Angel Landing (11 page)

“Toward the harbor,” I said. “The last house on Main Street belongs to my aunt. That's where I live.”

“And Sugarland?” Finn asked as he strained to see the road through the falling snow.

“Carter lives in his office. That's where he's happiest.”

I borrowed a cigarette from Finn and lit it. “What do you do every day now that the plant is closed?” I asked, still curious about the details of his life.

Finn glared at me. “I do a lot of things,” he said.

“Of course,” I said, frightened by his sudden anger.

“I've got every minute of the day planned,” Finn continued. “First, in the morning, I'm nervous. That takes up a lot of time. In the afternoon I'll start to get anxious and that'll be good for a couple of hours. And then, by the time night comes, I'm just plain scared.”

Finn had pulled up in front of Minnie's house; smoke rose from the chimney. Finn stared straight ahead, on edge, on fire, ready to step on the gas the minute I was out of the car, ready to drive away, racing toward the center of his own dark fears. The car was in neutral and I could have gotten out without looking back. I could have said goodbye, good luck, I'll see you at the office, I'll see you in court. I could have asked Finn to stick with the facts and keep his sorrow to himself. Instead, just before opening the car door, I turned to him. “Come in and have a drink,” I said.

“What?” Finn said, turning to look at me.

I repeated my offer and then waited for Finn on the sidewalk; the Connecticut wind was still rising, blowing drifts across the front lawn. Inside the Camaro, Finn looked out at me. Then he turned off the engine and took his hands off the wheel. I was facing the other way, but I heard his door slam shut, I heard him follow me across the lawn and up the porch steps. As I opened the front door I saw that Minnie was watching us from the parlor window, but when I took Finn into that room to wait while I went to look for something to drink, the parlor was empty.

“I'll be right back,” I told Finn. “I hope Scotch is all right. There's only that and some sherry.”

“Scotch?” Finn said, as if the word was terribly foreign, too difficult for his tongue.

“Wait right here,” I said.

I found Minnie in the kitchen, washing dishes.

“What are you doing with a married man?” Minnie asked casually, without bothering to look up.

“I'm going to borrow some of your Scotch,” I said, reaching for glasses.

“I don't like it,” Minnie said. “Not one bit.”

“The truth is, he's not married.”

Minnie scowled. “First you tell me he's married, now you tell me he's not. What should I believe?”

“What's the difference,” I said, heading for the door. “Married or not, he's only here for a quick drink.”

Minnie pointed a finger at me. “He's the bomber,” she nodded. “I was right. I knew it the minute I saw him.”

“All right, all right. He's the accused bomber, although nobody's actually accused him yet. But he has decided to turn himself in; Carter's arranging it all.”

“Carter?” Minnie said. “Couldn't you find someone a little more reliable?”

“I want you to keep quiet about all this,” I warned my aunt.

“Who would I tell?” Minnie said as she poured boiling water into the teapot. “As far as I'm concerned, good luck to him. It's too bad he didn't have a bigger bomb, because before you know it they'll have Angel Landing going again.”

“It wasn't a bomb, it was a valve. And the whole thing was really an accident.”

“An accident?” Minnie shrugged. “Sure. If you want to believe that, sure. But what I want to know is, why are you suddenly going around with a bomber? After everything I told you.”

“I'm not going around with anyone,” I said as I walked into the hallway. “Except for Carter,” I added.

Minnie followed me into the hallway, drying her hands with a towel. “Did you invite this bomber into my house or didn't you?”

“I'm entitled to have guests, whoever I want. If I want to invite a murderer over for tea, I'm entitled,” I told my aunt. I was afraid that if Minnie approached Finn the way she had in my office she would frighten him away. “You can't really complain,” I said to Minnie. “I rarely have guests.”

“Have some guests.” Minnie shrugged.

“Why shouldn't I?” I said. “I have no strong connections, no real responsibilities. I should be having more guests than I do, and I should be able to entertain them alone.”

Minnie turned away from me. There, in the entrance hallway of the empty boarding house, as the cold draft sneaked in beneath the door, Minnie seemed to be shrinking, she was losing inches with every second.

“Oh come on,” I said, backing down. “Have your tea with us.” Minnie glared at me. “I want you to.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?” Minnie said.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes. Join us.”

Minnie shook her head. “I never had children,” she said, “because I never wanted them. I was busy, I had my husband, what did I need them for?”

“How often do you get a chance to spend time with a bomber, Minnie,” I said, afraid of what secret sorrow had just been triggered.

“Of course,” Minnie went on, “even if you have children, there's no guarantee. I see it all the time. Do children visit their parents at the Mercy Home? Do they even know they're alive? No,” Minnie shook her head, “there's never any guarantee.”

I balanced the Scotch and glasses in one hand, and with my free hand I reached for Minnie. I touched her to reassure myself; she wasn't fading, she was still blood and bones, still Minnie. “What's gotten into you?” I said. “Come on.”

When we reached the parlor, Finn was still standing in the spot where I had left him; still wearing his leather jacket, hands in his pockets, ill at ease.

“Here we are,” I said. “You've already met my aunt.”

“I'm having my tea with you,” Minnie said to Finn as I poured out drinks, “but don't expect me to talk. You're my niece's guest, not mine.” Minnie sat in the easy chair, she leaned her elbows on the frayed lace doilies.

“Why don't you take your coat off?” I asked Finn as I handed him his drink.

“I don't think so,” Finn said. “I'm nervous all the time,” he explained to me. “I like to be ready to get up and leave.”

