“Never said a word. Not that she had any reason to confide in me. I barely knew the woman. So what was in her safe-deposit box? I never heard.”
“Foley thinks it was cash from an insurance settlement. Fifty thousand is the number I’ve heard. In addition to that, her brother says he lent her two thousand dollars on Wednesday of that week.”
“Calvin Wilcox. Now there’s a piece of work.”
“As in what?”
“Those two were always at each other’s throats. He assumed the full care of their parents and Violet wouldn’t lift a hand. He didn’t give a damn if she disappeared or not. I’m sure it cheered him no end that when his mother died, all the money came to him. If his sister had been around, he’d have had to split it with her.”
I felt my attention narrow like a cat’s at the sound of a little mousie scratching in the wall. “Money?”
“Oh, yes. It was a sizeable estate. Roscoe Wilcox made a fortune perfecting phosphorescent paint. Got a patent on some new, improved formula, or so I’ve heard. Every time you see a paint job that glows, it’s money in the bank—or Calvin’s pocket in this case.”
“How well do you know him?”
“We’re both members of the same country club and the same association of local businessmen. He built that company from scratch, which I’ve always admired, but the fellow himself? I got my doubts about him. Maybe it’s just that he and that wife of his have never cared for me.”
“What happened to Winston Smith? I’d like to talk to him if you know where he is.”
“That’s easy. The week after I fired him, I took him back and he’s worked for me ever since. It’s like I told him: You don’t want to act in haste. What seems tragic in the moment can sometimes turn out to be the best thing in the world.”
“Meaning what?”
“He ended up married to my daughter and now they have those three gorgeous girls. He’s a very lucky man.”
12
JAKE
Wednesday, July 1, 1953
Jake Ottweiler pulled up a chair beside his wife’s hospital bed and sat with her as he had every evening since June 17 when she’d been admitted. Mary Hairl was on heavy medication. She slept deeply and often, her face in repose as sculpted as stone. Her hand lay in his, her palm against his, her cold fingers threaded through his warmer ones. She was as pale as a piece of paper, lavender veins showing through the skin on her arms. She was thin, brittle-looking, and she smelled like death. He was ashamed for noticing, ashamed of himself for wanting to recoil.
Mary Hairl was thirty-seven years old and she’d given Jake two wonderful children. Tannie, at nine, was a sturdy, fearless girl, boisterous and outgoing, all bony elbows, skinned knees, and joy. She had a talent for playing the piano, and she read books way above her grade level. She’d never be pretty, he knew that about her without even waiting to see what puberty would bring. The growth spurt—the breasts, the loss of baby fat—none of this would alter the basic plainness of her face. But she was a bright, funny child, and he treasured that in her.
At sixteen, his son, Steve, was not only handsome, he was smart as well—not at the top of his class, but not far from it. Played varsity football and won his letter jacket as a sophomore, the first season he played. Eagle Scout. Sang tenor in the church youth choir. He’d signed a pledge that he’d abstain from alcohol for life, and Jake knew he’d do it, no matter the peer pressure brought to bear. Steve was baby-faced and had a boyish demeanor Jake was hoping he’d outgrow. Hard enough to be a man in this world without looking half his age. Mary Hairl had been a good mother to those kids, and he wasn’t sure how he’d manage when she went. He’d do what she did—be firm, listen carefully, and let them make their own mistakes as long as it wasn’t anything too serious. It would never be the same, but they’d muddle through somehow. What choice did they have?
