“I wanted to ask you some questions.”
“About what?”
“About Muldaur.”
“Don’t want to talk about Muldaur.”
“Why not?”
“Because that was part of the bargain.”
“What bargain?”
He guffawed. Or whinnied. I couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was a guffaw-whinny. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“Gee, I haven’t heard that one since third grade.”
“Huh?”
“How about taking the gun out of my back?”
“Then how about you gettin’ in that car of yours and gettin’ the hell out of here?”
Then he started marching me back to my car.
I still had my hands above my head. There was a variety of animal poop all over the buffalo grass. I am happy to report that my black penny loafers didn’t touch any of it.
“What happened out there the day you took Muldaur snakin’?”
“Who tole you somethin’ happened?”
“You did.”
“I did? When?”
“When I saw you at Muldaur’s place. You said something like “He was the only one who made any money that day.””
“Shit,” he said.
“What?”
“You sure I said that?”
“I sure am.”
“Then I shouldn’t’ve. Me’n my big mouth.”
We’d reached my car.
He prodded and poked me with the barrel of his rifle. I got in and got behind the wheel.
“You just forget I said anything, mister.”
“I’m not going to.”
“Well, you damned well better,” he said.
“You can’t make me.”
“Bet I can,” he said, and put the tip of the rifle about three inches from my face.
“You always talk like you’re in third grade?”
“Do you? Now you get the hell out of here and you don’t bother me no more, you understand that?”
When I got back to the office, I got out my list and added a few more items.
Why were Sara and Dierdre Hall so angry at each other?
Who paid Parnell the printing costs?
What happened the day Muldaur and Ned Blimes went snaking? Jamie had left me a typed note:
I Finisshed Up Tyyping Earlie
So Me And Tturc Went Swimming.
This Time Wit Our Close On.
He-he. I Cracked A Funnie,
Mrr C. Jamie
Well, she was coming along, anyway, God love her. A couple of times she’d even mistyped her own name-? Jammie” and “Jaamie”-s hanging around Turk-excuse me “Tturc”-was apparently starting to pay off. The first time I’d interviewed her for the job, she’d told me, “My dad says he hasn’t got a lot upstairs, Turk I mean, and maybe he doesn’t. But he’s got a lot of common sense. Like one day this big dog was really growling at me and he had this kind of foamy stuff dripping from his mouth. And you know what Turk said?
He said, “Don’t try to pet him or nothing, Jamie. He looks kinda mad.” See what I mean? He’s got a lot of common sense, Mr. C.”
The Common Sense Typing Method.
A volume that should be in every school library.
Between 2ccji and 3ccec I got four calls.
Two of the callers were clients explaining why they couldn’t pay me this month, and two were people who wanted to sell me some things. Maybe if the first two callers came through with money, I might be able to buy things from the second two.
I looked through some court documents the county attorney had shipped me; a dunning letter from my alumni association; a copy of Time with Ike on the cover. The Wwii people would always be my true heroes. Even a little town like ours lost twenty-eight men and women in the war. And you never forgot. Some people talked about their war experiences and some didn’t. But whether they held their memories public or private, they could never let go of them. There are some things you go through that change you forever -even if you don’t want to be changed-and war is one of them. My dad still has nightmares sometimes, my mom says, and they’re always about his war experiences. I didn’t agree with everything Ike believed politically but I admired him a damned sight more than I did showboats like Patton and MacArthur. MacArthur I gave up on when he said we should drop atomic bombs on China. He enjoyed war too much to be trusted. He loved posing against a backdrop of explosions and bombed-out people trooping down lonely roads. I always laughed about what Ike said when asked what he’d done as an Army captain in the South Seas during the 1930’s, when he’d served as MacArthur’s secretary: “I studied drama under General MacArthur.” MacArthur never forgave Ike for that crack.
Just before Sara Hall was due, my dad called and said, “Don’t forget Monday’s your mom’s birthday.”
“God, I’m glad you reminded me.”
“She says she doesn’t want us to make a big deal of it. But you know better and so do I.”
“Mind if I bring somebody new? And she’s not a date exactly. Kylie Burke.”
“That newspaper girl? She’s sure a cutie. And nice, too. She interviewed a bunch of us at the Vfw last year. Sure, bring her.”
“Maybe Kylie can help me pick out a gift, too.”
“Well, I’m goin’ fishin’, son. Talk to you later.”
Four-fifteen and Sara Hall still hadn’t appeared. I picked up the phone book, found her number, dialed it. No answer.
Four twenty-one. A timid knock.
“Yes?”
“It’s Dierdre Hall, Mr. McCain.”
“C’mon in.”
She was dressed as she had been earlier, but her shades were pushed back on her head.
“Where’s your mom?”
“I-I’m not sure.”
“Boy, are you lousy at it.”
“At what?”
“Lying. Your entire face is red.”
“Oh, shit.”
“C’mon in and sit down and let’s talk.”
“I’m sorry I lied.”
“It’s all right. Just sit down. We can talk about your mom later. What I want to know for now is why you decided to come over.”
She hesitated a long time. “My mom’s going to kill me for coming here.”
“Let’s worry about that later.”
She scanned my office for gremlins, a pretty girl with more poise than one would expect in somebody her age. That was my thought, anyway.
But then she sort of spoiled the impression by jerking up from her chair, covering her mouth with her hand-the way I always did when the Falstaff beer started backing up-and rushed out the door to the john on the other side of the coatrack.
My charm had worked once again on a female.
They didn’t usually go so far as to barf literally.
Only figuratively.
The exterior door opened and Sara Hall, angry and frantic, rushed in, scanning my office much as her daughter had only moments earlier, and said, “Where is she?”
She wore the same outfit she’d worn earlier, too, but her shades were over her eyes.
“Who?”
“I don’t want any of your guff,
McCain. You know who. If you don’t tell me, I’ll have Sykes arrest you for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Or maybe statutory rape would be even better.”
“Why don’t you sit down and quit acting crazy?”
“Where is she, McCain? I’m serious about calling Sykes.”
And then we both heard Dierdre throw up for the second time.
“Oh, Lord,” Sara said. She didn’t sound angry; she sounded drained, weary.
She came in and sat down and took off her sunglasses and then covered her face with lovely fingers.
“Sara, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
She shook her head. Said from behind her hands, “I can’t, McCain. I wish I could. I wish I could tell somebody, anyway.” Then, “This is when I resent my husband dying on me. He should be here. He was stronger than I was with things like this.” Then, whispering, “This whole thing.”
I almost asked what whole thing.
“You’re not weak,” I said.
“No, I’m pretty strong. But this whole thing-”
We were back to the this-whole-thing thing.
Toilet flushing. Water running. Paper towel being cinched free from the dispenser. Door opening.
She came up to the door and said, “Mom!”
Sara turned in her chair as if she’d been shot.