Authors: Jeremiah Healy
“Does tenure protect small-town teachers against charges of moral turpitude?”
Valerie gave a little laugh and let me go. Her eyes were bright as she smiled. “Just got out of the tub. You’re early, but I forgive you. Come in.”
She took my hand, and I swung the door shut. Her living room had a sunny bay window. Living in Back Bay and Beacon Hill, I’d grown used to fireplaces. There was none, but the room had a nice dining alcove under a beam near the kitchen. A half-closed door on her far wall showed the foot of a bed.
Valerie brought me to the couch and began talking as we sat down. “Aren’t you dying in that heavy shirt?”
I wondered if I also smelled rancid after the bridge encounter. “It is a little warm.”
Valerie released my hand and leaned forward to get up. As she did, her robe bowed forward and back. I was very much aware of her right breast and the tan line around it.
“Take it off,” Valerie said, still smiling.
I blinked up at her.
“Your shirt,” she said, the smile growing broader, “take it off. There’s a T-shirt I use as a nightie that ought to fit you.”
“No, thanks. Really,” I said uncertainly. “I’m all right.”
Valerie planted her fists on her hips, then looked resigned. “Well, if I can’t make you comfortable, at least I can get you a drink. What will you have?”
“Orange juice,” I said, and cleared my throat. “And a little vodka, if you’ve got it.”
“I’ll just be a minute,” and she trotted off—to the kitchen for the drinks, not to the bedroom to change.
Well, John-boy, what now? Beth now. Beth and my decision. The question was how to put the decision into words. Or actions. And when. Something was beginning to make me perspire again. I blamed the flannel shirt.
Valerie returned with drinks. From across the room, mine appeared awfully pale. Unless she reconstituted her frozen o.j. with a lot of water, she’d mixed me one whale of a screwdriver.
Valerie presented my glass as though the ritual was part of a Japanese tea ceremony. As she sat down, her robe did another callisthenic. I was positive she had known that it would.
“To lasting friendship,” she said, with a nice try at a naughty wink.
I took a sip. Almost pure vodka. “You should leave the orange peel in a little longer next time.”
Valerie rolled the ice around in her glass and looked me up and down. “You know, John, you have a great sense of humor, but you shouldn’t let it affect your taste in clothes.”
We both laughed. “Actually, I’m on my way to find Stephen.”
Valerie jumped forward and nearly spilled her drink as she set it on the coffee table. Her robe bowed out again and stayed that way. I kept looking into her eyes. Mostly.
“Oh, John, you know where he is?”
“I told Mrs. Kinnington I wouldn’t tell her, and I’ll not tell you for the same reasons. First, I’m not sure I do know where he is, and second, given Gerald Blakey’s general temperament, I don’t want anyone he could approach to know as much as I do.”
Valerie shot me a disbelieving look. “Oh, come on, John. Blakey wouldn’t dare try to intimidate me, much less Mrs. Kinnington.”
“I don’t mean to frighten you, Val, but I’m not sure he wouldn’t, if the stakes he’s playing for are as high as I think they may be.”
She slid her hand onto mine. The palm was cold from her drink and warm from her, incongruously both at the same time. “I’m not frightened.”
I leaned away from Valerie and against the backrest of the couch. My hand followed quite casually and naturally, and I interlocked my fingers in my lap.
Valerie turned sideways to me and brought her legs up into a figure-four on the couch. She spoke in a whisper.
“From the way you’re dressed and the things you’ve said, you expect to beat the bushes for Stephen somewhere. It’ll be dark in another few hours. Do you really think that you’ll find him at night?”
I cleared my throat again. “No, you’re probably right.”
Valerie closed her hand over mine again. “I’ve got the chicken defrosted and some Sylvaner in the ’fridge. I can’t promise you L’Espalier, but I can promise it will be nice.” Another hard squeeze.
Now was the time. Instead, I lied. “That sounds good.”
Valerie leaned over, kissed me lightly on the cheek, and nestled her head into my shoulder. She also began stroking the back of my hand with the tips of her fingernails. She had long, pianist’s fingers, and I noticed for the first time how long her nails were as well. I wondered how a teacher could keep her nails so long, since she probably participated in vigorous activities like recess. Then I remembered that school had been out for a while.
