Authors: Andrew Coburn
She was suddenly on her feet, leaves racing past
her. Her hair flew across her face. "Some evening
you must come to dinner."
He looked up at her. "Why?"
"So you can meet my friend. I think you need
each other."
He dined at Mrs. Perrault's house, just the two of
them. The elder sister had recently joined the
younger one in the nursing home in Andover.
"They're gone, and I'm glad," Mrs. Perrault said,
serving him a pork chop, mashed potatoes, and
peas. "I don't miss either of them, Ida least of all."
Morgan added gravy to the mashed potatoes
and laid a sliver of butter on the peas. She had
poured him a glass of milk, as if he were still a
growing boy.
"Ida stopped taking care of herself. She didn't
even bathe half the time, and I won't go into other
details since we're eating. How's the chop?"
"Fine," he said, though it wasn't. It was undercooked, which worried him a little.
"I'll never let myself go like that. Thank God I
got different genes." Her permed hair had a bright hue. Her appetite was good. With an accusing
look, she said, "I've been hearing stories about
you, James. I hope they're not true."
"What stories?"
"I don't care to repeat them."
"They're not true," he said quietly.
"Good, then I won't say anything more. You
haven't said anything about the picture."
A crayon drawing of an elephant on manila paper was attached to the refrigerator door. He had
avoided looking at it until now. "Claudia's?"
"She did it when she was in the third grade. I
used to save all her drawings. I came across that
one in the attic." A few peas fell from her fork.
"I've often pondered where God got off making an
elephant. I mean, what could have been going
through his mind?"
"Maybe he was having a little fun," Morgan said.
"But at the poor beast's expense. That's not
right, is it?" She glanced away. She looked old only
at odd moments when her small jaw hung slack.
And why did he make twisted people? That's
even worse."
"I suppose Reverend Stottle could tell us. I can't."
"I spoke with Claudia the other night. It
couldn't have been a dream, it was too real. She
asked about you, James. I told her you were doing
all right. Strange, she wasn't wearing her glasses,
and her hair was different. She asked how I liked
it. You think I'm going batty?"
He reached across the table and touched her
hand.
"When that boy gets out, I hope I'm gone," she
said. "I hope I'm deep in my grave."
Morgan returned his gaze to the drawing. The
elephant was colored pink, its trunk raised as if to
drink from the cloud drawn above it.
"Aren't you going to eat your chop, James?"
"Yes," he said and picked up his knife.
Trish Becker and Gloria Eisner attended a party in
the Heights, at the home of the Gunners. Paul
Gunner was obese from birth and filthy rich from
the recent sale of his software company. The party
was garish and loud, people from Andover and
Boston adding to the mill. A five-piece orchestra
added to the din. Paul Gunner's voice shot into
their faces. "Enjoy yourselves!"
Gloria was a striking fixture in a tuxedo jacket
and short skirt. Trish wore a silk dress that quivered. A man with a great head of hair told her he
imagined her Rubenesque out of it. Stirred by the
hot notes of rapid music, he tried to dance groin to
groin with her. She pushed away.
"No thanks."
A man in a beige shirt with an upturned collar
cornered Gloria and engaged her in quiet conversation, as if to establish trust, which went for
naught when he began telling her of his latest experience on a water bed. Later she circulated with
an eye out for someone who might be worth her
interest. Only other women were candidates.
A man with too much to drink told Trish she
was a wish granted, and she said, "Think again, Buster.' She caught up with Gloria and said,
"Everyone's hitting on me. I'm getting bruised."
Paul Gunner was plowing toward them, couple
of fellows he wanted them to meet. Gloria's eye
was on the rise and sink of his belly. He looks like
a funhouse," she whispered. They got away from
him, snacked voraciously from a platter of baked
stuffed mushrooms, and then sought their coats,
two minks among many. The cloakroom attendant
was careful that they got the right ones.
On the way home, Trish driving, Gloria said,
"What a fucking bore."
"There's still hope here," Trish said. "I know
someone who might interest you. You should
meet him."
"Does he have money?"
"Absolutely none, I'm sure."
"Then why should I meet him? Is he handsome?"
