Authors: Andrew Coburn
He bicycled through September heat to the Heights
and turned up the drive to his uncle's house. Fruit
trees he remembered being planted had grown considerably. Apples on the ground were juicing into
cider, inebriating hornets. He propped the bicycle
near arborvitae. Touch-me-nots cascaded from a
hanging pot on each side of the front door. He felt
he didn't have to ring the bell. He was family.
He heard no voices.
Paths of sunlight took him through archways
into rooms where the furniture was familiar but
the arrangement wasn't. In one room he saw on
the wall a large framed photograph of his grandfather, whom he knew only by that picture. In another room Dresden porcelain in a china closet
caught his attention as it had years ago when he
sought meaning in the design on the cups. In the
sunroom he saw his aunt.
Aunt Belle was napping, stretched out with one
arm folded and the other thrown straight. Her satiny shirt looked like fabric from an undertaker's
most expensive casket. Except for stray strands of
gray in her black hair, she looked no older from
the last time he had seen her. He wanted to lie beside her but knew better.
In a long sitting room he looked out an overlarge window at the swimming pool and saw two
female figures on chaises. At first he thought they
were naked. They were in bikinis. For more than a
moment he could not believe they were Sammantha and Jennifer. They were no longer children.
He entered the pool area through a low gateway.
His sneakers marked the wet tiles. At first the
twins didn't see him. They were engrossed in
themselves, in their chatter. He knew Sammantha
by her voice, bigger than Jennifer's. The last time
he had seen them was at a Sunday dinner. They
were eight or nine, and Sammantha didn't like her
dessert and gave it to him. Sammantha noticed
him first and sat upright.
"I'm your cousin," he said. "I'm Bobby."
Jennifer reached for a shirt. Sammantha stood
up as she was and said, "You look the same but so
much bigger."
He smiled. "Aren't you going to kiss me?"
Without hesitation, she pecked his cheek. "Was
it bad where you were?"
"No, it was good," he said, his gaze taking in the
two of them. Jennifer had drawn back. "You're
both so beautiful."
Sammantha grinned. "If one is, the other has to
be."
He looked at the pool. "Let's all jump in."
"You don't have a bathing suit."
"I'll go in my underwear."
"No," Jennifer said. "I don't think you should."
"Oh, go ahead," said Sammantha.
They watched him pull off his sneakers, shed his
T-shirt, and drop his jeans. Holding his nose, he
leaped into the green-blue water and made a
tremendous splash, which drove them back. He
surfaced with a snort, whipping his hair back. He
was not a swimmer, but he kept afloat.
"Aren't you coming in?"
Sammantha would have, but Jennifer clutched
her arm. "Mom's coming."
Belle Sawhill strode straight to the pool's edge and
told the twins to leave. "Back to the house!" she
said when Sammantha was slow to obey. Sammantha gave her a look but joined Jennifer and left.
Trembling only a little, Belle said, "Get out of the
pool, Bobby." He used the ladder. She was stunned
by the size of him, the brawn. "What are you doing
here?"
"I came to see my cousins."
"Did you tell your uncle you were coming?"
He shook his head. His genitals, visible through
his soaked underpants, were too prominent to ignore.
"Get dressed."
"I'm all wet," he said, and she tossed him Sam-
mantha's towel. He turned his back to her, got out
of the underpants, and dried himself with care, al most as if he were performing. "You never invited
me to dinner."
"I don't intend to. You're not welcome here."
"The twins got each other. I got nobody."
"That's your fault."
He was in his jeans. Turning, he pulled the zipper up. She kicked his sneakers toward him. She
was a lioness protecting her young. "You're a
bitch," he said.
"That's right. And I mean business."
His sneakers on, he crouched down and knotted the laces. Rising, he slipped on his T-shirt. "I
hate you."
"That doesn't scare me," she lied. "It doesn't
even bother me."
A rage built as she escorted him around the side
of the house to the front, where she watched him
take his time mounting his bicycle. She wanted to
attack him.
"Why did you kill those two women? Do you
even know?"
