The Truth of the Matter (23 page)

“But he was only just starting to drink.

“Time passed, and my dad began to harden toward me, like when I’d ask to go someplace with him.

“Don’t need you to help carry feed, Louie Boy.’

“‘All I wanna do is watch, Pa. Mark can carry the grain if you want.’”

“He rubbed his chin, all covered with whiskers, then pushed me in the back with his fist. ‘Come along, then, damn you! An eleven-year-old boy can carry his share at that!’

“I was eleven when he started to really beat me. I guess he figured I was old enough that nobody would report him. It was a long piece of harness leather that he’d use, and he’d keep it tucked in his belt and call me a son of a bitch and zing it at me for no reason at all. I showed Mark the welts on my legs and back one time, and he didn’t say anything. When I showed them to Frank, though, he put some stuff on me that he got at the drugstore. Frank was my favorite, but I idolized both my brothers. An eleven-year-old boy is proud of his older brothers, and I was more so because I couldn’t be proud of my father.

“He beat me more and more, Pa did, until I tried to stay away from him, out of his reach for whole days at a time. Then he’d look at me with a hate that ate away at me. As if when he couldn’t reach me with the leather strap he’d make marks on my body with his eyes.

“He was my natural pa, no matter what he did, and I knew I should love him, but I couldn’t. Still I felt something for him, through the pain and hate, through the shame. Even when he’d come out of the house all drunk and lash away at the animals and chickens with his leather strap, screaming and red in the face until he had to sit down. Even then when he was sitting there in the hot sun looking around at what he’d done to the animals I’d feel something for him. He was my natural pa.

“It got worse. Pa was either ignoring me altogether or swearing and beating me like one of the animals. Frank would tell me to be patient, and he’d talk to Pa sometimes, long talks they’d have out in the fields or in the mornings before Pa started to drink. But I didn’t like to see it, because that’s when Pa would blow up and swear at Frank. He never bit him, though, like he did me.

“Then one day it came out. Pa was especially drunk and especially mad at me. He whistled the strap twice across my back and then he screamed it at me. ‘Bastard! You ain’t mine!’ He let loose again with the strap. I didn’t understand.

“‘You belong to some over-the-road trucker that layed over in town! You’re your filthy ma’s!’ His eyes were sad and he began to mumble. ‘…No blood of mine. Git to the barn….’

“He always told me that, to sleep in the barn. Frank and Mark were away on a hunting trip, so I was alone with Pa and I was afraid.

“…Son of a bitch!’ he moaned at me.

“I caught one more lick on the back as I broke for the door.

“When I was out in the barn I thought about what Pa had said. I didn’t understand it exactly, but I saw that he must have hated my ma. I fell asleep crying, like I did more often than not.

“It was late when I woke up, and dark and hot in the barn. I was in the loft, where it was still and hard to breathe, so I climbed down onto the barn floor and went outside.

“The lights were all out in the house, and as I stood there staring at it, at that cold dark house, the hate in me for Pa just got bigger and bigger. I can remember standing there under the moon, shaking with hate. It was like I was still half asleep, or dreaming. I went back into the barn and got a can of coal oil and some matches. I don’t think anything but hate was going through my mind as I walked toward the house.

“The fire caught right away, so fast it scared me. It lit up the night as I stood there and watched it, knowing Pa was sleeping drunk inside. I could hear the town fire bell ringing, far away.

“They came in a hurry. There were headlights all over, and a red pumper and men with buckets. There was nothing I could do. I stood and watched.

“What happened, Lou?”

“It was Grady, a big bald man who was the Volunteer Fire Department chief.

“I think I mumbled that I didn’t know, that I’d been sleeping in the barn. Grady yelled some instructions to his men, but it didn’t do any good. The house was burning like a cardboard box. Another man I knew, Quentin Dibbs, came up and wiped his forehead.

“‘Whooeee! There’s no way to get in there, Grady. Too damn hot!’

“‘I know,’ Grady said, watching the flames. ‘It’s too late.’ He looked down at me. ‘Your pa and brothers in there?’

“I just stood there, not even thinking.

“Dibbs bent over and stared at me, his face all black with soot. ‘Shock,’ he said. ‘I do believe that boy’s in shock.’

