On the Loose (21 page)

Bobby opened it. It was a gold Parker pen and
pencil set, initialed. Bobby snapped the case shut without thanking him. Staring into his uncle's
face, he said, "You look a lot older."

"I feel a lot older, Bobby. Shall we sit down?"

They sank into plastic-cushioned chairs. Bobby
slouched, and Ben sat erect with stiff shoulders
and a barely perceptible tremor in his jaw. His
voice was heavy.

"I'd have come long before this, but you didn't
want visitors."

"Why'd you come now?"

"It was time. Your Aunt Belle ... sends her
love."

"She's never written. The twins did for a while,
long time ago, but then they stopped. I didn't answer their letters. Now they don't answer mine."

Ben spoke quickly. "You have to understand.
They have their own lives. They're busy with
school, their friends. But I know they think of you."

"When they arrested me, why weren't you my
lawyer?"

"I got you the best, Bobby, and he got you the
absolute best deal. It could've been much worse,
you know. Instead of going into a penitentiary,
you'll be getting out soon. That's something to
think about, isn't it?"

"I don't want to think about it," Bobby said.

Worry printed itself on Ben's face. He watched
the pen-and-pencil case slip between Bobby's
legs. "You should think about it. It won't be easy.
A lot will be different, and you'll need to make
adjustments."

Bobby looked at his watch, the Rolex, as if
flaunting it. "Guys here," he said, "do what I say.
They have to. I'm Mr. Grissom's eyes and ears."

Shifting his shoulders, Ben was aware of a
weariness creeping through him. Nothing he could
do about it. "I'd like you to consider college. I've
looked into a couple of good ones. A friend of
mine recommends the University of Michigan.
Then there's McGill in Montreal. I have the literature. I'll mail it to you."

"I don't want it," Bobby said.

"You'll need to have a profession, Bobby. You'll
need to earn a living."

"No I won't," Bobby said. "I'll have my father's
money."

"How'd it go?" Mr. Grissom asked, rising from
his desk.

"Not good," Ben Sawhill said. "He's got to have
counseling. He should've had it years ago."

"He's already in it, Mr. Sawhill, but I don't know
the value of it. He gives different answers to the
same question. Most of the boys do that. They
treat counseling as a contest, which is why I've
never been big on it."

The tremor was back in Ben's jaw. "Something's
got to be done. He scares me, and he'll scare me
more when he gets out."

"You may be overreacting," Mr. Grissom said. "I
think he has his emotions well under control. All
the time he's been here he's never shown violent
behavior. The closest he came was in the TV room, a minor incident, but it ended with him giving his
antagonizer a cookie."

Ben was in no way reassured. Reaching into the
inside pocket of his suit jacket, he withdrew the
pen case and placed it on Mr. Grissom's desk. "He
forgot his present. Would you give it to him,
please."

Gloria Eisner stayed the winter in Key West and
spent spring in New Jersey with her parents. Her
father, a retired financial analyst, was battling a
citizens' group that wanted to ban gasolineoperated lawn mowers in the town. Her mother
was a pediatrician with an active practice in Manhattan. Her mother couldn't understand why she
had sold her charming house in Connecticut.

"Money, Mom, no other reason."

"Don't you miss it?"

"Desperately."

Her father, with whom she'd long been on the
outs because of her broken marriages, surprised
her with a substantial check for her birthday.
Looking at the amount, she said, "You didn't have
to do this, Dad."

"Then give it back," he said.

Her mother said, "Why don't you live here?"

"Because I'd get on your nerves."

Her mother nodded. "Yes, you would."

She returned to Bensington on a weekday in
June. Trish Becker met her at the door and threw
her arms around her. "I didn't think you were coming back at all."

"I'm a bad penny," she said, breaking free. Trish
helped her in with her luggage and in the kitchen
gripped her at arm's length.

"You cut your hair. You look gorgeous."

"You look pretty good yourself."

"I've gained weight."

"Doesn't show."

"Liar."

In the evening they sat out on the screened patio
with a bottle of wine and a cut of cheese. A breeze
swishing through birches had the pleasant sound
of waves lapping the side of a ship. The cry of a
woodland animal had the quality of a child's laugh.

"I have something going with Ben Sawhill,"
Trish said.

Slow to respond, Gloria said finally, "It's your
life."

"You think I'm wrong."

"It won't last, and it won't end well."

"I know that. But as you say, it's my life." Trish
sliced off a chip of cheese and placed it on a spicy
cracker. "I haven't heard from the chief in a long
while."

"I've kept in touch. I told him I was coming
back. I just didn't say when."

"Are you going to take up where you left off?"

"It's not a priority."

Trish gave her a cautious look and spoke timidly. "Do you forgive me for not going to Stirling's funeral?"

"Nothing to forgive."

"You sound cool. Are we still buddies?"

"We'll always be buddies." Gloria drained her
wineglass and lifted the bottle, an inexpensive
Chardonnay, and poured more. "I love you, Trish,
but in time I think I'd like to be on my own again.
You know the feeling."

Trish refilled her wineglass, spilling a little. "No,
I've never had it," she said.

"Help me, Chief," Floyd Wetherfield said. His
year's suspension was nearly up, but the selectmen
didn't want him back. Randolph Jackson said he
should resign and make it easy on everybody.
Standing before Chief Morgan's desk, he said,
`They can't make me do it, can they?"

"I wouldn't take bets," Morgan said. "They
think you're a cowboy."

"I've learned my lesson, tell 'em that," he said
with a shudder.

Morgan felt sorry for him. He was an intense
young guy, handsome except for a somewhat
chewed complexion. A substantial head of hair covered his ears. Married, with a two-year-old child,
he'd been working odd jobs, one of which was
early-morning home delivery of the Boston Globe.

