at him.”
It will be easy enough to check this out through John’s abstract company.
“Well, I remember the Taylors pretty much ostracizing us after my father died,” I say.
“I guess that’s the reason.”
The old man closes his eyes as if the sight of me hinders his memory.
“It was a hard time for her, but she kind of did that to herself. She got real bitter. I think she felt like everybody was supposed to ignore her debts and got mad when they didn’t. I was about the only friend she had left, and sometimes I think that was because she didn’t owe me anything. She was in debt to people while she sent you off to Subiaco. That hacked some people off, too.”
Though it is cool inside his house, I feel sweat dripping down my sides. Have I really mis remembered so much of the past that none of it makes sense to me? What is making me feel out of synch is that I am realizing that I don’t understand what I do remember about it. This old man has no ax to grind.
“Were you around when Paul Taylor got my grandfather’s remaining property by paying her taxes?”
Mr. Carpenter bobs his head up and down like a sparrow drinking from a pond.
“I couldn’t believe she would be so negligent. She showed me the notices afterward. She just couldn’t believe anybody would do that to her. But if it hadn’t been Paul, it would have been somebody else. She was kind of a lost soul by then. See, my theory is, your grandfather had overprotected her. It would have been okay if your dad had stayed healthy.”
My mother, a lost soul? I feel guilt seeping into the room like carbon monoxide. I never thought of her that way. Now, I see that my father, until his drinking and schizophrenia destroyed him, was the stronger of the two. After he died, she hid her weaknesses behind a naive belief that nobody would dare hold her accountable for her life after all she had been through. Where was I? Where was Marty? She was off being a hippie, rebelling against the world, while I was off saving it in the Peace Corps. Were we so selfish we didn’t see what was happening to her?
“For some reason I always thought of my mother,” I admit, almost dazed by these revelations, “as tough, even feisty.” “An act,” Mr. Carpenter says, almost apologetically, as if he can smell my guilt.
“She was scared to death beneath all that sarcasm.”
“Did she begin to drink too much?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“More than she should have,” he says, and actually sighs.
“I should have helped her on that.
Too many of us did drink too much, of course, and still do.”
And certainly a fault that has carried over to her son. I put down the empty can, noticing that I have made small dents in it with my fingertips. I realize I came over here secretly hoping that he would tell me how wonderful my mother was, and how badly the Taylors exploited her. Instead, for the first time I realize how badly I neglected her.
As if he were back in class giving me time to answer, the silence fills the room as he waits for an explanation of my seeming inability to get a single detail right from my past in Bear Creek. Why should he be surprised? I’ve had thirty years to get it wrong. Sensing my humiliation, Mr. Carpenter asks, “How’s the case going? I still can’t believe Paul would be involved in a murder. But maybe so. Getting old doesn’t make you get better.”
“Is it true that he and Mae Terry are good friends?” I ask, ignoring his question as I put the beer can down on the coffee table in front of me.
A sardonic smile comes to Mr. Carpenter’s face.
“I think they are, but Mae is a lesbian. You knew that, didn’t you?”
I squint hard at the old man in the dim light, wondering if he is pulling my leg.
“You’re kidding!”
Mr. Carpenter finally takes a healthy sip of his sherry.
“The girl who moved here from North Carolina and has taken care of Mae
is her friend,” he says discreetly.
“There’s no doubt about that in my mind.”
What a dupe I’ve been. So Angela constructed that scenario to keep me from suspecting she had an affair with Paul. My undershirt feels clammy, and I wonder whether Mr. Carpenter can smell my fear and embarrassment. What else has she been lying to me about? The chair I’m sitting in has begun to pinch every part of my hips.
“I need to get on the road, Mr. Carpenter,” I say, and get to my feet.
“I appreciate the beer.”
The old man looks crushed. Yet what does he expect?
“Your mother was a fine woman. The circumstances were just too much for her. Women are better prepared today to take care of themselves.”
“I’m not upset,” I lie, edging toward the door.
“I just need to get on the road. We’ll get together again.”
I head out into the soft spring air, thinking that tomorrow I will call my sister for a long overdue chat. Marty has long warned me away from eastern Arkansas. I used to think it had to do with my grandfather’s liaison with a black woman. Now I’m not so sure. If I’m not capable of understanding my past, what chance do I have to understand what is going on over here now? I look at my watch. It is only 9:30, and desperate to do something that will help my client, I drive by Darla Tate’s house and
see the glow of her television through the window.
Darla is Doss’s last hope, and I go up to the door and boldly knock on her door as if I am a late-arriving dinner guest.
Barefoot and in a pair of brown shorts, she opens the door with a can of Miller Lite in her hand. I apologize for not calling, but she invites me in with a shy smile that suggests to me that she hopes I might be staying for a while. If she knew that inside my shirt I was wringing wet, she might not be so eager.
Embarrassed anew by her obvious hopefulness, I sit down (there is no evidence of her boys), decline a beer, and get right to the point.
“Now that you’ve had time to think about it, is it possible you might have mistaken,” I ask, trying not to sound as if I am too desperate, “someone else’s voice for Doss’s that day when you were in the bathroom?”
The sad little smile on her face is not reassuring.
“I’ve been reconstructing that moment and comparing others’ voices with his,” she says, carefully, “and now I’m more convinced than ever it was Class. I’m really sorry.”
Shit! I feel depression clamping down like a fist on my will to think.
“You’re absolutely sure?”
I ask.
“Don’t be mad at me, Gideon,” she says, her tone becoming anxious.
“You wouldn’t want me to lie, would you?”
“No,” I say, telling myself not to be angry at her.
“I just thought you weren’t so sure.” Why should I be pissed? She is merely confirming what Class has admitted. Of course. Class may have been calling someone else, not Paul.
“I didn’t want to,” she says, her voice wistful.
You don’t score points with a man you would like to ask you out by convicting his client.
“It’s okay,” I say.
“If that’s what you think, you have to say it.”
Her eyes follow mine to her muscular legs, and she awkwardly covers her thighs with her large, rough hands.
“Are you absolutely sure Muddy didn’t drive back over and murder Willie?” she asks.
“I thought I had solved the case for you.”
There is self-mockery in her voice. She knows I’m not interested in her as a woman; yet I know the feeling. False hopes are among the last
things we give up.
My heart no longer in it, I ask how the plant is doing, and she says that Eddie appears finally to be getting a grip on the costs that were eating the plant up. Once the trial is over, things should settle down and get back to normal. Life goes on, her manner suggests. I leave after a few more minutes, thinking that is easy for Darla to believe.