Somebodys fool, p.22
Somebody's Fool, page 22
“There,” Ruth pointed, having surmised from Peter’s tentativeness that he couldn’t remember precisely where his father lay buried. “Follow the car tracks. Five rows, then left.”
“Is it okay to—”
“Everybody does,” Ruth assured him, and Peter could see that it was true. There were vehicle tracks between the rows of graves.
“Tell me when to—”
“Stop,” she said. “We’re here.”
Turning off the engine, Peter got out and went around the front to help Ruth down from the cab. Seeing that his father’s grave was well tended, he said, “You come here regularly?”
She nodded. “My husband is just over there.” She pointed to where Zack lay buried. “I don’t get to stay as long as I like.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s usually Janey who brings me, and it still pisses her off to think I carried on with your father all those years.”
“I can see where it would.”
“Does it piss you off?”
“Not really, no. His marriage to my mother was a mistake pretty much from day one.”
“I don’t think he felt that way.”
“No?”
“Well, it resulted in you. And later Will.”
“Yeah, Will did win him over. And vice versa.”
“He never won you over?”
Peter shrugged. “I came to like him quite a lot, actually.”
“Like?”
He nodded, smiling at her. “As opposed to dislike.”
“Quite a lot?”
“As opposed to a little.”
“But not love.”
“The word is overused.” When she didn’t respond to this, he could feel her trying to decide whether his observation was worth quarreling over or even whether it was him or his father that she’d be quarreling with.
“I don’t recall him using it all that much either,” she said, indicating Sully’s stone. “I’m not sure I ever used the word myself, for that matter,” she added sadly.
Since the possibility that she hadn’t clearly troubled her, he said, “Does it matter? You’re standing here.”
“I guess.”
“And, for the record, so am I.”
Which elicited a grudging smile. “Does it count if you’re dragged?”
They stood in silence for a time, until Peter finally said, “So, what’s this all about?”
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Maybe nothing.”
Peter felt a chill. Had she had a biopsy? Been given a poor prognosis? “Are you not feeling well?”
“Hah!” she said. “That’s hilarious. I don’t even remember what feeling good is like. Most days I ache from head to toe.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
She waved this away. “More than anything I’m just worn out. Playing out the string, I guess. I belong here at the Hilldale Country Club more than I do among the living.” When he didn’t respond to this, she nudged him with her elbow. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me how wrong I am. Unless you agree?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t say anything,” she pointed out, and when he didn’t say anything to that, either, she said, “If your father was here, he’d at least try to cheer me up.”
“He is here,” Peter reminded her, indicating the stone they stood before.
“I walked right into that one, didn’t I,” she snorted. Then, just as quickly, she became serious again. “I’m more worried about my daughter and granddaughter than myself.”
He waited for her to continue, which she seemed in no hurry to do. Unless he was mistaken, having invoked his father, she was now talking as much to Sully as to him. Maybe more. “I’m listening,” he assured her.
“There isn’t much I can do for Janey. She’s angry and disappointed, and I can’t really blame her. I’ve been where she is. Her situation is worse though.”
“How so?”
“The restaurant was never a cash cow, even in the best of times. Which these aren’t. She doesn’t want to sell the place, but I don’t know. Maybe she should.”
“Between us,” Peter said. “Birdie’s wondering how much longer she can hold on in this economy. Whether it’s worth the effort.”
“With Janey, it’s more than just the restaurant. After that shit-heel husband of hers, you’d think she would’ve learned her lesson, but she still gravitates to bad men.”
“No shortage of those to choose from,” Peter conceded. “Why are you worried about Tina?”
“She’s always had her challenges, poor girl,” she said. “I doubt she’ll ever be right.”
“I’m not sure I agree,” Peter told her. “You know her better than I do, but she seems to be very good at what she does. She’s turned Grandpa Zack’s into a thriving business.”
“Oh, I know that,” Ruth conceded. “I’m proud of her, too. I mostly worry that she’s broken inside. Damaged beyond repair. Too much happened to her when she was a child, and now she’s trapped in that head of hers.”
“Aren’t we all trapped in our heads?”
“I suppose,” Ruth admitted. “But she’s so alone. No friends her own age. There are a lot of simple things that she can’t seem to manage…like what we’re doing right now. Having a simple conversation.”
“This is a simple conversation?”
She nudged him with her elbow again. “You know what I mean.”
“Okay, but Tina’s been like she is for a long time, right? What’s got you all worked up now?”
She took a deep breath. “She says she drove by your place yesterday.”
“Yeah, I saw her,” Peter said, remembering how her flatbed truck had slowed in front of the house before proceeding on down the street. Then it had returned again a few minutes later, heading in the other direction. That had struck him as odd, even at the time, but he’d been too flustered by Thomas’s unexpected appearance to give the matter much thought.
“Did you know that back in high school she had a crush on your son?” Ruth said.
