I enter the small office and approach the counter, an ingratiating smile on my face. “Hi,” I say to the young woman, “I’m looking for a Sandy Walsh.”
As I am saying this, I can see into the office behind her, where a man is sitting at a desk. He gets up and walks toward me, a little better-looking and in better shape than I would prefer. I was hoping for someone a little more on the grotesque side, with some open, oozing sores on his face.
“Who shall I say is here?” the clerk asks.
I’m about to tell her a made-up name when the man from the office approaches, extends his hand, and says, “Andy Carpenter?”
This is baffling. How could he know who I am? Unless it’s from all those stupid legal cable shows I do. “Have we met?” I ask.
He smiles. “No. Laurie told me you’d be dropping by.”
So I’ve gone through this whole clandestine operation when Laurie knew all along that I’d go snooping around Findlay. Laurie is smarter than I am; the counter I’m leaning on is smarter than I am. “Well,” I say, trying not to appear pathetic, “I was staying in town, and I figured any old friend of Laurie’s is a friend of mine.”
“Let’s go get a cup of coffee,” he says, and we go off to do just that.
Within fifteen minutes of our sitting at a table in the local diner, probably twenty people come over and say hello to Sandy. He has a pleasant word and a smile for each of them; it’s apparent that this is a nice guy. It’s going to be hard to reconcile that with the fact that I hate him, but I think I can pull it off. Besides, I still have an ace up my sleeve, the knowledge from Sam that Sandy is married, though Laurie thinks he isn’t.
We’re chitchatting away about a variety of subjects when I smoothly bring up the subject. “Are you married?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not anymore. My wife passed away about two years ago. We were only married a year.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, but I should add, “that I’m such an idiot.” Sam obviously saw a computer record of the marriage but never thought to check for a death certificate.
He nods. “Thanks. It happened all of a sudden… brain aneurysm. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does.”
Just when I’m positive I couldn’t feel stupider, a woman comes over and gives Sandy a kiss on the cheek. “You must be Laurie’s friend Andy,” she says, holding out her hand. “She told us all about you when she was here.”
Sandy introduces the woman as Jenny, his fiancée. I smile through the pain; I can almost hear Laurie laughing at me from back in Paterson. It flashes through my mind that maybe I shouldn’t go back home at all, that maybe I can avoid humiliation by living the rest of my life in Europe or Asia or Pluto.
But for now I just say my goodbyes, pick up Adam, and head for Milwaukee. I can decide where I’m going when I get to the airport.
I opt for going home, and on the plane I have some time to reflect on what I’ve seen in Findlay. I’m sure it has its warts and problems like any other town, but it seems to be a nice place to live, in the classic “Americana” sense. I understand how Laurie must feel about it and how it must have felt to be ripped away from it.
If those feelings are anything like mine for Paterson, I’m going to be sleeping alone pretty soon. Paterson is a part of me and always will be. I even like its idiosyncrasies, such as the fact that all its famous citizens are number two in what they did. Louis Sabin, a Paterson scientist, invented the oral polio vaccine. It would have been a bigger deal had not Jonas Salk come first. Larry Doby of Paterson was the second black baseball player, three months after Jackie Robinson. Even Lou Costello, perhaps the most famous person from Paterson, drew second billing behind Bud Abbott.
Laurie is at the airport to pick me up when our plane lands. My big-picture plan is to apologize and ask her forgiveness for my surreptitious meddling; it’s the nuances of the apology plan that I haven’t figured out yet. For instance, I haven’t decided whether to include pleading, moaning, whimpering, sniveling, and drooling in the process. I’ll have to see how things go and take it from there, but I’m certainly not planning to let things like dignity and self-respect get in the way.
Adam says his goodbyes, and Laurie and I go to her car. Much to my surprise, she starts to bring me up-to-date on the investigation.
“We’ve got good news and bad news,” she says. “Which would you like first?”
“The bad news.”
“I found a witness who heard Kenny and Preston arguing the night of the murder,” she says.
“Has Dylan gotten to him yet?”
She nods. “He has now. The guy was afraid to come forward. Didn’t want to become Kato Kaelin when the shit hit the fan.” She’s referring to a key witness in the O. J. Simpson case, who became the butt of months’ worth of late night jokes on television.
“The good news better be really good,” I say.
“I think it is. The witness heard the argument when Kenny was dropping Preston off at his house. He saw Preston get out of the car and Kenny’s car pull away.”
She’s right; this is very good news. For Kenny to have committed the murder later that night, he would have had to come back. If he was going to do that, why leave in the first place? It doesn’t exonerate him by any means, but it makes it more reasonable to argue that someone else entered the picture that night.
“Did he say what they were arguing about?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not really… he just heard bits and pieces. And he didn’t actually see Kenny, but he ID’d the car. I wrote a full report; there’s a copy on your desk, and I have one with me.”
This is such intriguing information that for a moment I forget the Findlay disaster. I’m prepared to bring it up when Laurie starts talking about this great walk and run she went on with Tara today. Is it possible she’s letting me off the hook?
We get home without any mention of the dreaded F-word, which is how I’ve come to think of Findlay. Tara meets me at the door, tail wagging furiously and head burrowed into me to receive my petting. Her excitement at seeing me is something I never take for granted; it’s a gift to be loved this much.
I take Tara for a walk and go back to the house. Laurie is in the bedroom, looking much as she did when I left, except for the fact that she’s not wearing any clothes. It’s a comfortable look, so I try it myself. I like it, so we try it together. It works really well.
After our lovemaking my mouth decides to once again blurt something out without first having discussed it with my brain. “I was in Findlay,” I say. “I met Sandy Walsh.”
She nods, though she seems slightly groggy and ready for sleep. “I know. He called me. He liked you a lot.”
“And I liked him. But I went there behind your back to check up on him… and on you. I was looking for ammunition to use to keep you here.”
“Mmmm. I know. Can we talk about this in the morning?”
I’m anxious and nervous about this subject, and it’s barely keeping her awake? “Laurie, I’m sorry I did it. It was devious and petty, and you deserve better.”
“It’s okay, Andy. I’m not angry with you. I appreciate what you did.”
“Excuse me? Earth to Laurie, Earth to Laurie, come in please, come in please. Why aren’t you pissed at me?”
She gets up on one elbow, apparently having given up for now on the possibility of imminent sleep. “Andy, you did what you did because you love me, because you don’t want to lose me. You also might be concerned that I could make a decision I’d regret. So what if you didn’t tell me about it in advance? What you did wasn’t terrible, nobody got hurt. All in all, it makes me feel good that you did it.”
“Oh,” I say. “Good night.”