He put his head down and rested his face against the edge of the hospital bed. The sheet was crisp and cool against his sunburned cheek. He was incredibly weary. After he’d come back from overseas just after the war, he hadn’t had the will or the strength to return to farming. He’d taken a series of jobs, most recently with Union Sugar. He’d missed so many days of work because of Mary Hairl’s illness, he’d been fired. Now money was impossibly tight, and if it weren’t for her father’s financial help, they’d be out on the street. He hadn’t understood how much work his wife did. Now that he was essentially sole parent, he was in charge of the meal planning, grocery shopping, laundry, and most of the major household chores. Mid-April, just before she was hospitalized for surgery, she’d put in the truck garden, which was flourishing. She’d always been an uncomplaining soul, and by the time she’d seen the doctor for abdominal tenderness and bloating, the tumor was advanced. Surgery confirmed the cancer, which had spread to so many organs there was nothing to be done. The surgeon closed her up again and now they were waiting for the end. The weeding, mulching, and plucking of suckers from the numerous tomato plants was another set of tasks Jake’d added to his list. After school, Steve pitched in with mowing the lawn and washing the truck, while Tannie was in charge of keeping the house tidy and making their brown-bag lunches. Hairl Tanner, Mary Hairl’s father, was still joining them for the evening meal, so the four of them ate supper together nightly, a ritual that seemed cheerless without Mary Hairl. Once the meal was finished, Hairl would disappear, leaving Tannie to clear the table. Steve washed the dishes while Tannie dried them and put them away. At that point, Jake would pick up his jacket and head over to the hospital, arriving about 7:00 P.M.
Jake was scarcely aware that he’d fallen asleep. He’d been thinking about the night in early May when Mary Hairl was admitted for the second time in as many months. She’d made sure her father and the kids were fed before she finally, reluctantly, agreed to call the doctor, who’d met them within the hour in the emergency room. Steve had stayed at home to look after Tannie, and when Jake and Mary Hairl left house, both the kids were doing their homework. She’d been in excruciating pain for much of the day, and he’d handed her over to the charge nurse that night with the blessed sense that at least now she’d get relief. Her suffering only reminded Jake how ineffectual he was in the face of her illness. He’d stayed with her until 9:00, watching the drip in her IV line, waiting for the medication to take effect. He’d kept an eye on the clock, willing the hands to move, and when she’d finally fallen asleep, he’d fled the premises.
He retrieved his truck from the hospital parking lot in Santa Maria and headed straight for the Blue Moon, the only place in Serena Station where a fella could buy a beer. It had been raining intermittently. The May evening was chilly, and he cranked up the heat until the cab felt like an incubator. The roads were dark, and the lighted houses in Serena Station seemed as isolated as campfires. He needed to drink. He needed to unwind in an atmosphere that carried no suggestion of blood, suffering, or impending loss.
The Moon was close to empty. Tom Padgett sat at the bar, nursing a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, chatting with Violet Sullivan and the bartender, BW McPhee. BW was a stocky fellow, barrel-chested and tough, who doubled as a bouncer when the occasion arose. Jake took a stool at the bar, glancing idly at the two sitting four stools down. Violet’s eyes were puffy with tears and her hair was disheveled. Clearly something had gone on. Tom was trying to talk her out of whatever funk she was in. Jake was inclined to ignore Violet, minding his own business, but while BW uncapped his bottle of Blatz, he told him she and Foley had gotten into a shoving match that ended with her slapping him square across the face. Foley had gone berserk, overturning a table and breaking a chair. BW’d given him one minute to clear out or he was calling the police.
By the time Jake arrived, Foley was gone. While Padgett’s comments were too low to hear, Violet’s responses were audible. She was talking about her money in a tone that was half braggadocio and half aggrieved. He’d heard the claim before, usually when Foley’d just popped her one and she was threatening to leave. He didn
’t know if it was true or not, the bit about her personal funds. She never mentioned an amount, and it struck him as odd that she didn’t simply take the cash and get on with it.
For a while, Padgett dropped a steady stream of coins into the jukebox, and he and Violet danced. The dress she wore was an emerald green, cut low in the back. Behind the bar, BW was watching them as they moved around the floor. Now and then Jake would turn, looking over his shoulder, following their progress with a shake of his head. He and BW exchanged glances.
“That’s what got Foley raging in the first place, her dancing with him,” BW remarked.
“Just about anything sets him off. Piece of shit,” Jake said.
BW studied him. “I don’t suppose you want to talk about Mary Hairl.”
“Not especially. No offense.”
“None taken. You tell her we’re thinkin’ about her, Emily and me.”