Finally, I began to realize that I was thinking about her hands to avoid thinking about the lump in my throat. Now it really
was
time.
“Valerie …”
She arched her head back and up, her eyes half-open, her lips slightly parted.
“Val, it’s just no good.” I sat forward, and she drew back, her face an open wound.
“What … What do you …?”
“Look,” I said, more testily than I had a right to, “it’s just not right between us. It just isn’t there.”
She began to look more mad than hurt. “What? What isn’t
there
?”
I began gesturing with my hand, making my points and waving her off at the same time. “A feeling isn’t there. You’re a nice person. A good human being. And sitting with you here so far has made me feel more warm than I have for months, since even before Beth died, because the last week or so she wasn’t warm, she was just getting slowly colder, slowly slipping away. But that warmth isn’t enough—there has to be something first, some kindred spark.”
“So now,” Valerie snapped, “now you’re going to say I don’t ‘spark’ you? That you weren’t excited to be near me?”
“No, that’s not it. That’s what’s drawing me, don’t you see? You’re real, and you want me to be with you and be a part of your life. And that, plus the physical attraction, is what’s drawing me to you. But I don’t want to make you a part of my life. I don’t feel toward you the way I felt toward Beth.”
Valerie threw up her hands and jumped to her feet. She crossed her arms and argued down at me.
“You big jerk! I’m sorry, John, but that’s what you are. I can understand that I’m the first woman you’ve let yourself feel anything for since your wife died, and I can see why that would make you feel, oh, awkward even, like I think you’ve been tonight. But my God, John, how can you expect to feel toward someone at onset the same affinity you felt toward Beth? I mean, you knew her for, what, ten years? That sort of thing takes time to grow, for God’s sake!” Her eyes were filling with tears.
“But that’s just it, Val. After Beth died, and in between binges with the booze, I read all sorts of articles—whole books even—on the need to rebuild, to start over in your life, block by block. The problem is, it’s wrong. Those writers were wrong, and you’re wrong. There really
are
special people in the world, people who are special to others from the word go, and that’s the way it was with Beth and me. She was the only woman I’d ever loved. She was the only one who knew me, who knew what I was thinking and could anticipate what I’d be doing. It was magic between us from the first time I met her.”
“Magic?” Valerie said disbelievingly. “‘Magic’?”
“Don’t you see? I knew Beth was the one the instant I met her, and she did about me. Call it our Catholic upbringing—or indoctrination, if you like—but that was the attitude I had, and despite all the other Catholic attitudes I’ve fallen away from, it’s the one I still retain. I’m right, Val, and all the others—you, the writers—are wrong. At least about me.”
Although Valerie had dropped to her knees in front of me, I’m sure she wasn’t mocking my references to religion. She put both hands on my knees and leaned her face toward, and almost into, mine.
“John, that sort of thing does happen, but when you’re young, maybe in high school or even college. Before too many disappointments hit, and you wake up to the fact that life carries … imperfections. But you’re ignoring reality by telling me that unless it’s ‘love at first sight,’ a relationship can’t work for you. That’s just not the way things are, John.”
I kissed her forehead and closed my hands over hers.
“I’m sorry, Val, but that’s exactly the way things are, at least for me. And if I kid myself any further about it, I really will be ignoring reality.”
She blinked away her tears and rose to her feet, her face taking on a determined look.
“I feel sorry for you, John. I really do. Not because your wife died, but because you’re letting you die after her.” Valerie Jacobs turned away, picked up our drinks, and began walking toward the kitchen. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to retract the dinner invitation,” she said over her shoulder.
I was already halfway to the front door.
As I drove away from Valerie’s place, I felt cold and empty. I just drove, barely aware (to my eventual regret) of anything around me.
The problem was, Valerie was right about one thing: It was far too late in the day to begin looking for Stephen. I took a county road that wound roughly north. When it crossed Route 9, I headed west.
I came pretty quickly to the Sheraton Tara, a large, mock-Tudor motor inn. It’s about twenty miles from Boston, where Route 9 and the Mass Pike intersect. I registered, ate a monstrous steak in the restaurant, and then downed several too many screwdrivers while watching some suave suburbanites rock and disco ’til closing.
