relate to people. No ability to conduct small talk, thinks he should speak his mind honestly at all times, expects others should do the same. Nothing he ever said was tied up in what are they going to think of me? It made her both admire him more than anyone else she knew and feel enormously sad for him. To her, that seemed like the smallest part of human communication.
Maybe all people with minds like Isaac's were the same. She knew he would make a much larger contribution than she ever would—he cared only about things much bigger than his own life. Ideas, truths, the reasons things were. As if he himself, his own existence, was somehow incidental. At Yale, her friends had accepted him immediately—there Isaac was a personality type everyone was familiar with. But not here.
And now he'd killed that man. She squeezed her forehead. She knew he'd done it. He'd gone back in there to rescue his friend, he hadn't hesitated. There couldn't be anyone less suited for a task like that, but that had not stopped him, he'd done the only thing he could do, if those men had been strong enough to overpower Poe, the risk to Isaac would have been enormous, he would have been scared. And of course he'd gone back in there anyway. It was the right thing to do and he'd done it.
And you? She felt weak and she let herself ease farther into the tall grass, the sun and wind would cut through her, wear her to nothing, she would sink into the earth. I'm not supposed to feel guilty, she thought. I'm supposed to be proud of myself. But even thinking that brought on an incredible isolation, a suspicion she'd always had that she didn't belong anywhere, she was going to outlive everyone she knew. She was going to be alone, the same as her mother. Her mother who had tried to reinvent herself and it had killed her. Lee tried again to figure the probabilities that she herself was free from blame. There was Dad's accident and Mom dying and now this, there was no logic, there was only the most important piece of evidence: you're the only one still in one piece.
She would have to find him. She couldn't wait anymore. Hire the lawyer, a private investigator, this is not going to take care of itself. She stood up and brushed the grass off her, looking out over the trees and rolling fields, the ravine where she and Isaac had played, lain on their backs on the warm rocks and looked up at the narrow corridor of sky above them, Isaac watching for birds, he loved birds and hawks, he loved knowing the names of things, she was content just to watch, most memories she had of being happy in childhood involved only her and Isaac; the rest of the time she was just waiting to get older.
Lawyer and a private investigator. She would have to tell Simon the entire story, his parents would have to know as well. Easy to make a case for Isaac—1560 on his SATs, something they'll understand. But she did not want to have to say that. They would decide to help Isaac because he was her brother. They either would or they wouldn't, and she would know. Alright, she thought, it's better to know. You've got plenty of credit cards, with or without them you'll figure something out. Start by calling Simon and asking him to figure out the lawyer. He'll be happy to have a mission.
8. Harris
After work he cleaned up and took a quick shower and called the dog in. Fur came back slowly and reluctantly, knowing what it meant. He came over to Harris and leaned against his leg.
“Sorry buddy” said Harris. “Company calling.”
He thought about leaving Fur out to run, but the coyotes were getting bigger, they'd nearly doubled in size in the last twenty years, and there were more of them. Plenty of the neighbors took potshots at them and Harris had a .22-250 that would reach four hundred yards, but he would not shoot a coyote. They were noble animals, is why. They had a will—they made other animals take them into consideration. Mountain lions, wolves, it was all the same. You could not kill an animal like that unless you were very sure of your motives.
“Your pick, meathead. Stay in or fend for yourself.”
But of course he would not really give his dog that choice. Maybe that was contradictory. Still. He nudged Fur gently inside, away from the door, and closed it.
Ten minutes later he was on a paved road, heading toward Grace's house, and not exactly sure why he was doing it. As he'd gotten dressed he'd looked at himself in the mirror and thought the next time you get undressed it will be with her but now, headed toward her house, he was not sure. Amazing coincidence, calling you right when her son gets pinched. He shook his head. It was fine. He presumed those things about people, forgave the ones he liked in advance. Grace was forgiven. Her son, though, doing wrong ever since he was old enough. Harris had done all that was possible. He had talked Glen Patacki and Cecil Small into a lenient plea agreement. He had talked Cecil Small into a slap on the wrist and then Billy had gone out and murdered someone.
It was protection, she expected him to work magic but it was too late now, the wheels were turning and Billy was caught. He felt himself getting angry, he nearly stabbed the brake pedal and wheeled the truck around, it was a fine life he'd made for himself, a levelness he worked hard at, he could feel it being upset. He made himself keep driving and the anger passed quickly. Most everything you feel passes quickly. What the hell, he told the steering wheel. I'm bored.