“I started to say something when I heard the scream. It was Pa’s scream, and every man at the fire stood still for a moment, listening. It came from inside the house, inside the flames, like nothing you ever heard.

“Then somebody came running out the door, black, burning, on fire. Only it wasn’t Pa, it was Frank!

“He died right there, holding onto the burning porch rail. They rushed to him and got blankets around him, but I could see he was dead and just leaning there.

“After they dragged Frank away they continued pouring water onto the fire, mostly for sport, because everything was beyond saving anyway.

“‘Whoeee!’ Quentin Dibbs was yelling. ‘Smells just like a barbecue!’

“Grady’s hand closed on my shoulder and squeezed harder and harder, so hard that it hurt. My eyes were stinging from the smoke. The breeze shifted and I was choking on the sweet grayish haze.
I screamed, just like Pa did…!
”

Ellie’s fingers were entwined in Roebuck’s.

“The neighbors all thought the fire was an accident,” Roebuck was saying, “and they all said how lucky I was to be sleeping in the barn. I never told them otherwise, that I set the fire, that I murdered my father and two brothers. I went to live with an aunt, and I had to live that lie. From then on it became hard for me to tell the truth or to see the truth about anything. Except in my sleep; in my sleep the truth always found me.”

Ellie got up, hunted the bottle of bourbon and poured them each a drink straight over some ice cubes.

“It was a long time ago,” she said, returning with the glasses to sit on the edge of the bed.

“What matter?” Roebuck said. “I’m a murderer. No matter what other people think of me, I know that’s what I am. I’ve always tried to run away from it, even convincing myself that the fire was accidental. But I could only convince myself up to a point.” He took a drink. “My whole life is a lie.”

“Well, now you’ve told the truth,” Ellie said gently. “If you murdered, you’re a murderer. There’s no changing that. I guess you just have to face it and live with it.”

“Running away from the truth has become a habit with me, a compulsion. Oh, it’s not as hard as you think—so much of the goddamn world is behind our eyes!” Roebuck lifted the glass to his lips and drained it, sloshing some of the liquor down his chin.

For the next hour they drank steadily, seriously, as if it were some strange kind of religious communion, an unspoken agreement to get drunk as soon as possible.

Ellie refilled their glasses. “Face it,” she said in a voice made thick by the liquor. “Face it and you can live with it. That’s the only way, Lou. I know.”

Roebuck hurriedly lifted his glass, letting the cold bourbon bite at his throat. “It’s all been a rotten lie and still is. I murdered Ingrahm too; it was no accident. I don’t know why I did it, but I did. Killing is in me, deep in me! If you hadn’t been there I would have killed Boadeen, crushed his head in. And you’ll never know how close I came to shooting that boy we stole the car from.”

“But you didn’t kill them, Lou. You can control it.” She tilted back her glass.

Sleep or liquor or both was making Roebuck’s head whirl. “I can’t control it! Everything’s a goddamn lie, an act! Don’t you see, it’s all part of my desperado act! Kidding myself that I’ve got guts, that I’m innocent, the gun I carry, imagining Gipp is chasing me across the country, even you, all part of the act…to keep me from facing myself…!”

Again the neck of the bottle clinked against the glasses. Ellie stroked Roebuck’s cheek in long, comforting caresses. “You don’t have to suffer, Lou. Just admit it to yourself. Easier to live with the truth than run from it, believe me.” Her words were running together. She turned and lay with her head propped on her pillow, holding her glass unsteadily. “You know, you can’t change it.”

“I know,” Roebuck said softly. “It’s like a label on me. Everybody’s marked as something. The mark of Cain…on the inside of our heads, and we put it there ourselves….”

“Admit it and live with it,” Ellie mumbled, not realizing that her glass was tilted and the little remaining bourbon was spilling to the floor. “Only way, only way.”

Roebuck let his head press back against the bed. He had admitted it for the first time, to Ellie and to himself. Through the growing effects of the bourbon he did feel a sense of release, of freedom. There was a madness in the world of dreams, and a loneliness. He lifted his glass and found that it was empty, but he didn’t care. He had shown himself to himself, and to someone else.

“…Murderer, murderer, murderer,” Ellie was whispering softly into her pillow. “Who gives a damn…?”