"Not so much handsome as refreshing," Trish
said. "That's it, refreshing."
The week before he was scheduled to leave Sherwood Dibble came to a decision actually made
some months ago and stored in the back of his
mind. In the night he woke Bobby Sawhill and in
the dark told him about it. Bobby didn't believe
him, thought he was fooling.
"This way I get to stay," Dibble said. "You understand?"
Bobby felt a chill in his stomach. "You don't
mean it."
"I ever say anything I didn't mean?"
"No, Dibs, never. Not the whole time I've been
here, but don't you want to get out?"
Dibble laughed and slipped into his jeans.
"What's out there for me? Name one thing."
"I'll be out too in time. We'll be out together."
"In here, Sawhill, we're in the same world. Out
there we'd be in two different ones. You're white,
I'm not. Here, I'm a prince. Out there I'd be
dogshit." Dibble stood over him. "You want to
come and watch? I wouldn't ask anyone else."
They padded barefoot down a long corridor to the
toilets, Dibble in jeans, Bobby in skivvies. The silence was stunning. Duck's ghost stood by the sinks,
scrub brush in his hand, a silly smile on his face.
"You see him, Dibs?"
"Yeah, I see him. Get out of here, Duck. This is
not for you." Dibble opened the door of the storage closet and rummaged past mops and buckets
for what he had stashed.
"I have to go to the toilet," Bobby said.
"Make it fast."
Bobby entered one of the stalls and, lowering his
skivvies, sat on the cold open seat. He'd thought
he had to go, but now he couldn't. He felt he was
being lowered into a well and would have no
means of getting out.
"Wash your hands," Dibble said when he came
out of the stall.
"I didn't do anything."
"Wash 'em just the same."
"I'm afraid, Dibs."
Dibble was working a length of rope. "It's a kind of slip knot," he said. "Guy in Dorm C showed me
how to do it." Standing on a metal chair, he secured the rope to a steel fixture on the ceiling and
gave it a yank to test it.
"You're not really going to do it, are you, Dibs?
Mr. Grissom won't like it."
"This will tell him I've never been his boy. He'll
hate me, but you'll be all right, Sawhill. Just remember the stuff I told you."
"What will Sharon think?"
"She'll understand."
"She's white."
"Next time look at her real close."
Bobby moved from one side of the chair to the
other, a panic building. "What will it be like,
Dibs?"
"Oblivion. Nothing more, nothing less."
"I don't want you to do it."
"It's what I want that counts," Dibble said, looking down.
The noose was around his neck. His stomach
muscles were flexed.
"You got the honors, Sawhill. Kick away the
chair."
"I don't know if I can."
"I'll do it myself."
Bobby started to cry. "Dibs, don't."
If you can't do it, get out of here."
Bobby kicked the chair.
He didn't sleep. He lay on his cot and let the pain
from loss embrace him. The embrace was comfort ing because it was familiar. Swept from his mind
was the agonized expression on Dibble's face, as if
he'd been poisoned. In its place was a false and
peaceful one.
He didn't go to breakfast. Nor did he report to
his job in the library. He stayed in his room until
the attendant named Pete pushed open the door
and said, "Grissom wants to see you. Guess you
know why." He got into his sweats and sneakers
while Pete smiled. "Whole place knows about it.
Guess you knew first."
They skirted Dormitory C, from which a swell
of voices rose. Bobby's sneakers and Pete's crepe
soles muted their steps. Pete stroked his beard.
"We ain't had such excitement since Duck went
out feet first."
"He's still here, some of him," Bobby said.
"Yeah? What about Dibble?"
"I haven't seen him yet."
When they reached Mr. Grissom's office, Pete
turned away.
"You're on your own now."
Mr. Grissom was seated behind his orderly desk
and wearing a shirt and tie instead of sweats. The
set of his face was no different from any other
time, except that he seemed more official now, his
voice deeper.
"You were there, weren't you?"
Bobby stood with his hands behind his back,
military style, parade rest. "Yes, sir."
"Why didn't you stop him?"
"He didn't want me to."
"Did you help him?"
"He asked me to."
Mr. Grissom's stare sharpened noticeably.
"Some of us never should have been born, Sawhill.