“O
H,
I
’M SORRY
, sir.”
The maid was young and plain. She spoke with a heavy accent I couldn’t catch. And there was too much sunlight in the room. Backing out, she closed the door behind her.
I was atop one double bed, my pants on top of the other. I was still wearing my socks and flannel shirt. And my .38 in the calf holster. The air-conditioner hummed at the window, and as I sat up I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the low dresser-desk. Jack Lemmon, from
Days of Wine and Roses.
My watch said 11:35. Great. Real professional to get soused and not even leave a wake-up call.
I cleaned up, checked out, and was in my car on the Pike by twelve-fifteen.
The Lee exit was about seventy miles west. The traffic was moderate for a Sunday, which in Massachusetts means three car-lengths at sixty-five, despite the post-gas-crisis fifty-five speed limit.
The Berkshires sort of creep up on you, and they grow a little higher each mile westward as you drive into the valleys. I took the Lee exit and drove three miles north to Granville.
I went through Granville Center once, then turned around and parked near the church. A typical, small New England town. Catacorner from the church and across the common was a sporting goods-hardware-housewares store with front windows piled high with a mixture of plastic, wood, and iron items, more wood and iron than plastic. The front door’s wind chimes tinkled a rhythmless ditty as I opened it. A head bobbed up from behind the counter.
“Aftahnoon.”
I nodded in reply to the young clerk. Two years out of high school, probably the son of the owner. I was still decked out in my red flannel shirt with patch pockets, a pair of old Levi’s, and boots. My .38 was strapped under the pantleg of my left calf. It was still a little too hot for the shirt.
“He’p ya?”
“Hope so. I’m interested in an old cabin a friend of mine saw advertised in the
Boston Globe.”
He looked down a minute at the counter, lost in thought. It was a glass top over old newspaper clippings showing stringers of trout and deer hung for dressing, with the appropriate smiling sportsmen nearby.
“Ah don’t read the
Globe,
but ah can’t say as ah recall any cabin prop’ty ‘round bein’ fer sale.” Most western-Mass people do not have a New England accent, but this boy was a distinct exception.
I plunged on. “My friend said the ad mentioned an abandoned ranger station?”
The boy blinked and started rustling under the counter. He came up with an old topo map, a lot of pencil and pen marks on it. He spread the map so we could both look at it if we turned sideways. He pointed to Granville’s name on the map.
“We’re heah.” He moved his finger to a black box on a hilltop. “The station’s theah.” He next pointed to a perimeter road that went around the base of the hill. “Good road.” A spur went up the hill toward the station. “Loggin’ road’ll get ya closer. Fah-wheel drive?”
I shook my head.
“Wahl, then, leave your vehicle at the base of the hill heah. The last four-five hunnerd yahds you’ll need to climb on foot. More like hikin’, really.”
“Thanks,” I said, and turned to go.
“On’y thing is,” the boy said behind me, “no cabins t’all up theah.”
“I’ll check the ad, anyway.”
No cabins. Another nice cover, Cuddy.
I noticed him as I stepped into the sunshine. He was parked off to the side of the common in a different car than the one I’d seen before, probably a rental. He ducked his head into the magazine just a little too sharply when he saw me. My guess was, he’d picked me up at Val’s, possibly with Smollett’s help. It would have been a cinch to tail me to last night’s motel. Maybe he’d even planted a transmitting bug on the Mercury—no. No bug. More sophisticated than needed and probably beyond Gerald Blakey.
I kept walking back to my car.
I got in and started up. I couldn’t really fault myself for not noticing Blakey behind me on the Pike. But I damn well should have spotted him thereafter and before I led him to Granville. I decided to drive aimlessly, assessing my options.
First, I could try to take Blakey. I had my .38, but I had no justifiable reason to shoot him. I could fight him, but I’d never given away five inches and a hundred pounds before.
Scratch Option One.
Option Two was to head back to the Pike and into Boston. No good. Even Blakey’s minuscule mind would deduce that I wouldn’t drive nearly a hundred miles into the trees for their scenic value. He might trail me to and even onto the Pike, but sooner or later he’d head back and ask the store clerk what I’d been up to, which would put Blakey between Stephen and me.