Grist Mill Road (30 page)

Hannah closed her eyes and started to make a really high-pitched sound, her body about ready to shake itself to pieces. My daddy just slapped her hard across the face, and she shut up right away.

I didn't even wait for him to ask me again. His name's Pete, I said.

Pete, said, my daddy. Sounds about right for a faggot. And what's this homo Pete's last name?

I don't know, I said.

My daddy gave Hannah's temple a little push with his gun, and then showed me three fingers, two fingers, one …

I don't know his last name, I yelled, waving my hands. I promise I don't know, I said, but he works for the Conservancy.

My daddy let the gun drop from Hannah's head. Well, in that case, he said, pushing it into the waistband of his jeans, you and I are about to go for a little ride, boy.

 

ROSEBORN, NEW YORK, 2008

Matthew crouches to tie a shoelace, twenty feet of gravel and dust between them, pausing to get a better look at Patrick, some indefinable air of sickness about him, as if the drive up has made him queasy. Does Patrick know where Hannah was this morning?

Maybe he shouldn't bring this up right now. Later, perhaps. He pulls the shoelace tight and thinks,
But before we go any further, I should level with him
. Matthew stands up, wiping his hands on his shirt. Patrick, there's something I need to tell you, he says.

What? says Patrick, looking somehow lost, as if their boyhood landscape is alien to him.

I know that you and Hannah are married, says Matthew.

Patrick's body turns stiff, Matthew raising his hands, as if to hold him back. But I promise you I had no idea when I first contacted you, he says. I found out later on, sometime after our brief meeting at Le Crainois. And I stuck to the promise I made you that day, I haven't tried to get in touch with you since. All I've done is reply to your messages.

A truck blows by headed east, a car going west. Patrick is toweling his face with sweeping hands.

There's something else, says Matthew. You remember Randy McCloud?

Sure, says Patrick, taking his hands from his face, looking immensely agitated, as if he might leave.

But Matthew keeps going, because everything can still be resolved, he truly believes that. This is where it happened, he says. This was the orchard where they found Randy dead next to his truck.

So what? says Patrick, the sense of agitation appearing in his voice now as well. What's the point of all this, Matthew?

The point is that the police never worked out who killed Randy, says Matthew. But I know who killed him. Matthew waits until Patrick looks him in the eye. It was my father, he says.

Something seems to drain out of Patrick as he looks down at the ground, then up again. OK, so you never shared your big childhood secret with me, he says.

Right, says Matthew. Well, it never came up.

A pickup drives by, and for a moment Matthew thinks he recognizes it, Pete's pickup truck, but it is just a green truck.

Why are we doing this now? says Patrick, squeezing his brow and closing his eyes for a moment.

You're right, you're right, says Matthew. I guess we're doing this now because I wanted to tell you everything, he says. But now I realize, I don't think I can.

Everything? says Patrick. Really? Why not?

Matthew wants to say,
Because you're married to the rest of it
. Only it feels like a bad idea to talk about Hannah again, something odd about the way Patrick reacted to her name. Matthew pushes his hands deep in his pockets. Look, he says, nodding sideways, I have something to show you, remember? And then we can talk after that if you like. You want to see what it is? he says, taking a few deliberate steps toward the orchard. The actual entrance is farther up the road, he says, but this is the best way to see it.

Patrick glances across at his car, then up at the orchard. Fine, he says. After you, then.

The orchard is set on a steep slope. Matthew heads up the hill, pulling an apple from a tree and taking a bite before throwing the
fruit away. They need another week or two, he says, looking over his shoulder, Patrick keeping his distance.

The day is absent of breeze, the air troubled only by the sounds of insects and traffic, cicadas and car engines, the growl of a motorcycle. Matthew stops at the brow of the hill, putting his hands on his hips. When Patrick reaches him, standing almost alongside, Matthew points down into the valley.

This is what I wanted you to see, he says.

The land drops away before them, the Swangum Ridge blotting out the horizon, and in the valley below, in an apple-fringed clearing, paint peeling from its weathered boards, there stands an old red barn.

