“Wade picked right up on that. My mistake. I didn’t realize — or I might not have said it — but at that particular time he had not yet been informed about Jack being the new town cop: which of course was Gordon LaRiviere’s doing, him and Chub Merritt, the selectmen. Wade says to me, ‘His office. You mean my old office?’ And what can I say? I tell him what he surely does not want to hear. He looks at me for a second like his stack is going to blow, and then he grabs his kid’s hand and heads out the door — and I’m thinking, ‘Oh boy, more trouble.’ I didn’t have any idea how much more, of course. But that was the last time I saw Wade Whitehouse. Ever. And I can’t say I’ve missed him. No offense, him being your brother and all, but I expect you don’t particularly miss the individual, either.”
It was a question more than a statement, and I did not intend to answer it. Actually, I did not know how to answer it, without lying to the man. I switched off the tape recorder and reached for my check, which Nick had placed next to my coffee cup.
“Actually, yes, I did see him that day. Not to talk to. But I saw him from my driveway, as he passed by the house. I was filling the bird feeders in my front yard, and I looked up as he drove by, because of all the noise that old truck of his father’s made. He had my grandniece in the truck with him — Jill — so naturally I noticed. And I always thought well of Wade, in spite of everything. He suffered. He had a terrible time growing up. And I never thought that Lillian was particularly good for him, although I loved Lillian and still do. She’s my niece, after all. But that Saturday, when Wade and Jill drove past, there was nothing unusual — really, nothing worth commenting on.”
“Well, sure, I was scared of him. Of course I was scared of him. Who wouldn’t be? But it was like a long time ago, and I don’t remember a lot. I remember Daddy took me out of the restaurant there, and we went down to his office. Big deal. Well, I know, it was a big deal — that’s where he got the gun; he took his guns from his office. It used to be his office, I mean — which made him really mad. I didn’t say anything anymore — once we left the restaurant, I mean. I guess I was too scared.
“He seemed sort of okay; I mean, I guess he was acting the way he usually did. Except when he got so mad at the guy in the restaurant that I thought there would be a fight. I mean, usually when I came up to stay with him, he was sort of nervous and wicked grouchy one minute and really nice the next, and that’s how he was acting that day when we drove up in that really old truck. It was his father’s truck. Sorry, I guess you know that. Then at the restaurant he lost his temper, and I really got scared. But then he calmed down a little, I guess because I started crying and all, and probably because everyone was looking at us; and then the restaurant guy told him about having to clean out his office or something like that; and then he lost his temper again; but this time he didn’t do anything to the restaurant guy. He just grabbed me by the arm and we left, and then we went to his office. And that’s it. Nothing happened.”
“Nothing happened?” I asked. I looked across the room to her mother, and she frowned at me. We were sitting in her living room, Jill and I next to one another on the sofa, Lillian on an easy chair and Bob Horner standing behind her. After numerous pleas and lengthy negotiations, they had agreed to let me talk to Jill, but there were rules, Lillian told me. “The child has been through enough. Her doctor says that it’s important for her to talk about these things, about her father, but only at her own rate, in her own way.” I was free to ask her what she remembered of that day, but when she no longer wished to talk about it, I was to back off.
“Well, nothing important happened. I mean, he just put some stuff from his desk into a box and took his guns down from the thing on the wall — the gunrack; and we left. In fact, he was pretty calmed down by then. He wasn’t smiling or anything: he was probably pretty bummed out by getting fired and all; but he was calm. Not like back in the restaurant. And later.”
“Later?” I said. “You mean, at the house, with Margie?”
Jill looked over at her mother and said, “I really don’t feel like talking about this stuff, Mom.” She was almost twelve at this time, tall for her age, but thin and awkward-looking. She sat calmly, almost placidly, wearing jeans and a bulky white cable-knit sweater, with her hands clasped together in her lap. It was clear that she would soon be a very attractive young woman, attractive in the same way her mother must have been and in fact still was — swift-moving, graceful, in control.
Horner cleared his throat pointedly, and when I looked at him, he shook his head a fraction of an inch. I stood up. “Well, Jill, I surely do thank you for being willing to see me and talk to me as much as you have. I know that it is not easy …, ” I said, and I heard Horner clear his throat again. I put out my hand, and Jill took it in hers and shook it lightly. I did not know what else to say, so I said nothing. I believe that I wanted to hug her, to hold the girl tightly, like an uncle, but I knew that I could not do that. Wade had made it impossible for me to be his daughter’s uncle. So I turned and nodded to her mother and stepfather. ‘I’ll let myself out,” I said, and walked to the door alone.
“I seen the cocksucker just once that day, when he come into the garage looking to pick up his car; only, Chub told me not to give it to him without him paying the bill first — which was close to three hundred bucks. He was pissed, tossed a shit fit right there in the garage, so I just muckled onto a fucking Stillson wrench and showed the sucker to him. I put the sonofabitch right up in his face like that, and he backed the fuck off. I don’t take that shit from nobody. Nobody. He give me a bunch of shit about how we used to be asshole buddies and all — which has not got a fucking grain of truth in it. Wade Whitehouse never liked me, and I never liked him, the cock-sucker. Piss on him. Ever since I was a fucking kid, he’s had it in for me, always trying to put my ass in a sling — which he could do a little bit easier when he was the fucking town cop; but now that he was just another John Q. Citizen, I was ready for the fucker. He caught me a few years ago, when he first got appointed town cop; he grabbed me swiping pumpkins one Halloween from Alma Pittman’s; I was maybe sixteen, seventeen, and he hit on me hard and told everybody I was a fucking Peeping Tom — that kind of creepy shit, which was ridiculous, fucking ridiculous. I can get laid anytime I fucking want to— which is not something Wade Whitehouse could ever say for himself — so why the hell would I go around peeping into some old broad’s window for? You ask me, he was the one doing the peeping, and that’s probably how he caught me swiping her pumpkins — which is just something kids around here do, you understand. On Halloween, I mean. What the hell, you grew up here: you understand. Anyhow, when he seen the fucking Stillson waving in his face, he backed off a ways and lit out down the road, toward Golden’s, as I recall, where I saw him pull in — he was driving his old man’s truck, I remember, and he had his kid with him. She stayed in the truck the whole time. That was the only time I dealt with the fucker that day. I should’ve split his fucking skull when I had the chance. I don’t give a shit he is your brother — you know I’m right. I don’t even give a shit you got it on tape: I didn’t do anything illegal.”