I asked him repeatedly about Edward Durant, but he only waved his hand dismissively as if the subject wasn't worth discussing. I persisted and after getting up for the sixth time for more beer, he told me the story.
They were together only two weeks. Durant's former cellmate was moved for an unknown reason and LePoint arrived in time to witness Edward's end.
I stayed in Maine for two days and ended up paying LePoint five hundred dollars to answer all of my questions. His story never varied. He said when you spend most of your life behind bars, you develop a hell of a good memory because about all you can do when you're there is keep running a soft cloth over your memories so they stay shiny.
On the drive back from Maine, I stopped in Freeport and wandered around the L. L. Bean store until a salesman came up and gently asked if he could help. Coming out of my deep daze, I looked at a tent that was immediately to my right and said I needed that. It sits in my garage now, the box never opened. I have never owned a tent but I will keep it to remind me.
When I could no longer contain it, I pulled off the road and called Frannie McCabe. I told him LePoint's story. When I was finished, his only response was, "Saying the word fire won't burn your mouth."
"I don't understand. What do you mean?"
"If that's what the truth is, then that's what it is. I'll come visit you as soon as I can. I got some things to tell you. But what he said makes sense. Oh, and Sam? We set the date. Gonna be a June wedding. Whaddya think?"
I wrote throughout the spring and into the early summer. Always vigilant, always alert toward what was going on around me. More than ever before. I had to finish the book fast and turn it in. Frannie had explained why and he was right. He said there was probably more danger now than before, despite what we knew.
So much of what I had learned I could use, but it all needed turning. Sometimes 180 degrees. Frannie helped the whole way. Following his instructions, I never spoke to him on the phone in my house.
Cass and I didn't see much of each other. I knew I had to leave her alone until she was ready but I ached for her. Every time the telephone rang, my hope jumped.
All that spring Durant was in and out of the hospital. He was in the last stages of his illness, but despite that he held on like a terrier. When the doctors admitted there was nothing more they could do for him, he said he wanted to go home and die there. They could not stop him.
He refused to let me visit because he said he looked too dead for his own good. We spoke often on the phone and despite his description, at least his voice sounded as robust as ever. Two days after I finished the book, expressed copies to my agent and editor, and verified they had received them, I called to tell Edward.
"That is spectacular, Sam! What a surprise! I had no idea . . . You have to give me a copy so I can at least start to read it before I die. I can't tell you . . . Oh, that's the best news I've had.
"Look, how about coming over for dinner tomorrow night? Bring the manuscript and we'll eat like French kings. Fuck what my doctors say! We'll drink every bottle of wine I've got left. This is a great occasion!"
The three of them were waiting in the driveway when I arrived. His two dogs wore small top hats held in place with rubber bands under their chins. Edward had on a normal-sized one that contrasted comically with the anthracite blue robe and pajamas he was wearing. He leaned heavily on an aluminum walker. His face was sunken and wan but his eyes were huge and lit like a child's on Christmas morning. He reached down slowly and picked up a bottle of champagne he had at his feet. He held it straight out in the air.
"Hail the conquering hero! The Germans would call you a Dichter. The greatest praise for a man of letters. Welcome!"
"This is quite a greeting."
"And well-deserved! I wanted to hire the Grambling marching band but they were already booked. Come on, come into the house. Is that it?"
I had the manuscript in a gray cardboard box under my arm. It was four hundred and seventeen pages long. Not so long. Not as long as I had once thought it would be.
"Yes."
"Fantastic!" He handed me the bottle and slowly led the way into the house, the dogs waddling eagerly behind him.
There were flowers everywhere. It looked like an arboretum of the most exotic, colorful flowers I had ever seen. All of the rooms smelled like paradise.
"All I need in here is Rima the Bird Girl to make it complete. Don't mind the flowers. It's just nice to have them to look at these days. They remind me of better things. Sit down. Do you want some champagne or a drink?"
"Champagne would be fine."
He started to open the bottle but stopped and closed his eyes tightly in pain. I got to him just in time and helped him over to the couch.
"Damn! I swore I wasn't going to let that happen. I asked my body for just one night and then it could do whatever the hell it wanted. We have to celebrate!"
I opened the bottle and poured into two beautiful crystal glasses on the coffee table. The same table where he had shown me the murderer's news clippings so many months ago. I handed him a glass.
"I'm sorry I can't stand right now, but here's to you, Sam Bayer. Here's to you and your book and a life that I hope brings you great surprises and much love." He took a sip and licked his bottom lip. "Ahh! Almost perfect. My tongue is off these days, but who can blame it? All these pills and medicines they have me swallowing . . . May I?" He gestured with his glass toward the gray box now sitting on the table.
"Sure." I drank. The sweet bubbles burned the back of my throat and made me want to burp. I watched as he took the box onto his lap and smiled.
"Do you mind if I take a quick look? I can hardly wait."
"Go ahead."
He pulled off the top of the box and gently lifted out the manuscript. "It's big! Heavy! How many pages is it?"
"A little over four hundred."
"That'll be, what, about three hundred and fifty pages when it's printed?"
"Something like that."
"A good size. And that title! A great title, Sam. Provocative, mysterious. It really catches you."
"Thanks."
He lifted off the title page and saw the dedication page. His eyes widened and he looked at me, perplexed. "Veronica? You dedicated it to Veronica?"
I sat forward. "Yes. Don't you think it's appropriate? She died for the book, Edward. Who did you think I would dedicate it to?"
"No, you're right! It's entirely appropriate. Don't forget, I'm a father, my friend. This is Edward's story and I only thought . . . Oh, it doesn't matter. We've got the book, right? That's what's important. The whole book is here and it's finished! And you did it."
Lifting off the dedication page to the first page of text, he began to read. As his eyes moved across my words, his smile fell slowly. I don't know how far he got. It didn't matter because everything was in the first sentence. Everything that mattered.
"The day after Edward Durant Jr. murdered Pauline Ostrova, Club Soda Johnny Petangles went around Crane's View writing 'Hi Pauline!' in two-foot-tall letters on everything he could find."
"What is this, Sam?"
"It's the story of your son and Pauline. Just not the story you wanted anyone to know. But it's the truth, Edward, and both of us know it."