"What makes you think they'll listen to me?"

"You're the chief!"

'And they're the boss. Why don't you talk to
them yourself?"

"I can talk to you," Floyd said. "I wouldn't know
how with them."

After he left, Meg O'Brien looked in on Morgan
and said, "Give him a break. We all make mistakes. You've made your share, God knows."

"Don't push," Morgan said.

"I don't, who will?" she said.

A little later Morgan drove to the country club
and waited for Randolph Jackson to come off the
green. Jackson's forebears had helped found the
town. He had owned the woodland that was now
the Heights, the sale of which had made him rich.
He came off the green driving a caddy cart and
climbed out of it pink-faced.

Morgan said, "Can we talk?"

"I bet I know what it's about."

Morgan followed him into the clubhouse, into
the lounge, where they sat at the bar, near a dish of
cashews. Jackson ate a fistful. The bartender
brought him a bourbon-on-the-rocks. Morgan
wanted nothing.

"He knows he did wrong. He says he's learned
his lesson. I believe him."

"He's a loose cannon."

"He has a wife and baby. He gets back on the
job, he won't jeopardize it."

"You think he's fit to carry a weapon? I don't.
That's what it comes down to."

Changing his mind, Morgan ordered ginger ale.
"He's working a bunch of jobs. Five in the morning he's delivering newspapers. He delivers yours."

Jackson wrapped a freckled hand around his bourbon glass. His hair was sandy, a large bite
gone from the crown. "You're blowing smoke up
my ass. Feels good. Keep it up."

You fire him, he'll have Civil Service fighting
YOU.

"No he won't. He hasn't been with us long
enough." Jackson smiled slyly. "You thought I
didn't do my homework."

Morgan rattled the ice in his ginger ale. "Everybody deserves a second chance."

"Second chances add up, like the ones we've
given you."

"Good ginger ale," Morgan said to the bartender. "Did you make it yourself?" The bartender
smiled. Morgan spoke low to Jackson. "I remember the time three sheets to the wind you smacked
up your Mercedes. I drove you home, nothing ever
said about it."

Jackson swallowed bourbon. "And I got the rest
of my life for you to remind me."

He was watching television when the doorbell rang.
He answered it in his stocking feet. A wrapped bottle hanging from one hand, Gloria Eisner stood on
the step like a flower with nothing greater to do
than look beautiful. "May I come in," she said, "or
are you going to shut the door in my face?"

In the kitchen he hunted up a corkscrew and
produced two wineglasses that didn't match. He
rinsed them out before setting them on the table.

"You knew I was back," she said. "Why didn't
you phone?"

"I figured it was your move."

They carried filled glasses into the living room.
The television set usually in the kitchen was
plugged in near the sofa, where he'd been lying.
Sections of the Globe lay on the floor. He attempted to tidy up.

"Mind if I turn that thing off?" She killed a commercial touting hairspray. "If it wasn't for fantasy,
men wouldn't fuck. They'd watch TV." She raised
her glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers." He clinked her glass. They took substantial sips, then sat together on the sofa. "I saved
your postcards," he said.

"I got a thrill licking the stamps. They honored
Elvis Presley."

"It seems you've been gone ages. Tell me about it."

"About Key West? It turned into an escape from
winter. Staying the spring at my parents' home
was to remind me I don't belong there. I spent a
weekend in Manhattan and bumped into a woman
I hadn't seen in years. She said the last time she
saw me was with my husband. I had to ask her
which one."

Morgan gazed at her profile. "I missed you."

"I thought you might." She let her head sway his
way. "I've been untouched for all these months,
James. I thought you and I might kiss and hug."

"Here or upstairs?"

She put aside her glass and kicked off her
pumps. "We could start off here and finish off up
there."

She was up before he was. Opening the back door,
she gazed out into the smoky brilliance of early
morning. Here and there, during the night, gossamer threads had been woven into little shelters
on the grass. In the refracting light they looked like
lost doilies. When she heard a dog bark from the
neighboring house, she closed the door.

Leggy and languid in his pajama top, she was
pouring coffee when he came down. "No eggs in
the fridge," she said, "so you'll have to settle for
toast."

"I usually have breakfast at the Blue Bonnet. I
was going to take you there, show you off."

"Sure you were," she said and reached high into
a cupboard for small plates. She had a splendid behind and didn't mind displaying it.

"I've died and gone to heaven," he said, sipping
his coffee at the table.

"And I'm an angel." She buttered toast for the
two of them. "I've not mentioned it before but
you're not circumcised. I mean, most men are. You
don't have to be Jewish, though two of my husbands were." She added peanut butter to his toast,
not to hers. "I'm not complaining. I think natural
is nice."

"Should I comment on that?"

With a grin, she carried the toast to the table
and joined him. "I have news you may or may not
like. I've decided to stay in Bensington for a while
but on my own and not in the Heights, too expensive. A broker has been showing me places. I have
my eye on one the bank took over. I can get it for a bargain price. It's not too far from the green. On
Grove Street."

He looked up from his coffee. "What number?"

"Sixty-two."

"You don't want it."

She dunked her toast. "Don't tell me what I
don't want. I'll want it all the more."

"Do you know what happened there?"

"Trish told me what you think happened there.
It has nothing to do with me."

Morgan stared intently. "We're about to have
our first argument."

Trish Becker stepped off the curb at Winter and
Washington, slipped into Ben Sawhill's comfortable car, shoved her newly acquired briefcase in
back, and strapped herself in. Ben twisted the car
back into traffic. "Good day?" he asked.

"Sort of." She loosened the skirt of her suit,
which had been pinching, the zipper at fault. "I
met Lula Simmons."