Then there was the Virgil question. He felt his anger coming on again, anger and hurt, but it was no mark of shame, it was just the way things went. Virgil Poe couldn't keep a job, was as mean and dumb as they made them, a born liar. Still Grace had chased after him nearly twenty years. Twice Harris had helped the game warden arrest Virgil's father, it ran in the family. And the incident with the stolen copper. Everyone understood Virgil. Except Grace. But look whose son you've been protecting. Yes, he thought, he's got you beat. Why didn't you lock him up? Once he'd run Virgil in the computer, two outstanding warrants, all it would have taken was a phone call. But that was not the kind of person Bud Harris was.
Passing
through the town, past the old police station and the new one, he'd seen the Fall, the shuttering of the mills, and the Great Migration that followed. Migration to nowhere—thousands of people moved to Texas, tens of thousands, probably, hoping for jobs on oil rigs, but there weren't many of those jobs to be had. So those people had ended up worse off than they started, broke and jobless in a place they didn't know anyone. The rest had just disappeared. And you would never know it. He'd watched guys go from making thirty dollars an hour to four-fifteen, a big steelworker bagging his groceries, stone- faced, there was no easy way for anyone to deal with it. He'd moved out here to have an easy life, be a small- town cop instead of cracking heads in Philadelphia, but the job had changed quickly once the mills went under—it was head-cracking time all over again. It wasn't naturally in him but he'd learned, made it a science, learned to watch a man's face as he did it. It had been a mistake to spare Virgil. He had done that out of pride.
It felt different with Grace this time, he didn't know why, it really seemed the hillbilly was no longer in the picture. The spare tire comes out. The spare tire is you. He was not sure about any of it. There were people who were meant to die alone, maybe he was one of them. You're getting a little ahead of yourself, he thought.
He turned up the clay road that led to her trailer. There was still time to turn around—it would be a clear cold night, he had a humidor full of cigars, a nice bottle of scotch, the dog would be happy to see him. The deck chairs were set up, he could sit out tonight, he'd splurged at Christmas and replaced his old sleeping bag with a pricey down model made by a company in Colorado, all winter he had sat out looking over the mountains at night, no matter how cold it got, he'd sat out after ice storms, nothing moving for miles, total silence except the ice cracking in the cold, the warmth in the sleeping bag. A feeling of being the only one on earth. One of these days he needed to buy a telescope. Next Christmas, maybe.
Ahead of him the road ended in a dirt bank and he pulled in next to Grace's trailer. She was already on the porch waiting for him and he handed her the bottle of wine he'd brought and kissed her lightly on the lips, she was made up, a faint perfume smell.
As he followed her inside he felt as if he was looking at himself from a height, the different parts of him coming out, competing with each other, he decided he would watch and see which one ended up on top— Even Keel or horny old cop. It was warm and he could smell fresh fish cooking, sautéed garlic, bread. Instead of commenting on it, he said:
“I don't know anything more about Billy.” He wasn't sure why he said it. Self- preservation. Even Keel.
She frowned. “I thought we didn't have to talk about that.”
“Well, I'm sure it's on your mind.”
“It is, but…” She smiled at him, forgiving. “Glass of wine?”
In the kitchen he watched her move around, took a piece of Italian bread she'd heated up, buttered it. The outside was crisp and the inside soft and he sat there chewing and happy, feeling himself relax. Then Even Keel started in again:
“I went to visit Isaac English last night, just in case the DA somehow figures out he was with Billy. He's gone, though.”
She looked at him and cocked her head a little. She wasn't sure what to say, she looked like she really didn't want to talk about it.
“He took off Sunday morning and his family hasn't heard from him since.”
“Bud,” she said. “Please?”
“Alright. I'm sorry.”
“Eat some more bread.”
He took another piece and felt guilty, playing games with her, he thought, a game for you but it's not for her. Another part of him said no, she's the one playing games, but he ignored it. He stared at her rear end when she turned around to look for the corkscrew, it was shapely, she'd put on weight but she carried it well, her freckles and delicate skin and gray- blond hair, she looked younger than she was, he decided.
“I can't find the opener,” she said. “Do you want some bourbon?”
He nodded and sat down at the small table and she poured them each two fingers. Doomed. Even Keel takes a torpedo.
“Let's sip at this,” he said.
She put it down in a gulp. “You turning into some kind of pussy, Bud Harris?”
“She's sassy for not even being drunk yet.”
“She is.” But then she sat looking at the empty glass and he knew he'd ruined it. Six minutes. About par, he thought.
