“You do that,” Celeste said, and looked relieved once her husband was gone. “He can be such an asshole.” She smiled. “He’s my husband, so I can say that.”
I forced a grin. “He’s okay.”
“He doesn’t get it. He thinks people should just suck it up, no matter what. Except, of course, when it’s something that’s happened to him.”
“Maybe he’s right. People have to move on.”
“Oh, come on,” she said. “If it had happened to someone else, if you knew someone whose wife and son had both been, you know...”
“Murdered,” I said.
“Right. Is that what you’d tell them? Just get over it?”
“No,” I said. “But I wouldn’t hound them, either.”
I knew it was a poor choice of words the moment I’d uttered them.
“Is that what I’m doing?” Celeste asked. “Hounding you?”
“No,” I said quickly. I reached across the table and took her hand in mine, aware of the absurdity of the moment. Here I was, comforting her over my reluctance to let her comfort me. “That came out wrong.”
“I’m sorry if that’s what I’m doing,” she said. “I just think that if you don’t deal with these things, if you don’t give a voice to your feelings, you’ll make yourself sick.”
I wondered when Celeste would get around to doing that with Dwayne. Dealing with him, giving a voice to her feelings.
“I appreciate your concern. I do. But I’m fine. I’m moving forward.” I paused. “I don’t see as I’ve got much choice. I’ve got work here. I’m getting referrals.”
To prove the point, I’d given my sister one of my new business cards. The words Cal Weaver: Private Investigations in black, raised type. A cell phone number. Even a Web site and an e-mail address. Maybe one of these days, I’d even be on Twitter.
“I worry about you in that apartment,” she said.
“I like it there. The guy who runs the bookshop, who owns the building, is a decent landlord, and he’s got a good selection of stuff to read, too. I’m good.” I figured if I said it enough, I might even believe it.
“It was smart, you moving back here from Griffon. After... you know.”
Celeste wanted me to face what happened, but could never bring herself to say what that actually was. My son, Scott, had been tossed off the top of a building, and my wife, Donna, had been shot. The people responsible for their deaths were either dead or serving time.
“Couldn’t stay there,” I said. “Augie had the good sense to leave, too. They’re down in Florida.” Donna’s brother, Augustus, the chief of police in Griffon, had taken an early retirement and, along with his wife, headed for warmer climes.
“You keep in touch?”
“No,” I said. After a few seconds, I nodded my head in the direction of the front door and asked, “How’s he doing?”
Celeste forced a smile. “He’s just out of sorts.”
“You guys okay?”
“He’s not getting so much work from the town.” Dwayne had a paving business. “They’re cutting back. Figure unless a pothole’s big enough to swallow up a car whole, they don’t have to fill it. Ninety percent of Dwayne’s business is with Promise Falls. The town’s always contracted out road repair. They’re just letting things go to shit — at least that’s the way it looks to me. I heard that Finley guy is gonna run for mayor again. He might be able to set things straight.”
I didn’t know much about him, except that his previous stint in the position had ended badly. We’d been living in Griffon when all that happened.
“Things’ll pick up for Dwayne,” I said, because it seemed like the thing to say. Maybe this was why Celeste wanted me to bunk in with them. She knew I’d insist on paying room and board. But I couldn’t live here, not under this roof. Not with my controlling sister and her moody, beer-guzzling husband. It didn’t mean I couldn’t help, however.
“You short?” I asked. “If you need some money, just something to get you—”
“No,” Celeste said. “I couldn’t accept that.” But she protested no further, and I wondered whether she was waiting for me to insist.
Next time.
I got up, gave Celeste a peck on the cheek and half a hug. On my way through the living room, I heard sirens.
As I came out the front door, the last in what looked like a convoy of half a dozen ambulances went screaming up the street. Dwayne was standing at the porch railing, beer in hand, watching the vehicles tear past, with a wry grin on his face.
“There’s always work for those bastards,” he said. “You don’t see the town layin’ them off, do ya?”
Five
Once he was out of the trunk, Derek ran. Not away, not back down the road, but past the gate and onto the grounds of the drive-in theater.
Toward the screams.
He couldn’t run directly to where the screen had fallen. A fence too high to scale ran alongside the driveway for about fifty yards. Once he’d cleared it, he doubled back, sprinting to the disaster site.
There were at least a hundred cars in the lot, and it was Derek’s experience, from the few times he’d been here, that hardly anyone parked in the first row, right in front of the screen. Just as most people didn’t want to sit in the front row of a conventional theater, and have to crane their necks at an awkward angle for two hours, very few were interested in leaning forward, heads perched over the dashboard, to take in a flick.
Except maybe for owners of convertibles.
It was a cool evening, but not too cool to drop the top, if you had a blanket or two. You put down the roof, reclined the seat all the way, and watched the show.
Derek was betting that the two cars that had been crushed by the falling screen were ragtops.
Everyone was out of their cars. Some stood by their vehicles, too shocked to do anything but look toward the collapsed screen in horror. Cars that hadn’t been buried in debris had still been hit by some of it. Many cars had busted windshields. Some of the people milling about in shock were unaware of the blood running from minor cuts on their faces. Others had their phones out, either making calls or taking video of the mayhem. Probably uploading it to Twitter and Facebook so they could brag that they were the first to do so.
There was random shouting.
“Call 911!”
“Oh my God!”
“Terrorists! It’s a terror attack!”
“Get out of here! Run! Run!”
But the only ones running were several men who, like Derek, were heading toward the collapsed screen. By the time he reached it, he was part of a pack huddling around the tail ends of cars that had been crushed. Several people were waving their arms, trying to keep the clouds of dust out of their faces.
Lots of coughing.
“We need a crane!” someone shouted.
“Has anyone called 911?”
“Where the hell’s the fire department?”
Derek was reminded of pictures he’d seen on the news. The aftermaths of earthquakes. Entire buildings crumbling into the streets. But Derek didn’t think this was an earthquake. It wasn’t as if the ground had opened up anywhere. The only thing that had come down was the screen.
And the noise he’d heard while he was still in the trunk, if he was guessing, sure had sounded like an explosion. Could there be gas lines or something under that screen? Propane tanks that linked to the concession stand, where they barbecued the hot dogs?
Or could that guy shouting about terrorists be onto something? Could this have been a bomb?
But how much sense did that make? If you were al-Qaeda or ISIS or whoever was the latest threat to world peace, was this part of your grand scheme to make America surrender? Blow up a drive-in in some half-assed town in upstate New York?