Authors: Andrew Coburn
"I've never rated myself."
"My eyes cross when I come. Like this," she
said, demonstrating.
"Mine bug out," Morgan said, not missing a beat.
Her laughter pleased him, soft on the ear. Her
voice was plummy. "Are you tipsy, James?"
"Aren't you?"
"Warmly so. Nice fire. If you had money I'd
marry you."
"I( I had money," he said, "I'd be hard to get."
When Trish returned with a tray of leftover
dessert fruit, they were content with their creme
de cacao, the taste of which Morgan was beginning to like. The fire held his gaze.
"Have you two hit it off?" Trish asked.
Morgan closed his eyes. "She's been teasing me."
"But he's been letting me," Gloria said. "He's a
good sport."
We need a good sport," Trish said. "A good
sport who's a friend. Did you hear me, Chief?"
"James, we're talking to you."
He was asleep.
The mail had come. Sorting it, Belle Sawhill was
horrified when she came upon a small envelope
postmarked Sherwood and addressed to her
daughters. They had long ago stopped writing to
their cousin, and now, after all this time, he was
writing to them. Trembling, she folded the envelope in half, unopened, and shoved it into her skirt
pocket.
She was alone in the house, the girls still at
school. No matter where they were she worried
about them. They were at that awkward pivotal
age, their bodies turning into events, their breasts
noted for their early fullness. Boys were already
phoning them, an obscene call now and then.
Sammantha could handle it, but she was not so
sure about Jennifer.
Sammantha was quicker in school but studied
less. Jennifer, who applied herself, got the better
grades. Sammantha kept a diary under lock and
key, Jennifer wore her feelings on her face. A terrible tease, Sammantha could, if she chose, reduce
her sister to tears but seldom did. Each was
fiercely protective of the other. That protectiveness, Belle sometimes felt, was their weapon
against the world.
Composing herself, she telephoned her husband
and spoke in a clear rapid voice. "Bobby's written
a letter to the girls. I'm not giving it to them, I
don't care what you say."
"I didn't say you should," Ben said evenly. "In
fact, I'd rather you didn't. What does it say?"
"I haven't opened it."
"Do it," he said. "I'll hold on."
She wedged the receiver between her jaw and
shoulder and ripped the envelope open, a jagged
piece of the flap falling to the floor. In her hand was
a single sheet torn from a pad. The handwriting in
the body of the letter was small and neat, but the
signature was bold and big, unequivocal, manly in
its sweep. It seemed about to spring off the paper.
"What's it say, Belle?"
She was reading rapidly and feeling sick. "He
says they can visit him if they want."
"No way. What else?"
"He says he's a boss now, a big shot."
"He must be dreaming."
"Ben "
"What?"
"He says he saw Jesus on the cross. He says the
cross was a rope." She began to cry. "He's really
crazy."
"I'll call Grissom," Ben said.
Gloria Eisner, wearing a black sweatshirt and gray
tights, came in from a run, which had taken her
throughout the Heights, past all the grand houses,
spacious lawns, and stone lions, and beyond,
nearly to the Andover line. She pulled off her
headband and let her hair fall loose. Her face was
full of color. Trish Becker, glancing up from a magazine, said, "I should've gone with you."
"Yes, you should've. Tomorrow, OK? No excuses."
"I have to get off my ass."
"We've just agreed to that. Any calls?"
"No," Trish said. "Can't understand it. I was
sure he would."
Gloria counted on her fingers. "How many
days? Three. Four? I must've scared him. off."
"I hope not. But I was right about him, wasn't I?"
"You weren't far off," Gloria said absently. She
had brought in the mail and was tossing bills to
one side and advertisements to another. "Two letters. One for you, one for me," she said, passing
Trish hers.
Trish thought hers might be from one of her
children, though she doubted it, and then knew it
wasn't when she didn't recognize the handwriting.
Gloria's was from Key West, the stationery of fine
quality.
"Mine's from Barry." She read quickly. "Stirling's sabbatical is over, but he's not going back to
teach. He's staying in Key West. Barry says they
haven't missed a sunset, wishes we were there to
share it."
"I didn't know you two kept in touch."
