Twisted River (18 page)

Jess fell against him, shuddering, wailing. The wailing like the animal in the dark a few nights earlier. Elliot stared at his older sister. He was shaking violently now, his face deathly pale.

“Dad, you're not really telling us that Mom is dead?”

Fear and disbelief flickered in his eyes. “Not DEAD?”

With his free arm, Oscar tried to reach out to his son, but Elliot recoiled.

“Come here, son . . .” Oscar begged him gently.

Livid blotches erupted across Elliot's cheeks. He stared hard at Oscar.

“You're sick, Dad. This is one sick Halloween prank. It's not funny at all and I don't FUCKING believe you! I'm going outside to get her. I'm going outside to get my mom!!” Elliot sprang up from the sofa and made a break for the door.

“No! Stop, Elliot!”

Oscar made it across the room, pushing Jess aside and grabbing Elliot, winching him into his chest. The two of them clung on to each other as they rocked to and fro. The room filled with pain, Jess wailing, Elliot joining her now, howling like wolves in the snow.

It was a full two hours later before a lull came. “What are we going to do, Dad? What are we going to do now?” Jess asked Oscar.

That was his dilemma. What should he do now? Whom should
he call? Whom could he call? He knew he should call somebody now. The kids would need support. Not only was Oscar in a foreign country but he felt he was in a foreign body.

Bad things had happened before and he'd managed. But this was different. This was the worst by far. It occurred to Oscar then that if he sat here quietly for ten minutes or so, resting his eyes, all of this would go away. It never happened. He sat back on the sofa and took Elliot's hand in his. For a minute or so, he did nothing but listen to his own breathing. And then Oscar opened his eyes. The sound of Jess's howling was coming through the floorboards. He knew then what he must do. Whom he'd call. A plan was forming in his head. There were at least three phone calls. He'd find the energy somehow. He had to do this for his kids.

 • • • 

“Spike. It's Oscar Harvey.”

“Hello there, Oscar. How's it going?”

“Not good. I wonder if you could come over.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Look, that's no problem, buddy. I'm a bit tied up at the moment but I'll be over in an hour or so.”

Oscar could hear Bob Marley in the background and the sound of a woman's voice. He needed Spike now but he had to be careful how he proceeded. Elliot was still sitting on the sofa, staring at the wall. Oscar was very worried about him. He almost looked catatonic.

“There's been an accident, Spike. I think it would be best if you came now.”

There was a sudden muting of Bob Marley.

“An accident?”

A muffled conversation was going on in the background. But there was no further hesitation. “No worries, hang on. I'm on my way.”

The line went dead.

That was the first phone call done. He could move on to the next. Oscar had a choice for the next. But he grappled with whom that should be. He tried to think straight, to stay focused.

“You okay? Where are you off to, Elliot?” Elliot stood up robotlike from the sofa.

“To the bathroom, I don't feel so good.”

He was moving and talking mechanically.

“When you're done, come back and get a drink of water.”

“Okay.”

It was an innocuous exchange and it struck Oscar how bizarre this was—that they should be having this mundane conversation, with the child's mother growing cold in the trunk among the tins of soup and melon.

“Stay focused. Stay focused,”
he repeated aloud. Returning to the business of the second phone call, he tried to think logically. Whom had he always gone to in times of crisis? Who was the one person who was always there for him, no matter what he'd done? Who understood him and his weaknesses? Who understood what drove him? Who would support him and help him with the children? And, as always in these situations, he found the answer was his sister. It was Helen whom he should call. Helen should be the recipient of the second phone call.

The day had lost its pattern and its rhythm but Oscar had to think. He had to factor in the time difference. It was 8:10
P.M.
here, so it must be 3:10 in the afternoon in New York. Helen would be at her desk downtown. He was finding it difficult to put a coherent shape on anything, to make even the simplest of calculations, as if the motor in his brain were stuck in quicksand.