“I’ll do that.”
“How’s that beer coming?”
“I’m fine for the moment.”
Violet and Padgett settled at the bar again, but he’d no more than sat down than he glanced at his watch, startled at the time. Jake watched as he threw some bills on the bar and said his good-nights. Once the door shut behind him, Violet turned her head, looking down the bar in Jake’s direction. He made a point of looking the other way to avoid her gaze. She was the type who went to bars intent on conversation, while he was the type who went in hopes of being left alone. Dimly he was conscious of her crossing the room behind him, heading for the ladies’ room. He ordered another beer and was in the process of lighting a cigarette when she appeared at his side. Her hair was now combed and her green eyes assessed him with curiosity. She was holding a cigarette and, well-mannered fella that he was, he extended his match. By then the flame was burning so close to his fingers, he was forced to drop it and strike another one for her. She eased onto the stool next to his. “You want company?”
“No.”
“That’s funny. You look like a man who could use a friend.”
He had no reply to that. Jake probably hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words with Violet in the six years he’d known her. There’d been that business about the dog, but that was about as far as it went. He’d heard the rumors about her. The whole town of Serena Station buzzed with stories about the Sullivans—Foley’s drinking, the fisticuffs, her screwing around. Quite the happy little pair. Jake despised Foley. Any man who raised a hand to woman or child was the lowest of the low. Violet, he wasn’t sure about. Mary Hairl seemed to like her, but his wife was a good-hearted soul, who’d put out a bowl of scraps for any stray cat that wandered up on the porch. He put Violet in that camp—hungry, wary, and needy. “You still mad about the dog?”
“I got my money. Not that it was mine for long,” she said. “How’s Mary Hairl?”
“He just asked me that,” Jake said, indicating BW with a wave of his cigarette.
“What’d you tell him?”
“Said I didn’t want to talk about it, thanks all the same.”
“Because it’s painful.”
“Because it’s nobody’s business.” He was quiet for a moment and then surprised himself by going on. “They’ve got her on a drip. Morphine, most likely. The doctor won’t tell me anything and what he says to her, she keeps to herself. She doesn’t want me to worry.”
Violet said, “Well, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It has nothing to do with you.” He glanced off across the room. He could feel tears sting his eyes. He’d made a point of not discussing his wife’s illness. Acquaintances would ask, but he tended to cut them short. He didn’t like the idea of exposing the intimate details of Mary Hairl’s condition. He couldn’t talk particulars with her father, even if he’d known. Hairl had been a surly son of a bitch ever since his wife died. He was burdened enough as it was, knowing he was on the verge of losing his only child. Which left who? Jake certainly couldn’t talk about her sickness with the kids. Both he and Mary Hairl had agreed early on to spare them. Steve, at sixteen, was aware of what was happening, but he kept himself detached. Tannie was mercifully oblivious, which left Jake on his own.
Violet studied him. “How’re you holding up? You don’t look so hot yourself.”
He lifted his beer bottle. “This helps.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” she said, and clinked her wineglass against his bottle. “Why is it men are always trying to prove how tough they are? Situation like yours, what harm would it do to talk about it?”
“What for? I live with it from day to day. Last thing I need is talk on top of that.”
“You sound just like me. Too proud to admit when you’re hurting. I can sit here in tears and everybody thinks it’s just something I do. You’re the first guy ever offered to have a decent conversation.”
“I don’t call this a conversation.”
“But there’s hope of one,” she said.
“What about Padgett? He was talking to you.”
“He’s about as popular as me. People think I’m a whore and he’s a fool. Gives us something in common.”
“Is that true?”
“What, about him or me?”
“I couldn’t care less about him. What’s the deal on you?”
She smiled. “It’s like that song about the Whiffenpoofs…. What the hell’s a Whiffenpoof? You ever ask yourself that?”
“What song?”
“The duet Bing Crosby and Bob Hope sang in Road to Bali.” She started to sing a fragment in a voice that was surprisingly sweet. “‘Damned from here to eternity. Lord have mercy on such as we.’” Her smile was weary. “That’s the deal on me. Damned.”