“Will?” Peter squinted at this. “Wasn’t he a couple years ahead of her?”
“Crushes don’t have to be realistic to be real,” she pointed out. “All that’s required is a hole in your heart that you can’t fill.” Again, Peter sensed that she was speaking as much to his father as to him. “Anyway, when he went off to college, she was just so…”
She paused, clearly searching for the right word.
“…bereft that it broke my heart. I mean, the few glimpses she had of him at school were what was keeping her going, and now she didn’t even have those. I figured after he left, she’d move on, find some other unattainable boy to fixate on, but if anything, she became even more besotted with his memory. She couldn’t wait till the holidays came around, or spring break. When he came home, she’d be able to catch sight of him again.”
“I don’t think Will had any idea.”
“Why would he?”
“But wait. You’re saying she still has that same crush?”
“She scours the Internet for news about him.”
Peter winced. “Does she know he’s engaged?”
“If he posted about it, she knows.” Her brow was knit in thought. “Can I ask where he is right now?”
“In England, actually.”
Ruth nodded sadly. “She swears she saw him yesterday. On your front porch.”
At this, Peter nodded, finally glimpsing what this was all about. “That was actually Thomas, my middle son. They look a lot alike.”
“Huh,” she said, looking puzzled. “I guess I’d forgotten that Will had siblings.”
“That’s exactly how Thomas feels, I suspect,” Peter admitted. “Forgotten. After his mother and I split up, he and Andy, the youngest, lived with her in West Virginia. Charlotte was clear that I wasn’t welcome in their lives. After she remarried…” He let the thought trail off. “I haven’t seen Thomas or his brother since they were boys.”
“Well, at least I know she’s not hallucinating. That sets my mind at ease a little. She kept saying she was sure it was him and also sure it wasn’t. Kind of like me seeing you on that same porch just now.”
When a snowflake landed on the tip of his nose, Peter glanced up into the low, gray sky. Snow, he recalled, was forecast.
“So, what’s he like, this son you haven’t laid eyes on in so long?”
He decided to answer honestly. “I have no idea,” he admitted. And of course now he was the one speaking as much to Sully as to the living woman at his elbow. “If I had to guess, I’d say lost.”
“Maybe you ought to find out?”
“Too late. He’s gone again. He claimed he was on his way up to Montreal for a few days. Then he was heading on back to West Virginia.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Nope.”
“And now you don’t know what to do.”
“There’s something to do?”
“There’s always something to do.”
“Yeah, but most of it’s wrong. Either wrong or too late.”
“Your father used to say, ‘Do some fucking thing. If it doesn’t work, do something else.’ ”
“I don’t remember him ever saying that,” Peter said, “but it sounds like him. He was a bull in a china shop.”
“Yeah, but so what?” Ruth said. “A few plates get busted. Who cares?”
Shouldn’t you? he thought. Wasn’t Ruth herself one of those busted plates, thanks, at least in part, to his father’s carelessness? Though maybe she didn’t see it this way. Maybe she figured a few chips and cracks were worth it, proof she’d lived and loved.
“Well,” she said, noticing the snow herself now. “I guess you can take me back home. Three to six inches, they were predicting yesterday. Now they’re saying a foot or more.”
“Yeah?” He hadn’t heard the update. When he held the door for her, Ruth again managed to lever herself up and into the cab, mostly without his help. When she was situated, he closed the door again, went back around front and got in behind the wheel.
“Thanks for indulging an old woman,” she told him.
“My pleasure,” he said, turning the key in the ignition and starting the windshield wipers. “Tell Tina I said hi.”
“I’ll do that.”
“She was on the list,” he said, putting the truck in gear and following the tire tracks between the long row of graves.
“Which?”
“The list of people my father wanted me to check in on after he was gone,” he told her. “You didn’t get one of those?”
“I did, actually,” she told him. “Mine had just the one name on it, though.”
“Yeah?” he said, wondering if the name on hers was also on his. “Who was that?”
“You.”
Plumage
THE STREET OUTSIDE was rapidly filling up with thick, heavy snow. Inside Hattie’s, Raymer and his new roommate were sharing the small booth farthest from the entrance, Raymer smugly basking in the accomplishment of coaxing Jerome out of the apartment. Charice had predicted that wouldn’t happen until Monday at the earliest, but here they were, a full day ahead of schedule. In fact, Jerome had gone all in. He’d not only showered, he’d put on—except for Raymer’s old cardigan—fresh clothes. Moreover, his two suitcases had been relocated from the entryway to the spare bedroom, an acknowledgment that he would be there for a while. In fact, when Jerome was in the bathroom, Raymer had called Charice to crow.
“Exciting news,” he told her. “He’s in the shower.”
“Really?”
“Also, he defecated.”
“Wow,” she said, her voice rich with wonder.
“I think I heard him putting his toiletries in the medicine cabinet,” he added. The night before, he’d made room and even left a juice glass on the sink for Jerome’s toothbrush.