We completed a few months ago, says Matthew, but I decided to hold off for a while before starting work. I own the barn along with most of the land you can see on this side of the road, including this orchard. More than enough apples for several kitchens. And the soil is incredible, glacial till, you can grow just about anything here. Plus it's a great location. Look at that view of the Swangums, imagine sitting outside at a wooden picnic table, watching the sun set behind the ridge. Not much competition from other restaurants, plenty of city folk at the weekends—climbers, hikers, second-homers … Throughout fall you could pull in the apple pickers and the leaf-peeping crowd. Weekdays and off-season, there are enough locals with money to sustain the business, this whole area's much wealthier now than when we grew up here. What do you think?

When Matthew turns to look at him, Patrick pulls his hand quickly from his eyes. I didn't realize the food supply business was so lucrative, he says.

It's just an old barn, says Matthew.

Plus all the land, the orchard, the huge loft in Tribeca …

I've been lucky, says Matthew. Most of my money comes from investments rather than the business.

You should give me the name of your broker, says Patrick, his voice almost suggesting there is something to laugh about here.

I use a few different places, says Matthew. There's a great guy
called Levine I could hook you up with. The returns are modest, but I like him—he has a country home in the Poconos where he cold-smokes his own salmon. But if you want something riskier with higher potential returns, the place I'd most recommend is called Idos Investments. Apart from having to deal with an asshole called Don Trevino, I have nothing but good things to say about them. Remind me when we're done here today and I'll put you directly in touch, the VIP treatment, you don't want to have to go through the minions.

Patrick only stares at him, his lips pale and stiff.

Is something wrong? says Matthew.

This was your plan? says Patrick. Just this?

I was in the middle of completing the purchase when I invited you to Le Crainois, says Matthew. I was going to bring you up here after our lunch. I only found out about Hannah later on, like I told you. Honest mistake.

Patrick doesn't say anything, just looks away from Matthew and stares down into the valley at the rickety barn.

Look, I know there's a lot we should talk about, says Matthew. And after this we'll go somewhere and talk everything through if you like, but why don't you just come take a look for now?

Matthew begins heading downhill, looking over his shoulder to see if Patrick is following. Patrick wipes his nose with the back of his hand and then starts to walk.

Work gets under way in a week, Matthew calls out over his shoulder. Some light landscaping to begin with, he says. We'll need a parking lot. The shell needs shoring up and eventually a new lick of paint. We basically need to gut the inside and renovate. We'll make everything from reclaimed barn wood—the bar, tables, flooring—and we need to build an addition at the rear for the kitchen.

They are close enough to the ridge to see the turkey vultures soaring over its sheer white face, sliding through the air, six or seven of them, like figure skaters tracing patterns in ice.

I know the right people to help out with the vegetable garden, says Matthew. We could be almost self-sufficient in a few years
on that front. Also I know all the best cattle farms, who has great chickens and pigs. And there are some excellent local cheese makers as well.
Local,
that's one of the magic words in the business these days. Plus, Maine's only a few hours away—a ready supply of lobster, fresh fish delivered before lunchtime, straight off the Portland dayboats. This could be the first restaurant of many.

The ground has leveled out, they walk across a small meadow of wildflowers, the lush grass speckled purple and yellow, and then along the last of the dirt track that leads from road to barn.

I know why you think you can't say yes, Patrick, I do understand, but you don't have to say anything right now. Everything can be resolved, says Matthew. I really do believe that.

Matthew stops when he reaches the front of the barn, its double doors held shut by a large rock leaning into a crack where the doors don't quite meet. You recognize that? he says, pointing at the rock. It's from up there, Swangum conglomerate, harder than granite. He lifts the rock, moving it to one side and swinging open one of the doors. I'm afraid you'll have to use your imagination, says Matthew, glancing over his shoulder and seeing Patrick closer now, before turning back, stepping inside the barn and breathing in the smell of the wood as he enters.

Breathing the good air—he turns to see if Patrick is breathing it too, but there isn't time to do anything but flinch as the rock smashes into his skull.

 

MATTHEW

I was in the passenger seat holding his Four Roses, my daddy driving slow, but still barely able to stay on both lanes of the road, let alone one.

Hell, take a swig, boy? said my daddy, nodding at the jug. Maybe it'll cure you some.

No, thank you, I said.

No, thank you,
he said, in a mockingly effeminate way. Now when did you stop calling me
sir,
boy?

When I lost all fucking respect for you.

My daddy found that funny. You're plenty brave for a faggot, he laughed.

I stared out of the window as if looking for an answer. It didn't happen, I said. Whatever you heard back there, she made it up.