“Because of Foley?”
“Everything wrong in my life is because of him.”
“I thought you liked tussling with him. You do it often enough.”
“Tussling? Well, I guess that’s one way to put it. Foley pounds the shit out of me on a regular basis and I got the black eyes to prove it, but does anybody ask how I’m doing? He could knock me to the floor and nobody’d offer me a hand. I don’t want pity, but once in a while I’d like to think someone gives a shit.” She stopped and then smirked. “Listen to me. I sound like a victim. Nobody likes a victim, least of all me.”
“Why do you put up with it? That’s what I don’t get.”
“What choice do I have? I can’t leave him. He’s threatened to kill me and I know he’d do it for sure. Foley’s a psychopath. Besides, if I left what would become of Daisy?”
“You could take her with you.”
“And do what? I got married at fifteen and never held a job in my life. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“What about that money you’re always talking about.”
“I’m biding my time. I figure I’ve got one shot and I’m not about to blow it. Anyway, Daisy’s crazy about her daddy.”
“Most girls are crazy about their daddies. I’m sure she’s crazy about you, too. What’s that got to do with it?”
“Daisy’s crazier than most. She thinks Foley hung the moon, so why should I get in the way? Sometimes I think they’d be better off without me. I mean, it’s one thing if I leave, but take away his little girl? He’d rip my heart out, if he hadn’t already done it.”
Jake shook his head. “He doesn’t deserve either one of you.”
“No fooling.”
“So what’d you see in him?”
“He was a sweet guy when the two of us hooked up. It’s the alcohol does him in. Sober, he’s not all that bad. Well, some bad, but not as horrible as you’d think. Of course, he says he’s forced to drink to put up with the likes of me.”
“What’s he have to put up with? You’re a beautiful woman. I can’t picture any big hardship living with you.”
“I’m a pain.”
“How’s that?”
“I got a reputation as a party girl for one thing. According to him, I don’t do anything right and that sets him off. No matter what I
do, he’s never satisfied. After work, he walks in the door and starts in on me. Either the house is a mess or his dinner’s not hot enough or I forgot to take the dirty clothes to the Laundromat again. He wants to know where I’ve been, wants to know who I talked to, and where I was every time he tried to call me during the day. I’m thinking, what am I, his slave? I’m entitled to a life. I try to keep my mouth shut, but he lays into me and I have to fight back. How else can I hang on to my self-respect?”
“There’s bound to be a way out.”
“Well, if there is I’d sure like to hear it.” She put out her cigarette. “You have any change?”
“What for?” he asked, but he was already digging in his pants pocket, coming up with a handful of coins.
She took a nickel and slid off the stool. He watched her cross to the jukebox, where she inserted the coin and punched in a number. After a moment, he heard the opening strains of Nat King Cole singing “Pretend.”
She came back to him, holding out a hand. “Come on. Let’s dance. I love this song.”
“I don’t dance.”
“Yes, you do.” She looked over at the bartender. “BW, tell the man he has to dance with me. It’s time to lighten up the mood.”
Jake felt himself smiling as she tugged on his hand, pulling him toward the tiny bare spot between tables that served as a dance floor. She slid into his arms, ignoring the awkward back-and-forth rocking motion that was the only kind of dancing he knew. She sang against his neck, her smoky wine breath tickling his ear. He could smell violets and soap and the same kind of shampoo Mary Hairl had used before she got so sick. Over Violet’s shoulder, he could see BW busy himself behind the bar, studiously ignoring what was going on. Jake had never much cared for music, but he could see now how it might have the power to make you forget. If there was one thing Jake needed, it was the blessedness of forgetting, even for a little while.
At midnight, BW started turning off lights. “Sorry about that, folks,” he said, as though the bar were filled with people. His tone was bored, but Jake could hear the underlying irritation. BW didn’t want to be a party to what was going on. Jake went up to the bar and paid the tab, peeling off bills and adding a generous tip, in part to remind the man of his place.