“Who is it,” she said.
“Who's what?”
“The one who got him arrested.”
Telling her wouldn't make it any better and he thought about saying he didn't know. Maybe he could still save it. Then he thought no it's better now than later. Go home and start a fire and cuddle up with the dog.
“He's no one, really, unemployed car mechanic. In and out of jail. He gave two addresses in Brownsville.”
She put her head in her hands. “Jesus, Bud. I don't know why that matters, but it does.”
“I'm sorry,” he said.
“I'll have another,” she said. “You can pour it a little heavier.”
He pushed the bottle away from both of them.
“They cut his throat, Bud. They were trying to kill him and he was defending himself.”
“He's not talking, Grace, that's the problem.”
“It was Isaac English,” she said. “That's the only reason Billy wouldn't be saying anything.”
“Billy's never walked away from a fight in his life and the English kid is a hundred ten pounds. The man who died was six foot eight.”
“That's what they all think, isn't it?”
“People are worried about what this place is turning into. They're worried we'll get as bad as Donora or Republic.” He stopped himself. “Until he talks to a lawyer we're just speculating, anyway. We can start worrying about it then.”
It was quiet for a time. He heard the oven ticking, wondered if the fish was burning, wondered if he would end up eating any of it. Grace was staring at the Formica table like he wasn't there.
“There's no point to caring about it because he's basically gone already. It's pointless even worrying about it, right? That's what you're telling me.”
“No,” he said. “That's not what I'm telling you at all.”
He watched her start crying and he touched her but she didn't respond, she just sat there and cried, Harris looked at her across the table for a long time and couldn't figure out what to do with his hands, he had a sense of something lurking close and then his ears started ringing and he felt shaky. Part of him was trying to make the other part stand up and walk out of the house. Instead he reached and took her face in both hands.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I can't help it.”
“It's early in the game.”
“This is going to wreck me.”
“You shouldn't be thinking those things yet, he hasn't even talked to a lawyer.”
“Please don't.”
“I'm not just trying to get your hopes up.”
“It's too late for us, too, I know that.”
He kissed her and she pulled back for a second.
“Don't just do it to make me feel better.”
“I'm not,” he said.
She let herself be kissed again.
“Be patient for a couple of days. It'll all change with a lawyer.”
“Okay,” she said.
She took his hands across the table and then came over and sat on his lap and hugged him around the waist and kissed him on the neck. He didn't move, let himself sit there just feeling it. She kissed him more. He touched her hair. He felt her heart speed up or it might have been his, he had a prickly rushing feeling in his throat that spread all over.
“I should powder my nose,” she told him.
She went into the bathroom and he made no move to leave. When she came back she sat on his lap again, she grabbed his belt loops as a child might grab her father and pulled herself tight against his chest, he kissed the top of her head
and they sat like that. When she looked up her face was shining for him.
“I'm sorry,” she said, “I made a promise to myself I wouldn't think about it when you were here.”
She smiled and squirmed purposefully in his lap.
“Christ I feel like a teenager. Horny and then crying and then horny again.”
“I think you should make me a nice dinner first. So I don't feel like a slut.” Then he said: “That was a joke.”
“Ha- ha.”
“Ha.”
He got up and slid his pistol and holster from their spot in the small of his back, stood up and put it on top of the refrigerator.
“You bring that in for a reason?”
“I live alone, I guess.”
“You used to leave it in the car.”
He shrugged. “Times are changing. What's for dinner?”
“Trout.”
“From the river?”
“I might live in a trailer,” she said, “but…”
“I didn't think so.”
“Sit.”
“I'll work on the wine.” After a minute of trying he got the cork out with a knife and a pair of pliers. He decided to do the other bottle while he was at it.
They ate, the fish was tender and the skin crispy with salt and she'd made a sweet cream sauce to go with it, something French. He wiped the sauce up with the bread and they ate the fish down to the bones. He thought about eating the cheeks, as Ho had shown him, but decided to leave it.
“That's probably the best fish I ever ate.”
“Food Network,” she said. “God's gift to men, indirectly.”
When they'd finished wiping up the sauce and put down the second bottle of wine she said: “Can I ask one more question?”
He nodded.
“Who's the public defender you were talking about?”
“She's good and I think I can get her to take the case instead of one of the idiots. She's probably got a real career waiting for her somewhere, but for now she's putting her time in, serve the community type of thing. Hopefully she'll embarrass the lifers into working a little harder.”