"I wrote him." Gloria smiled. "Stirling's doing
OK."
"That's wonderful," Trish said abstractly. She
was reading her own letter, squinting at the penmanship, though the signature sprang at her.
"Who's it from, Trish?"
"Harry's son."
"Christ! The killer kid. Why's he writing you?"
Trish tucked the letter back into its envelope
and looked away. "He wants his father's Rolex."
"Give it to him. You don't want it."
"I don't have it. Ben does."
Trish rose from her chair and headed to the
kitchen. Gloria followed her. In the kitchen Trish
opened a can of peaches with extra-thick syrup,
found a spoon, and began eating from the can.
Gloria said, "What's the problem? Tell Ben."
"Yes, I'll tell Ben. Everything will be fine."
Gloria hovered. "That kid scares you, doesn't he?"
"Scares the fucking pants off me. Wouldn't he
you?"
"Yes, he would. Are you going to eat that whole
can?"
"If you don't mind."
"Get out of Bensington, Trish. You don't need to
live here."
"You're right, I don't. But I'd always find a reason to come back. If it wasn't Ben, it'd be Harry's
grave." She licked the syrup off the spoon. "Now
you know why I want the chief in our corner."
Meg O'Brien told Chief Morgan to pick up, a call
for him. The voice he heard was Gloria Eisner's, and
he wished the door was closed because he sensed
Meg was straining an ear. Gloria said, "You haven't
called, so I'm calling. Does that bother you?"
"Not in the least," he said, keeping his voice low.
"I apologize for falling asleep. I wasn't used to
those fancy drinks."
"Are you a beer-and-pretzel man, James?"
He spoke louder than he meant to. "You want
the truth? Chocolate milk. I've gone from Hershey
to Bosco and back to Hershey."
"I should be wary. One of my ex-husbands was a
chocoholic. Are you busy, James, or can you tear
yourself away for a bit?"
"What have you got in mind?"
"How about a nice simple thing, like a walk?"
He chose the place, Paget's Pond. She knew
where it was. Stepping out of his office, he tried to
ignore Meg, who was giving him a choice look. As
he passed her desk, she said, "What kind of conversation was that?"
"Private," he said, reaching the outer door. She
said something else, but he ignored it.
Paget's Pond, ten minutes from the green and a
little longer from the Heights, was past Wenson's Ice
Cream Stand on Fieldstone Road. Gloria stepped
out of a late-model Mercury still bearing Connecticut plates and gave a curious glance at his car. The
edges were rusted, the town seal on the door faded.
"Shouldn't the police chief have a better automobile?"
"I take what they give me."
"Do you ever wear a uniform?"
"It has moth holes."
They moved into pinewood, past a NO SWIMMING
sign, and followed a path to the pond, where frog
spit lay on the quiet water. Farther out a breeze
was skimming pictures. The breeze could have
been warmer. Each wore a jacket.
"You're quiet," she said.
"How many times have you been married?"
She held up three fingers. "Scary, huh?"
"Children?"
"My unions were never blessed."
They followed the path along the pond. The sky
was mauve, the sun subdued. Morgan said, "I'm
curious. Why am I an attraction?"
"We like you. Isn't that enough?"
"I suppose it could be. If I believed it."
"Trish thinks we three should be friends. I don't
think it's a bad idea at all."
A broken branch lay across the path. Morgan
pushed it out of the way with his foot. "What's she
afraid of?"
"Ah, you guessed that. You know what she's
afraid of. Him. Harry's son." A smell of stagnant
water wrinkled her nose. A number of crows,
squawking mightily, flew out of the pines and startled them both. "He'll get out one day."
"That's a bit up the road," Morgan said.
"He wrote her a letter."
"Did he threaten her?"
"Nothing like that, but she's upset. We're two
women alone. Trish would like to know there's a
man like you we can call on. I like the idea too."
"You can call on me anytime. I'm a policeman.
I'm the chief here."
"Why can't we all be friends at the same time? Is
that against the law?"
They rounded a bend where they could see the
whole of the pond, which had taken on a greenish glow. Near the far shore the water looked clean
and inviting. She took his arm.
"Why can't people swim here?"
"It's full of bloodsuckers and snapping turtles.