Is that so? said my daddy. Is that so? I could see him checking his rearview mirror all cockeyed, so I turned to look over my shoulder. Hannah was a few hundred yards back, trying and almost failing to stay upright on her bicycle, leaving our driveway. But here's the thing, boy, said my daddy. Why would a pretty girl like that make up something so ugly, just the two of you in a room? You think I'm dumber than a box of rocks?

She got the wrong end of the stick, I said.

Ohhh
, so there
was
a stick? said my daddy. Well, why don't you tell me about it, this
stick
?

I looked out my window again as my daddy chuckled away to himself.

Come on, said my daddy, isn't that what she said? Now that would be one helluva lie for a young thing like that, sayin my son took an old dick and put it in his mouth. And we ain't the kind of family for lettin stuff go. My daddy slowed to a halt and squinted into his rearview again. You really sayin that girl's nothin but a filthy liar, boy? Because slander like that deserves punishin, he said. Now you listen good. If that little girl's a goddam liar, I'll turn right around and me and my friend, we'll be havin a few words with her, he said, touching the pistol in his waistband. Otherwise, if she's tellin the truth, me and my friend, we'll be havin a word with old faggoty Pete. Either way, me and my friend, we got some serious fuckin talkin to do. So what'll it be? Is that girl a goddam liar? he said. Or are you a goddam faggot?

I looked him straight in the eyes and said nothing.

My daddy shrugged and spun the wheel sharply before braking so that the car straddled both lanes of the road, and then shifted from drive to reverse.

Stop! I said. Just … don't turn around, please.

OK, said my daddy, but I'm only gonna ask you one more time. He clamped his eyes hard on me and said, Are you … an old man … cocksuckin … faggot?

I looked straight back at him and nodded.

Say it, then, boy. Say
I am a faggot
. I won't hurt you. I'm your daddy, for chrissake.

The alcohol was already beginning to drip from his pores.

I'm a faggot, I said, refusing to mumble my words.

My daddy put his hand to his ear anyway. Little louder for your old man, he said.

I could see Hannah wobbling closer on her bike, pausing when
she saw the car stopped up ahead in the road, and I shouted it hard in his face.
I am a faggot
.

Good boy, he said, patting my knee ever so gently. Good boy.

*   *   *

WE STOPPED IN THE CONSERVANCY
parking lot, only a couple of other cars there, and headed out on the red-blazed trail. As we walked, my daddy hung back from me five or ten paces, smoking his Larks and drinking his whiskey. Whenever we'd hit a fork in the trail he'd ask which way we should go to find Pete, squinting hard at me as I answered, sometimes nodding OK, sometimes chuckling, calling me a sneaky little so-and-so and waving his pistol in the other direction, a regular dowser of truth. Not that any of this mattered—I couldn't have led him to you anyway, it's not as if you worked at a desk.

My daddy was mumbling to himself as we walked, a monologue about fighting and faggots and gooks, questions as to my true paternity, a conclusion that in all likelihood I couldn't be his, that probably I was the son of
some pillow-bitin sailor boy
.

After a mile or so, just as we were coming to another fork, I heard my daddy swear loudly. I turned around, hoping he'd stepped on a rattlesnake, but unfortunately the cause of annoyance was simply that he'd finished his Four Roses. My daddy put the bottle down on a rock, marched away ten paces and then spun around with his black pistol pointed at the offending vessel. When he pulled the trigger there were two sounds, and neither of them was breaking glass, only the gunshot rippling through the air and the sound of a ricochet, bullet glancing from rock.

My daddy shrugged. Sometimes chicken, sometimes feathers, he said, staggering toward the empty bottle and picking it up. Then he walked over to me, passed me the bottle, and motioned for me to start moving. Up against that tree, he said, I need incentive to shoot straight, that's all.

I gave him the most hateful look I could muster.

I said stand against the fuckin tree and put the fuckin bottle
on your fuckin head, boy. I gotta be sure my aim's workin good when the time comes.

I did what he told me. I can't explain to you why I wasn't afraid, maybe it was just that I was overwhelmed by hatred, but I did close my eyes, I closed my eyes and thought about you, Pete, remembering the time you rushed up to me and Tricky one time to tell us the rules, no fishing in the lake, boys.

Then I thought about another rule—no hunting on Conservancy land—and imagined you hearing the gunshot. I could picture the way you'd hold your head trying to work out the direction the sound came from and how, if you found him, you'd walk up to my daddy all smiling and friendly.