He stared at her as if scarcely aware of what she
was talking about, the events softened by time, not
worth bringing up. She was struck by what she
saw in his eyes. He seemed to be expecting a goodbye kiss.
She said, "Don't let me see you here again."
From the Heights he glided down Ruskin Road
and steered right onto Spring Street, which bent
one way and then another past small neat houses
with large front windows. A little white car idled in a driveway and pulled out as he sped by. On
Summer Street it bounded after him and would
have hit him had he not heard it coming. He
swerved sharply and ran the bicycle up onto the
sidewalk, where he lost control of it.
The little car, a Dodge Colt, had also gone out
of control, jumping the curb and coming to a
stalled stop. Bobby walked his bicycle up to it and
peered at the driver, an elderly woman with wild
white hair.
"Why did you do that? You almost hit me."
The woman didn't speak. Her mouth was aquiver.
"Are you sick?" He leaned closer. "Who are you?"
The woman thrust out a hand and tried to
scratch his face. "You don't even know!"
Chief Morgan received calls from two residents of
Summer Street, each reporting the incident, each
readily naming the bicycler but declining to identify the motorist, mentioning only the size and
color of the automobile. Both expressed regret
they had no need to call an ambulance. Morgan
thanked them for civic responsibility.
Meg O'Brien appeared in the doorway. "Someone to see you."
"I'm not surprised. Come in, Bobby."
Bobby spoke as he entered. "An old lady in a car
tried to run me down."
"Good thing she was old," Morgan said.
"Younger, she might've got you. Sit down."
Bobby planted himself on a metal chair. "You
said anybody gives me trouble I should call you."
"When did I say that?"
"When I was five, almost six."
Morgan sat back in his rotary chair, his elbows
on the armrests. "Who was the old lady, Bobby?
Do you know?"
"No. But she had funny white hair."
"Who did she remind you of?"
"Nobody."
"You sure? Did she have the rose you gave her
when you were twelve, almost thirteen? How do
you know it wasn't her?"
Bobby's gaze was steady. "You don't scare me."
"I'm not trying to, but how can I help you if you
don't tell me the truth? You want me for a friend
or an enemy? That's what it comes down to."
Bobby stood up. "I don't need your help."
Morgan also rose, moved swiftly, and came faceto-face with him. They were the same height. "You
hurt anyone again, Bobby, I'll come after you. This
time I'll have a gun."
Bobby didn't blink. Nothing in his face moved.
It was as if he had accepted a challenge.
Morgan followed him out of his office and
watched him leave. Turning to Meg O'Brien, he
said, "Call Mrs. Perrault. Tell her she pulls another
trick like that I'll take away her license."
In bed Ben Sawhill turned to his wife, but she
pushed him away. For a while they lay in silence in
the dark. Finally she said, "That's your way of relieving tension, it's not mine."
He had no response, no defense.
"Aren't you worried?" she asked.
"Of course I am," he said. "I'm arranging for another lawyer to handle his financial affairs."
"Big deal. That's nothing, Ben."
She turned on her side, her back to him, the covers pulled half over her head, and tried to fall
asleep. Ben lay flat, his breathing bothering him
from tension in his chest. Both were wide awake
when they heard the scream. Belle, out of the bed
before Ben could move, knew instinctively which
twin it had come from.
Ben behind her, she rushed into Jennifer's room
as Sammantha came out of hers. Ben clawed the
light switch. Sitting up, her face stark, Jennifer
said, "I'm all right."
Belle threw her arms around her. "What happened?"
"I dreamed Bobby killed Sammantha."
Belle, unable to sleep, went down to the kitchen
and made coffee. Presently Ben joined her. He
looked worse than she did. When he reached
across the table for her hand, she withdrew it.
"He's poisoned everything," she said. "Even our
marriage."
"Don't talk that way."
She scrunched her face up to sip coffee too hot
for her lips. "Did you think I didn't know?"
"Know what?"
She left the table, carried her coffee with her,
and went to an open window where she laid an ear
to the night and heard stray breezes, twitterings, animals coming out of hiding. Ben came up behind
her and was going to touch her but pulled back at
the last second.