When I was a kid I saw a snapper as big as a wash
tub here."
"How many years ago was that, James?"
"Probably forty."
"And now you're an adult. Adults know that life
is short. It's the price of growing up." She slowed
her step. "Give me a small kiss."
"On the cheek or the mouth?"
"You choose."
When Ben Sawhill's secretary started to enter his
office, he threw her a look that stopped her in her
tracks. She backed off fast and closed the door behind her. He was on the phone, Trish Becker on
the line, her voice deep in his ear, nothing cushioning it. "Calm down," he said.
She said, "Are you going to give him that damn
watch or not?"
"He can't walk around with a Rolex. I'll give it
to the administrator. He'll keep it for him."
"Just let Bobby know it's coming from you, not
me. Christ, he's almost seventeen now. I don't
want him bothering me, Ben. I don't want him
writing to me."
"I'll do what I can."
"What are you going to do when he comes out?
Tell me that."
"I'll deal with it then," Ben said. "Maybe it'll be
a different Bobby."
"What are they going to do, shave his brain? I
hurt, Ben. There's an awful emptiness in me."
He tried to be patient, understanding, but his
head was beginning to fill. "We all hurt, Trish."
There was a significant silence. He was ready to
hang up. Then she said, "Take pity on me, Ben.
You owe it to Harry."
A few minutes later he was back on the phone, a
call to Sherwood, to Mr. Grissom, with whom he
was on close terms. A month after Bobby had gone
to Sherwood he had made a thousand-dollar contribution for gymnasium equipment and more recently had provided the money for a
twenty-four-inch Sony for the TV room. He told
Grissom about the watch.
"I'll send it Federal Express. You can hold it for
him."
"No reason he can't wear it, Mr. Sawhill. Nobody's going to take it from him. I run a tight ship,
believe me."
"How's he doing?" Ben asked.
"I'm happy to report marked improvement. He's
learning to handle responsibility."
"He's never written letters to us before. Now
he's written two, one to my daughters. He says he
saw Jesus on a cross that was a rope."
"I'll have to look into that. I wouldn't worry
about it."
Ben ran a hand over his forehead. "Perhaps you could divert any future letters, send them all to
me. To my office."
"I don't see a problem in that," Mr. Grissom said.
Ben went into his private bathroom and shut the
door. He took aspirin, ran cold water, splashed his
face, and talked to himself in the mirror, in which
he saw his brother's image merging with his own.
His secretary rapped on the door.
"Are you all right?"
"No," he said. "I'm flushing myself down the
toilet."
They drove to his house. Chief Morgan parked his
car in the driveway, Gloria Eisner left hers on the
street. They entered the house from the side, directly into the little kitchen. He wished he had not
left dishes in the sink. She was amused by the jar of
peanut butter and can of Hershey Syrup on the
table. Climbing stairs, he wished the woman who
came in once a month to clean had come yesterday
instead of three weeks ago. She glimpsed a shirt
hanging from a doorknob. He wished he had made
the bed. She read his thoughts and said, "Don't
worry about it." Her voice crept past him. "Where's
your bathroom?"
"To the right," he said and hoped it was decent.
While she was gone he smoothed pillows and
straightened sheets. He kicked a stray sock under
the bed. In the dresser mirror his face was a
stopped clock.
Returning, she said, "I looked into your medi cine cabinet. It didn't tell me much. How much of
you is true, James?"
"Fifty percent."
"That fits everybody."
Some of her clothes seemed to have wandered
off. So had his chinos. The tails of his shirt hung
over tapered boxer shorts.
"You have nice legs," she said.
Her bra was off. Her breasts were gifts he wasn't
sure he deserved. He undid his shirt and she removed briefs that could have been spun by a spider. When she leaned toward the bed he glimpsed
duckling fuzz in the small of her back. Lying on
her back, she smiled.
"Stare if you like."
Her navel was a screw sunk deep, her pubis rust
on a hinge. Her long thighs had heft.
"What do you see?"
A shadow divided his face. "Ghosts," he said.
"TWo in particular."
"Which am I?"
"Neither one."
"Good," she said. "Don't make me unreal." She
beckoned. "I'm getting chilly."