That's when I heard a second shot and the smashing of glass. I waited a moment before opening my eyes. There was broken glass at my feet and my daddy was hands-on-knees laughing. Sometimes chicken, sometimes feathers, he hooted, I can't believe you fell for that, son, you shoulda seen yourself. Come on, boy, you know I was the best damn shot in my platoon. You don't remember? You fell for me missin that bottle from ten yards? I wish you coulda seen the look on your face, boy,
ooh hoo hoo
. That was a picture, that was a regular treat.

My daddy took another few seconds to recover himself and then waved his gun toward the fork on the right, still sniggering away. It was the path that led to Dinosaur Rock, there was a sign saying as much. Now come on, he said, let's keep moving. We still got us some faggot to hunt.

*   *   *

I CAUGHT SIGHT OF YOU
about ten minutes later. We were up high on Sunset Ridge trail and you were down in the barrens, the place you called the pine orchard. Sunlight flashed from your binoculars as you glassed the ridge, searching for the source of the gunshot, but my daddy was too drunken-eyed to notice you off in the distance. You were on the very same trail as us. From where you were standing, it would carry you straight to the
bottom of the ridge and then along its base a few hundred yards, before heading up steeply to join the section we were on now. I didn't know what to do. There weren't even any trail junctions where I could hope to get lucky or try and trick my daddy into picking the wrong route.

Sunset Ridge was nothing but rocks on rocks, large boulders you had to haul yourself over alongside smaller ones, football or softball-size. We came to a short rise with footholds like steps in the rock face, and when I clambered up, Dinosaur Rock was only a short distance away, big as a school bus, its jaw hanging over the edge of the escarpment. It looked to be the only place to hide from your binoculars for several hundred yards, so as I passed behind the dinosaur's tail, I faked a fall, letting my toe catch on a small fissure in the bedrock.

Well shit, laughed my daddy, who looks drunker'n a skunk now?

I rolled over and reached for my ankle. I think I twisted it, I said.

Walk it off, said my daddy. I had to make it through that jungle with guts drippin outta my fingers.

I touched my ankle and winced. My daddy pulled his Larks from his chest pocket and lit one. OK then, he said, five minutes, or I'm leaving you here for the buzzards. He sat down with his back against Dinosaur Rock to enjoy his Lark in the sun, closing his eyes against the dipping light and sucking peacefully on his cigarette.

I sat down and tried to think everything through. I pictured my daddy spotting you heading toward us on the trail. You wouldn't stand a chance—he had a gun, you didn't—and once he saw you, my daddy would whisper something like, You say a word, boy, I'll shoot you on the spot. Only there's no way I'd let that stop me, I'd yell, Run, Pete, run! Anything to give you more time. My daddy could go ahead and shoot me for all I cared, because if I didn't shout out a warning, I could picture exactly how that would go as well. My daddy would force you to get down on your knees and open your mouth, and then he'd make some kind of joke as he pushed the barrel of the gun between your lips.

I looked across at him in the goldening sunlight, a long husk of ash on his Lark. A moment later the husk dropped to his chest and my daddy didn't move, at which point a whistling sound came out of his nose.

The plan thudded into me in an instant, no need to think everything through. Right beside me was a football-size rock, Swangum conglomerate, tougher than granite. Picking it up, I moved over to him fast. It felt like nothing, bringing that rock down on my daddy's head. He didn't make a sound, just slumped over to one side, blunt force. There wasn't even much blood to talk about.

After that, I don't even remember it being that hard dragging my daddy over the polished bedrock, past all the names that had been carved there a hundred years ago. Once I got my daddy's limp body all the way to the edge, I stopped to look down at the pine orchard, bright green and tranquil and no sign of you. By now you must have been bounding up the steep rise to the ridge. You probably made it to the spot where my daddy smoked his last cigarette not long after it burned itself out.

I stood there for just a few moments enjoying the view, blue glimpses of skylake and cloud shadows drifting over the face of the valley. You can feel like a god in the mountains.

I knelt down beside my daddy, not so much wondering if I could do it, more wondering what it would feel like.

I saw his eyelids flicker, and I knew what he would say if he opened them, if he could see where he was.

You ain't got the balls to push me off this cliff, faggot.

I corrected him before he had the chance to say it.

It's called an escarpment, I said. And I pushed.