On the rare occasions he'd allowed himself some introspection, he felt unworthy of Helen. He'd even felt self-loathing for the way in which he treated her, more often than not dismissing her. For it was Helen who had stuck with him through thick and thin. In the cold competitive home of Jack and Estelle Harvey, it was to Helen that he turned for comfort. Helen had seen him through that first major trauma with Ike, his crazy cocker spaniel. That giddy, senseless, writhing mass of fun and energy. The best friend a six-year-old boy could ever have.

He remembered it all so clearly. It had been a hot August day in Sag Harbor. Jack and Estelle Harvey had gone sailing, leaving their children behind with the housekeeper. Ike was good at playing catch. In the torpor of the afternoon, Helen sat on the porch eating strawberry ice cream
and reading a book. Oscar was throwing a bouncy blue ball for Ike to catch and lay at his feet, panting, yapping, dancing forward and back, eager to go again. And again. His tongue lolling at the side of his mouth, dripping saliva everywhere. It was hot under the afternoon sun.

It happened in slow motion.
More than thirty years later, like a reel from an old cine-camera, it still played out in his head. Ike barking, insisting on another throw, eyes bright, nudging the ball with his nose, dancing backward and forward. Oscar sees something rounding the corner and pulling into their drive, but Ike is barking, louder now, going crazy. Oscar lifts the ball, raising it above his head. Aiming for the long reeds that separate the lawn from the dunes, he follows the path of the ball, but as it reaches the top of the arc, the brown of a truck comes into view. He didn't see Ike disappear underneath. He only heard the thud, crunch, and screech of tires. Nothing for a moment, then a pitiful moaning like he'd never heard before.

The driver was there before him, looking under the truck. He had swerved but still managed to hit him. There was nothing to be done. Oscar pushed the man away, screaming at him to get lost. Hunkering down, he stayed for what seemed like an age, smoothing Ike's golden head until the whimpering became less and less. He'd seen the rip in his body but he couldn't look again—Ike's tummy open, twitching like a mass of earthworms.

“There, boy. It's okay. You did good. It was going to be a good catch. Your best one ever. There, boy . . .”

“Oscar, he's dead . . .” Helen was standing behind him. “Oscar, come with me . . .” she said. But it took Helen and the housekeeper and the driver, all three, to tear him away. The driver kept apologizing but what good were apologies? He and the housekeeper got Ike and put him into an old sack from the woodshed. They left Ike out back, there by the woodshed, for his dad to decide where to bury him.

Oscar stayed for a long time looking at the lifeless sack. When he came back around to the porch again, he noticed that the deliveryman had left a box on the front step. It was addressed to Mrs. Estelle Harvey.

Helen was sitting on the step, eating more ice cream.

“I got two spoons,” she said. They both sat there, solemnly eating the bowl of pink ice cream, scraping the bowl clean. Oscar remembered its velvet sugary comfort, the salve of something sweet. They were still on the porch when his mother and father got home, ruddy faced and laughing. It was getting dark. Helen filled them in on the catastrophic events of the afternoon.

“I'm not surprised,” his mother said. “That silly animal didn't have a modicum of sense. I suppose we should look out for something sensible next time . . . Poor Oscar.” She touched his cheek. Then, bending down, she looked at the box on the step. “About time,” she said. “I wondered when that Panama hat would arrive.” She pulled open the screen door and went inside carrying the box.

Later that evening, his father went to dispose of the body. His father would not entertain the idea of burying Ike in the garden. He drove off somewhere in the car with Ike in the trunk. Oscar was not allowed to go. The next day, when their parents went sailing once more, Oscar went to his parents' room and found the Panama hat.

He remembered it smoldered at first but after a few moments it took hold. He remembered the housekeeper trying to put out the flames, but it was too far gone. She never told his mother what had happened to the hat. And for the rest of that summer he spent a lot of time with Helen. Eating ice cream.

 • • • 

He had just finished the call to Helen when the doorbell went. He heard a key turn in the lock downstairs. Spike.

“Up here,” he called from the hallway outside the kitchen door.

Spike was taking the steps three at a time.

“Jesus Christ, what went on out there?”
The drizzle glistened on his motorbike leathers. “There's stuff everywhere. Some maggot up to Halloween high jinks?”