“You’re blowing my mind here,” Charice admitted.
“He’s calling me Dawg.” Raymer wasn’t certain this qualified as good news, but it seemed worth mentioning.
“Not Doug?”
“Nope. Dawg.”
“I can’t believe the progress you’re making.”
“Actually, I have a working hypothesis,” he told her.
“Which is?”
“That it was you holding him back this entire time.”
“Bye, Dawg,” she said, and hung up. Which made him even more smug. He seldom bested Charice in a verbal exchange. Another thought also occurred to him. Was it possible that the best route back into Charice’s affections was through her brother?
“So,” said Raymer, studying the man sitting across from him. “Why are you dressing like this?”
Jerome continued to stare out the window at the falling snow. “Dressing like what?”
“I don’t know,” Raymer said. “You always used to look spiffy.”
Outside, a nondescript sedan with a county license plate pulled into one of the diagonal parking spaces. Raymer recognized its front-seat passenger as their waitress at the Horse last night. Jane? Janey? Jeannie? Why couldn’t he keep women’s names straight? Dr. Qadry would have both a theory and a series of leading questions to help him arrive at the intended aha! reveal. Janey (he decided) got hurriedly out of the car and made a beeline for the diner’s front door. The vehicle’s driver, by contrast, was in exactly no hurry. He was a big guy, and something about the way he carried himself, together with the county license plate, suggested he might be a cop. By the time he finished feeding coins into the meter, glancing up and down the street as he did so, Raymer was sure of it.
Once inside, Janey went behind the counter where she located a tub of ibuprofen tablets the size of a football, extracted two with shaking hands and swallowed them dry. “Thanks for opening up,” she told the middle-aged man at the grill, who was taking her measure with neither surprise nor visible sympathy.
“I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess tequila,” he said and, when she didn’t contradict him, added, “Your mother’s called already.”
“Wonderful,” Janey said. “Just wonderful. Back in a minute.” She disappeared through the swinging door.
“All in the past,” Jerome was saying, still watching it snow. Despite the progress they’d made, he was still having trouble meeting Raymer’s eye. “Took all those sharp clothes down to Goodwill, Dawg. Let somebody else look spiffy for a change.”
“Why, though?” Raymer asked. “Wearing nice threads. Tooling around in the ’Stang. You always used to cut quite a figure.”
At the mention of the ’Stang, Jerome’s face clouded over. “That’s the other thing I gotta do as soon as I get back home. Sell the Mach.”
Not long after returning to North Carolina, he’d traded in his beloved Goldfinger ’Stang for the Mach 1 from Diamonds Are Forever. According to Charice, the old ’Stang had reminded him of North Bath and Becka and everything else he was anxious to put behind him. Now he was apparently set on selling the new one. It was hard for Raymer to imagine Jerome without a car that was somehow tied to a James Bond movie. How would he deliver his signature line: The name is Bond…etcetera. “What will you drive now?”
“Don’t know,” he admitted, “but I’m all done making myself a target.”
Target? “I don’t understand,” Raymer confessed.
“Because you aren’t Black, is why.”
Raymer rubbed his chin. It wasn’t just Jerome’s unkempt hair and new sartorial choices that he was having trouble adjusting to. His voice was different, as well. Despite his still-elevated diction, he was sounding, well, more Black these days. It used to be Charice who would, upon occasion, allow the lilt of their southern upbringing to creep into her voice—usually when she wanted to make Raymer uncomfortable. By contrast, Jerome had always spoken as if he’d grown up in Iowa with white, Protestant parents. These days, at least to Raymer’s ear, he sounded like William F. Buckley would have if he’d been kidnapped and held captive for a month in the front pew of a Southern Baptist church.
“Okay,” Raymer said. “Explain it to me.”
“Explain being Black?” Jerome said, finally making eye contact. (Another milestone! Raymer wished he could pause their conversation right there to call Charice and let her know.)
“No,” Raymer said, though that didn’t sound like a bad idea, either. “Explain why dressing well and driving a Mustang makes you a target.”
“Riles some people up, Dawg.”
The bell over the diner’s front door tinkled now, and the man who Raymer suspected of being a cop entered, took off his parka and hung it up on the coatrack by the door, surveying the sparse crowd as he did. Was it Raymer’s imagination, or did his gaze linger for a split second on him and Jerome?
“Consider such accoutrements uppity,” Jerome continued. “Got you lynched, if you weren’t careful.”
“In Schuyler County?”
Jerome snorted. “Anywhere, Dawg. You know they got an interactive map online that marks the precise location of every lynching in these United States, going all the way back to the Reconstruction?”
“I didn’t, no.” According to Charice, since returning to Schuyler, Jerome, newly insomniac, spent most of the night toggling between websites, muttering and taking notes, to what purpose he refused to reveal.
“You think they didn’t hang Black folks up north?” Jerome said. “Set ’em ablaze for good measure?”
