Revolution Number 9 (31 page)

Emily wondered: Did it? Had Charlie dealt with her on a need-to-know basis? How could that coexist with Ben Webster, their bedroom life, the baby? On the other hand, she realized with a sliding in her stomach, it coexisted nicely with the strange look that sometimes rose in his eyes.

The phone rang. The woman answered it. “I’ll pick you up at the airport,” she said. “I suppose we’ll have to call the caterers.” She was discussing the menu when Emily left the room.

Emily stepped outside, into the heat of a planet that seemed to have increased its gravity. Another sweating florist was toiling up the stairs. She unlocked the Beetle, drove out of town, not noticing the parking ticket under the wiper until she was back on her own street, Cosset Pond flashing like a mirror between the trees. The pickup with the Georgia plates was parked in front of the house.

E
mily parked the Beetle in the driveway, got out, and closed the door. Another door closed almost at the same moment, like the discharge of a shotgun’s second barrel. Emily turned and saw a man standing beside the pickup. He wore faded jeans, a T-shirt, and cowboy boots; had gray, crew-cut hair that looked almost white because of the darkness of his tan.

He raised a hand. “Hi,” he said, coming closer.

The man smiled, the quick little smile of those with bad teeth. His skin had spent years fighting a bright sun; it was leathery and crinkled tight around the eyes, reducing the openings to the minimum for sight.

“Mrs. Ochs?” he said. Emily smelled mouthwash on his breath.

“Yes?”

“Hi,” he repeated. “Is Charlie around?”

Emily paused. She had no idea who he was or what was happening, but she sensed that a shifting of roles was taking place, a changing in the nomenclature of the sides of a triangle. Triangle A: Emily, the questioner; Buzz, the missing man; Buzz’s fiancée, the woman alone. Triangle B: this man, the questioner; Charlie, the missing man; Emily, the woman
alone. With that in mind, she took a guess. “Do you work with Buzz?”

“Don’t know any Buzzes, ma’am. I’m an old pal of your husband. An ol’ pal. Pleasance is the name. Jack Pleasance.” He paused. “Mean anything to you?”

He was watching her closely. His eyes, so small in their protective walls of flesh, seemed colorless; they shone with the same mirrored light she’d seen on the pond.

“Charlie never mentioned you.”

Pleasance laughed. “Isn’t that just like the son of a bitch. Y’know something?”

“What?”

He leaned toward her and lowered his voice, as though telling a secret. Emily smelled aftershave, deodorant, and possibly body powder. “I never mention him, either.” Pleasance laughed again; the kind of laugh that invited others to join in. But Emily didn’t get the joke, and remained silent.

Pleasance laid a hand on her shoulder, a lean, muscular hand. “Don’t you worry, ma’am. Charlie and I go back a long way. A long, long way. He’ll be real happy to see me.”

Emily backed out of his grasp. “How long?”

“Well, now. I guess I first came across Charlie during his college days.”

“College days?” Charlie hadn’t gone to college. He had told her that early on; she also remembered him saying it Friday night on the pond, when her father was veering into one of his Vietnam harangues. She had always known that Charlie didn’t sound like someone who hadn’t been to college, but she’d considered it one of his self-made strengths. Perhaps he wasn’t as self-made as she’d thought. Did she lack hard data about her own husband? He was reserved about himself and she hadn’t probed, sensing some hurt or disappointment in his past that would require time to surface. That left her with an incongruence of two Charlies: hers, and some other one from before. She tried to visualize Charlie’s face and could not.

“Way back then,” Pleasance was saying. “He took care of my little boy.”

“Baby-sat, you mean?” Emily asked, and as she spoke, Zachary moved inside her, more like twisting than fluttering.

“That’s a good one,” he said. His mouth assumed a snarling shape. He wiped it back to normal with the palm of his hand. “My boy was a ballplayer. First team all-star.”

“Baseball?”

“That’s right. Funny thing, your husband was a ball player too.”

“They played on the same team?”

Pleasance’s eyes narrowed, almost disappearing in his leathery face; they were just two dime-edge gleams. “Now how could that of been?”

“I don’t know,” Emily said, wondering if the man might be a bit mad. “And I’m afraid Charlie’s not here right now.”