"I want you to do something about him," she
said. "I don't care what, I don't care how extreme,
but I want you to do something."
"I promise," he said.
Gloria Eisner frowned. The garden was indifferent
to her. Rose bushes she'd faithfully watered
through the spring and summer showed no gratitude and little growth. Tiger lilies had long ago
sulked and died without blooming. Two azaleas
were losing their leaves, perhaps purposely. Gloria
tossed aside the hose, turned off the water, and
said, "Fuck 'em!"
A voice behind her said, "Women shouldn't
swear."
She spun around and saw a young man in an
open print shirt worn loose over jeans. "Women
shouldn't do a lot of things. What are you doing on
my property?"
"I came to look at the garden. It's not like I remember."
"I can believe that. If you're done looking, I
think you'd better leave."
He started to turn away, then glanced back. "Are
you her daughter?"
"Whose daughter?"
"The lady who used to live here."
"No." She regarded him more prudently. "I'm slow, very slow," she said. "You're Harry Sawhill's
son, aren't you? You're Bobby."
He nodded vigorously, as if happy to be recognized. He was wearing something under his shirt,
on his belt. She wasn't sure what it was.
She said, "Unless you leave this very minute, I'm
going to piss my pants."
He smiled. "You're funny."
"No, I'm telling you the truth. And then I'll
scream."
He backed off.
She waited a moment and crept to the gate. He
was mounting a bicycle. She watched him ride off
and vanish down the street. The woman who lived
in the next house appeared on the sidewalk.
"I already called the police."
Gloria latched the gate. "Did you tell them he
had a knife?"
Chief Morgan stood on Bobby Sawhill's doorstep,
face-to-face with him. They were the same height,
though Bobby had the heavier physique. Morgan
said, "Lift your shirt."
"I don't have to."
"If you're carrying a concealed weapon I'm arresting you."
Bobby opened his shirt and pulled the tails back.
Morgan expected to see a sheathed knife for hunting or fishing, the sort Harry Sawhill might have
had in the house. Instead, clasped to Bobby's belt,
was a slender flashlight.
"What's that for?"
"I hear noises at night. I investigate."
"What kind of noises?"
Bobby shrugged. "I don't know. From the yard."
"Officer Wetherfield tells me he sees you on the
green at night, sitting on a bench, midnight or
later. What are you doing there?"
"I like to look at thevstars. We're all made of
stardust, that's what I read. My friend Dibs was
coal waiting to become diamond."
Morgan didn't know who or what Dibs was and
didn't care to. He said, "You went back to the
Bullard house. That's rubbing it in our faces.
That's thumbing your nose at the whole town."
"I didn't do anything wrong."
"You trespassed."
"The gate was open. The lady living there told
me to leave and I did."
Morgan lowered his voice. "Do you think I'll let
you take another woman away from me? No way."
"I don't have to talk to you," Bobby said and,
stepping back, closed the door in Morgan's face.
Trish Becker, glad to be home from a busy workday, shucked off her professional clothes, including her bra, which had left red ridges under her
breasts. Views of herself in the triple-paneled
mirror in the bedroom pleased her, even excited
her, as if her excess weight had turned into an advantage and rendered a truer definition of the
woman lurking inside her. She slipped on an outsize sweatshirt and jeans she couldn't button at the top, which didn't matter. She'd buy new ones.
In the kitchen she began making a light supper
for herself. Not until she began laying out flatwear
did she notice the watch on the table. Harry's
Rolex. A voice behind her said, "I don't want it
anymore."
She whipped around, yet was calm. "How did
you get in?"
"The door was open," Bobby said.
"No, it wasn't."
"Then it was unlocked."
"You're lying on both counts," she said and tried
to stare him down, an impossibility.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said.
"Why would you even say that? I was good to
your father. I was good to you." She placed a plate
and a water glass on the table. "I'm not afraid of
you. Does that surprise you?"
"Good, I don't want you to be." Smiling shyly,
he said, "You have big titties."
She gave a start. "You watched me change."
"I won't do it again." He had something vital to
ask her, she could see it in his face. He took a
breath. "Can I live with you, Aunt Trish?"