Dibble was one, you may be another."
Bobby nodded as if he had no argument with that,
no quarrel with anyone, least of all Mr. Grissom.
"You and Dibble were pretty close, weren't you?"
"Sometimes we slept with our heads on the
same pillow," Bobby said with a smile.
"I suspected that. He left me a note, Sawhill. I
have it here. He said he wanted his death to count
for something since his life didn't. That's a coward
talking. He left you, betrayed you, you realize
that?"
"No, sir. It wasn't that way."
"You're absolutely right, Sawhill. It wasn't that
way at all. It wasn't a suicide, remember that. It
was an accident."
"No, sir. It was-"
"You're not listening. It was autoerotic asphyxiation. Do you know what that means? It means
Dibble was getting his rocks off and went too far.
We've had that here before, we'll have it again. It's
something boys do, some boys, not you."
Bobby wanted to return to his room and sleep.
Sleep was a retreat. Sleep strapped him into himself, placing him where he had long ago been.
"The police will be here," Mr. Grissom said,
"but there's no need for you to be involved. You'll
stay in your room. If you're smart, Sawhill, you'll
come out of this all right. In fact, even better. You want to take Dibble's place? You want to wear
T-shirts and jeans?"
He wanted his head in a pillow, Dibble's.
Mr. Grissom planted both elbows on his desk.
"Dibble was my eyes and ears. He let me know
what was going on. How tall are you now? You
must be six feet, and you got muscles. You don't
have to be strong, just look strong. And always use
good English. It sets you apart. Even better is you
get to keep your room, no going into a dorm. You
want the job?"
Bobby didn't need to think about it. "Yes," he
said. "I want to be Dibs."
Chief Morgan was a dinner guest at Trish Becker's.
Trish, with some help from Gloria Eisner, had prepared something fancy with sea bass served in a
spicy sauce not entirely to Morgan's taste, though
neither woman would have guessed it from his appetite. Dessert was a variety of sliced fruits, papaya and plum among them. Trish poured coffee
into delicate cups that had the aspect of sea shells.
Morgan feared his would shatter in his hand.
All were in pleasant moods from aperitifs served
before dinner and French wine during it. The
liqueur was creme de cacao, which they carried
into a room where a fire was going, the log applewood. Morgan sank heavily into an upholstered
chair.
"I'm flattered," he said. "I didn't realize I'd be
the only guest."
"We wanted you to ourselves," Trish said.
"We've never known a policeman, and certainly
not a chief."
"Though you don't look like one," said Gloria,
seated nearest him. Patterned hosiery gave her
crossed legs the look of chased silver. "I'd have
guessed an architect or an engineer."
"Not a townie?" he asked.
"Certainly a townie. You have that air of belonging."
He smiled at the two of them. "I feel I'm on exhibit."
"Good," the voice was Trish's. She wore dark
eyeliner and showed cleavage. "Now you know how
I feel when I have business around the green. The
townies stare at me like I'm from another planet.
And by the way, Chief, Reverend Stottle is coming
on to me again. Should I swear out a complaint?"
Morgan sipped his liqueur, the taste coating his
tongue. "Why do you keep calling me `Chief?
James is fine. Jim, if you wish."
"I like James," Gloria said. "I've not yet met
Reverend Stottle. Is he a local character?"
"Only a preacher with a thirst for the unknowable," Morgan said.
"Must be frustrating for him. He obviously
wants to know Trish in the biblical sense."
Trish rose with a flourish, her dress animating
her large shape. "I have things to do in the kitchen.
I'll leave you two alone for a minute."
Gloria recrossed her legs. "It'll be more than a
minute. She's trying to fix us up. She thinks you'd
be good for me, which means I should ask you
some questions. Are you of a gentle nature,
James?"
"I've never known myself to be violent."
"How's your health? You look fit."
"Mentally, I have my moments."
"Teeth?"
"Intact. More or less."
The liqueur bottle, ornately crafted, stood between them on a miniature table. Extending an
arm, Gloria refilled the little glasses, which
sparkled into gems. The play of firelight on her
slender face gave no hint of her age except to
lessen it. "A relationship is bound to lead to sex.
How are you in bed, James?"