“Aw, that’s too bad,” said Pleasance. “When’s he coming back?”

“I’m not sure.”

“No?” Pleasance looked her up and down. She had barely begun to show, if at all, but he said: “Hey! Got one in the oven. Congratulations.” He held out his hand. Emily shook it, felt again its strength and capability. “Your first?” he said.

Emily nodded.

“Well, well,” said Pleasance. “Old Charlie must be pretty excited.”

“We’re both very happy.”

“I’ll bet you are. Thought of any names yet?”

“One or two.”

“Is Ronnie one of them?”

“No.”

“It’s a fine name, Ronnie.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Pleasance glanced around, took in the stacked lobster pots, the house,
Straight Arrow
tied to the dock, the pond beyond. “That Charlie’s boat?”

“Yes.”

“Straight Arrow
. What a card.”

“You can read that from here?”

“Sure.” He looked surprised. “Nice boat. Nice layout, in fact. I can’t wait to see Charlie.”

“Maybe you could call in a day or two.”

“In a day or two?” Pleasance glanced at the boat. “Where did you say he was again?”

“On a business trip.”

“Whereabouts?”

“I’m not sure of the itinerary.”

Pleasance’s eyes shifted to
Straight Arrow
again. “What’s he do, anyway?”

“He’s a lobsterman.”

“Yeah? Sounds kind of quiet for him.”

“What do you mean?”

Pleasance ignored her question. “Ever run into any of Charlie’s old gang?”

“What old gang?”

“From college. Andrew Malik, maybe.”

“No.”

“Or Rebecca.”

“Rebecca?”

“Rebecca Klein.”

The incongruence grew in her mind, the two Charlies assuming increasingly different shapes. “What college was this, Mr. Pleasance?”

“Those names don’t ring a bell, do they?” said Pleasance. “Don’t ring a bell at all.” He made a clucking sound. “What about Blake Wrightman?”

Emily shook her head. “Who are these people?”

“Just the old gang. I thought maybe Charlie had kept up with them. They were kinda close at one time.”

“In college.”

“Right.”

Facts slid together in her mind. “Was this Yale?”

“Yale?” said Pleasance. “Did Blake tell you he went to Yale?”

“I told you,” Emily said, hearing the annoyance in her tone and knowing that Charlie, not Pleasance, was the cause: “I never met this Blake person, or any of those others.”

Pleasance laughed. “You never met him. Geez.”

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing. Slip of the tongue. My mistake.”

He strangled the laugh, muting it down to an embarrassed titter. Emily noticed he was wearing a snakeskin belt. “What college are you talking about then?”

“Morgan.”

“Charlie went to Morgan?”

“It’s not a bad school.”

“It’s a good school. It’s just that …”

“Ol’ Charlie never mentioned it.”

Emily nodded.

“He’s too modest.”

“Were you a student there at the same time?” Emily asked. Pleasance looked too old, didn’t he?

“I was on the faculty.”

“Teaching what?”

“My specialty was tactics.”

“Tactics?”

“I ran the ROTC.”

“And Charlie was in the ROTC?”

“You might say that. Briefly.”

“And that’s where you met him?”

“That’s where our paths crossed.”

Emily had a thought left over from Triangle A. “Did you ever meet Charlie’s uncle?”

“What’s his name?”

“Sam.”

“Nope.”

“Or possibly Francis Goodnow.”

Pleasance blinked. “Are you having some fun with me, ma’am?”

“No. I’m sorry. I’m a little confused, that’s all.” She snatched at a sudden idea. “Are you sure you’ve got the right Charlie Ochs?”

“Sure I’m sure,” said Pleasance; but his brow furrowed and doubt altered his tone. “You wouldn’t have a picture of him, would you?”

“I would.” Emily turned and went quickly into the house. Pleasance followed her as far as the screen door, stood outside. Emily looked back. “Come in,” she said.

“Thank you kindly.” Pleasance opened the door and stepped inside.

They went into the living room. A framed photograph hung on the wall above the record player. It was a wintertime shot of Charlie and Emily sitting on the dock, lacing their skates. Pleasance took it off the wall, held it in both hands. His eyes were dime edges again.