“Didn't you see the car?”

Maybe the rain had washed the blood away.

“Yeah, I saw it in the drive. Is the windscreen smashed?”

“Come with me,” said Oscar, steeling himself for what he had to do.

“Curiouser and curiouser . . .” said Spike.

Oscar had to warn him.

“I told you there had been an accident. This is serious.”

“Yeah, serious. I get you,” Spike replied.

Outside now, the roaring water hadn't abated. Oscar noticed that the group in the park was still there, drinking. And yet they hadn't raised the alarm. It seemed unlikely, but it was possible that they hadn't noticed anything.

“Take the car keys.” He handed them to Spike. He pointed at the trunk.

“What's this about, Oscar? Why don't you just tell me?” Spike was looking at Oscar as he released the catch of the trunk with the key. The door of the trunk sprang open and slowly hinged up.

Spike recoiled.

“Fuck! Oh Jesus, oh fuck!”

He stepped back in horror.

“Jesus, is that . . . ? Is that . . . ? That's your wife, isn't it?”

Oscar felt Spike's shock. Standing at a distance, he was unable to see into the trunk. But he could see it through Spike's eyes. Spike was the first outsider to see and Oscar wanted to gauge his reaction. He knew he'd have to go through this many times.

“Oscar, Oscar!”

His mind had wandered but Spike spoke sharply now, wanting his attention.

“Yes?”

Oscar felt a sense of detachment, as if it didn't matter if he were there or not, if he answered Spike or not.

“It
is
your wife, isn't it, Oscar? Please answer me,” he said softly now.

“Yes,” he said. “That's Hazel. My wife. She's dead.”

“I see that, Oscar. She's very dead,” said Spike, staring back into the trunk.

“What are we going to do?” asked Oscar.

Oscar wanted someone to tell him what to do. Helen couldn't be here before tomorrow, but in the meantime, he wanted someone to tell him what to do. And then he saw the spade again. Still lying on the ground among the spoiled groceries. He should really move that spade.

“Christ, is that a spade?” asked Spike as Oscar bent to move it out of sight.

“Yes,” said Oscar.

“You know what, Oscar? I really think we should leave all this. Just leave it where it is, okay?”

With the heels of his arms Spike pushed down the hood again, careful not to touch it with his hands.

“Have you phoned the guards?” he asked.

“Phoned the guards?” repeated Oscar. The cops.
Of course, that was the third phone call.
He knew there were three.

“Okay, Oscar. Look, come inside. Not my favorite people in the world—but for this, we really need to phone the guards.”

“I know that. I just hadn't got around to it.”

“Of course not. You're in shock. I can see that,” said Spike.

“What happened, exactly? If you can tell me . . .” Spike said once they were back in the kitchen.

“It's a bit confusing. I remember standing here at the window . . .” Oscar tried to start at the beginning.

“The kids?” interrupted Spike suddenly. “Where are the kids?” He looked suddenly panicked.

“In their rooms. Jess and Elliot are in their rooms,” said Oscar.

“Do they know?”

“They know.”

Spike relaxed. “So, can you tell me how this . . . how this . . . accident happened?” He looked pale against the black leather.

“Well, the thing about it is . . .” Oscar hesitated. A lump swelled up in his throat. He swallowed. “As you'll see, the thing about it is . . . it wasn't an accident at all . . .”

As best he could, Oscar tried to methodically describe the chain of events. Whatever Oscar said, he had little doubt he'd have to repeat
it, he'd have to regurgitate it over and over again. He tried to remember exactly how it all unfolded, what had happened in the dark, the frenzied blow with the spade as Hazel was leaning over to repack the shopping. The flailing limbs. The precise sequence of what had happened lost in the frenzy. It was difficult to describe.

“We have to tell the guards, obviously,” said Spike when Oscar finished talking. “What we have here is a crime scene.”

“I know that,” said Oscar, quietly. “Will you tell them for me or at least call them?”

“I'm making a 999 call now, but you'll have to tell them all of this again when they come, Oscar. Do you think that you can manage that?”