Roebuck awoke by slow degrees, taking in the angular furniture of the motel room as he lay on his stomach, his head turned to the side and pressed deeply into the pillow. He remembered last night, and a warm relief passed through him. Strange that a man hunted for murder could feel relief, but Roebuck was suddenly free of so many things. For the first time he had acknowledged his true self, and the illusions had disappeared like shadows exposed to the sun. No longer did he have to strike his poses, worry about Benny Gipp, lie to himself every minute of the day about the deaths he’d caused. Murderer: a fact faced easier in the light. Roebuck was clear to himself now; he didn’t like everything he saw, but there it was and he couldn’t change it.

But why couldn’t he? The idea ran like a thin wire into Roebuck’s brain. Now that he knew himself, accepted himself for what he was, didn’t that give him the strength, the power to change himself?

He struggled to sit up in bed, feeling for the first time the unpleasant effects of last night’s bourbon. Ellie was still asleep beside him, a wisp of blonde hair covering one of her closed eyes. By the light filtering through the blinds, Roebuck estimated that it was past nine o’clock. They’d have to be leaving soon, though right now all he wanted was to sit with his back pressed against the cool wooden headboard and let himself come fully awake.

Ellie stirred beside him, rolled onto her side and nestled her head in the crook of her arm. He watched her awaken, her one visible eye above the smooth flesh of her arm fluttering, then opening slowly.

The gray eye was vague at first, unfocused, then it fastened itself on Roebuck’s face. For an instant there was an uncomfortable dropping sensation in his stomach; something had changed in the eye, deep in the black of it. Then Ellie raised her head and smiled at him, with both eyes.

“Morning,” she said drowsily.

Roebuck leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

“Is it late?” she asked.

He nodded.

“How come you didn’t wake me up?” She extended her arms in a languid stretch.

“I don’t know,” Roebuck said. “Somehow it didn’t seem important to get an early start this morning.”

“You’re not so afraid anymore, are you?” There was still sleep in Ellie’s voice.

“No,” Roebuck said, “not like I was.”

Ellie rolled onto her back with a sigh. “You’re not the first person to ever kill.”

She was right, Roebuck thought. She had brought that fact home to him, and for the first time in his life he didn’t feel alone. He got up and began dressing.

“People don’t realize how easy it is to live with yourself once you know you can’t change,” Ellie said, throwing back the sheet and sitting with her legs apart on the edge of the bed.

Roebuck hesitated, buckling his belt.

“Want me to put on some coffee?” she asked behind him.

“Why don’t you think you can change?” Roebuck asked.

“You are what you are.” Ellie laughed a sad low laugh. “You’re born that way, I guess.”

Roebuck turned to face her. “Ever think of trying to change again?”

Ellie’s wide mouth turned down and then up, as if confused at the signals from her mind. “I’ve had my try, Lou. I just know it can’t be done.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Again he saw that fleeting look, deep in her eyes, and he couldn’t or wouldn’t identify it. “No need to put coffee on this morning,” he said. “Let’s chance a restaurant.”

After they’d dressed and closed the motel room door behind them, Roebuck breathed in the fresh air and felt oddly at peace, in harmony. He and Ellie got into the car, and he pulled out onto the quiet highway. Before the gleaming yellow hood the Rocky Mountains loomed, touched by morning haze.

As they sped toward the unmoving mountains the thought continued to burrow into Roebuck’s mind: why couldn’t he change? He had faced what he was, and seeing the horror of it, wasn’t there a compulsion to change, a compulsion he wouldn’t admit to himself? No, he would admit it to himself. Was this the irresistible impulse to confess he’d heard and read so much about, the criminal’s desire to purge himself of his sins, to punish himself? Whatever it was, Roebuck knew that it was fast becoming a part of him. He couldn’t fully realize his own imperfection without trying to change it, to balance it.

“Why do you suppose so many murderers turn themselves in?” he asked aloud. “Knowing what’s in store for them?”

“I don’t know,” Ellie said. “Maybe they just get tired.”

“It does tire a man out,” Roebuck said, “worrying about every possible slip. A man afraid sees danger everywhere.” He looked sideways and he recognized the thing he’d seen in Ellie’s eyes. It was fear, undeniable fear bobbing to the surface like a cork. It suddenly jolted Roebuck. He had confessed to her, and she was afraid of him.

Not that he’d do anything to harm her. But in her fear would she do something to protect herself? Had Roebuck something to fear from her?