“Well?” said Emily.

Pleasance didn’t speak right away. Emily waited. At last he said, “Looks good, doesn’t he? Real good. Young.”

“It’s him, then? The Charles Ochs you knew?”

“Oh, it’s him all right.” Pleasance kept staring at the picture, specifically at Charlie’s image in it. Charlie was smiling at her; she had just said something funny. Emily remembered that De Mello had taken the picture, but not what she had said to make Charlie smile. Her condensed breath hanging between them was the only record of her words. All at once she didn’t want anyone touching the picture. She reached for it, intending to hang it back on the wall. For an instant Pleasance didn’t let go. Then his lean hands relaxed, allowing her to take it.

Emily rehung the picture. When she turned, she found Pleasance staring at her. His artificial smells filled the room. “Well, then,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Guess I’ll be going. Tell Charlie I dropped by. When you see him.” He nodded to her and walked out of the house. Emily heard the pickup’s door close, heard it drive away.

She reached for the phone, got the number of Morgan College, dialed it. The receptionist put her through to Alumni Affairs. “I’m trying to locate a former student,” she said. She sketched in a brief supporting story involving job openings and résumés.

“Name?” said the woman at the other end.

“Charles Ochs.” She spelled the surname.

“One moment.” A moment passed, then many more. The woman spoke: “We have no one listed under that name.”

“You don’t?”

“That’s correct.”

“Did you use the right spelling? O-c-h-s?”

“Yes. We have no such listing.”

“But—” Emily tried to think of words to convey her objection. None came.

“Yes?” said the woman.

“I see,” Emily said, not wanting to hang up, not wanting to let go of the phone. “What about …” She tried to remember the other names. “Blake Wrightman?” Had that been one of them?

“Blake Wrightman?”

“He’s named on the résumé.”

There was a pause. “Is he?”

“Yes.”

A longer pause. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Joke?”

“If so, it’s a rather sick one.”

“I don’t understand,” Emily said.

“Don’t you? Are you saying you’re not aware that Blake Wrightman is still a fugitive?”

“A fugitive?”

“From justice,” said the woman. “He’s wanted by the law.”

“What for?”

“Murder. In the 1970 bombing. No one has ever been apprehended.” Emily heard the woman whisper to someone, heard a whispering voice respond. “The police should be told about this résumé,” the woman said. “Can you tell me your name, please?”

Emily lowered the receiver—“Hello? Hello?” said the woman—and placed it in its cradle. The plastic was damp with her sweat.

Emily hurried to the screen door, looked out. The pickup with the Georgia plates was gone. The street was shady and still in the late afternoon heat. It was her street, she jogged on it every day, but it seemed unfamiliar. So did the house, the town, the sea, and sky. Emily went outside, got on her bike, and cycled around to the Oceanographic Studies Center’s library.

The library, which took up most of the space in the center’s original brick building across from the town dock, never
closed. Emily went upstairs to the periodical room. She had it to herself. She took down the
New York Times Index
for 1970 and began with January 1. Forty-five minutes later she had it.

Pleasance is the name. Jack Pleasance. Mean anything to you?

Emily bicycled home, went into the kitchen. She paced. She looked at the phone. It didn’t ring. She hadn’t eaten all day, knew she should. She made a sandwich, but didn’t touch it. She sat at the table. When that grew intolerable, she paced some more. Then she vacuumed the house, washed the bathroom floors, sinks, and toilets.

Later she opened Charlie’s closet, stared at his clothes. It was like a math problem: she had a feeling for the answer even before she did the calculations, a feeling he wasn’t coming back.

I ran the ROTC
.

And Charlie was in the ROTC?

You might say that. Briefly
.

And that’s where you met him?

That’s where our paths crossed
.

Night fell. Emily drank a glass of wine, and a second. Then she thought of the baby and didn’t pour another, although she wanted it. She tried to picture Charlie’s face again, and still could not. Perhaps Ben Webster would help. She played “My Romance.” It didn’t help. Worse, it didn’t even sound like music: what had before been beauty of the most moving kind was now disordered sounds, impossible to piece together in her mind. Emily went to bed.