“Nervous,” Minnie laughed. “You should have thought of that before you bombed the power plant.”

I cringed and tried to smile. “She guessed,” I told Finn.

“Revolutionaries, criminals, and saints all need a certain sort of character,” Minnie said. “They can't afford to be nervous.”

“It wasn't a bomb,” Finn said. “It was only a valve.”

“You want to take my advice?” Minnie said. “I'm old, so I know a thing or two. Forget about being nervous, you don't have any control over what will eventually happen to you. So save your energy, because if you want to know what it is that's going to happen, I'll tell you.” Minnie smiled sweetly, as if she had a marvelous secret. “You just get old. That's what will happen. No way around it.”

“Thank you,” I said, regretting having invited Minnie into the parlor, “for that wonderful advice.”

“On the other hand,” Minnie went on, “people have to use their energies before they kick the bucket.”

“You just said exactly the opposite,” Finn told Minnie.

Minnie looked at him, surprised. “So?”

Finn shook his head. “For an old woman you seem very confused.”

Minnie glared. “For a young man you seem very mixed up. First you bomb a power plant, then you regret it. Make up your mind.”

Finn gulped down his Scotch.

“Another?” I asked him.

“But let's not argue,” Minnie said to Finn. “I like you,” she nodded. “And I approve.” She smiled, first at Finn, and then, even more broadly, at me.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“I approve,” Minnie said. “The two of you.” Finn and I both stared at her dumbly. “Your affair.”

“Don't be ridiculous!” I said to my aunt. “There is no affair.”

“Hah,” Minnie said, knowingly.

“Can I have another drink?” Finn asked.

I poured him some; we didn't look at each other. I tried to think of a way, short of murder, to get Minnie out of the room. “Can you get some crackers and cheese?” I asked her. “I don't want to make a mess in your kitchen.”

“Certainly,” Minnie said, “but I'll be right back.”

When she had left, I turned to Finn. “My aunt,” I explained, “is eccentric.”

Finn sipped his Scotch. “She's different,” he agreed.

“She's not crazy or anything like that.”

“Oh, no,” Finn said quickly. “Nothing like that.”

Perhaps Minnie had guessed that I'd fallen for Finn's blue eyes; she assumed I wanted to be closer to him than I dared, but she had no proof, none at all; and if my heart beat quickly, just a little too fast, it may have been something as simple as a slight fever.

“One thing I don't understand,” Finn said. “Why doesn't Carter live here?”

“He's dedicated to his work,” I said. “He's more complicated than anyone would guess,” I added.

Finn shrugged; finally he decided to sit in the easy chair, he leaned back and finished his drink. As soon as Finn had relaxed, Beaumont began to rattle his pots and pans, like a convict wrapped in chains.

Finn's body tightened; he sat up straight. “What is that?” he whispered.

“Nothing.” I smiled. “Just Beaumont.”

“Is he hiding down there?” Finn pointed to the basement below.

“He's lived in the basement since nineteen fifty-six; he's one of my aunt's boarders.”

“Oh yeah?” Finn said. “How do you know that? How can you be sure?”

“You don't believe me?” I smiled. I went to the basement stairs and opened the door.

“Don't do that,” Finn said, following me to the door. “You don't know who's down there. I may have been followed.”

“I know who's down there,” I said. “Beaumont,” I called. We heard pots clatter; the odor of cabbage drifted upward.

Beaumont peered up from the basement.

“It's me,” I told him, “Natalie. Come on up.”

“I didn't do anything,” Beaumont called back.

He walked up the stairs, and when he reached the parlor the old boarder blinked like a mole. He was dressed in the gray shirt and trousers that were his watchman's uniform. Beneath his shirt his back was hunched from years of ducking under the pipes in the basement.

“What's he wearing?” Finn asked suspiciously.

“This?” Beaumont squinted down at his shirt. “It's my uniform.”

“What kind?” Finn whispered. “What does he do?”

“He's a guard,” I said. Beaumont nodded as Finn looked more and more uncomfortable. “At Angel Landing,” I confessed.

“Oh, shit,” Finn said. “Great.”

“I've been there for seven years,” Beaumont told Finn. The old man walked to the wood-burning stove and held out his hands. “Sure would be nice to have a stove like this downstairs.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Finn asked.

“He's only the night watchman,” I said. “He probably doesn't even know there was an explosion. Take a look at him; he's only a guard.”

Finn watched Beaumont carefully. “Still working?” he asked Beaumont.

“Oh, sure,” Beaumont said. “I'm there every night.”

“But the plant's been closed down,” Finn said.

Beaumont blinked. “I don't know anything about it. I'm still there every night.”

Minnie returned to the parlor; when she saw Beaumont crouched by the stove she glared at me. “Did you force him to come upstairs?” she asked me. “He likes his own room; he doesn't need a social worker.” She turned to Beaumont. “Has my niece been harassing you?”

“Oh, no,” the old boarder answered.

“No social work with my boarders,” Minnie said, waving a finger at me.

“Boarder,” I corrected. “You have only one aside from me.”

“Everything's fine,” Beaumont said as he edged toward the basement door.

“I think I better go,” Finn said. He placed his glass on the silver tea tray near the stove.

“That's right.” Beaumont nodded to Finn as the old man made his escape to his lair. “It's late. I have to get down to the power plant.”

I followed Finn to the front door. “I'm sorry about all this,” I said. “My aunt gets carried away.”

“I think I shouldn't have come here,” Finn said. “You asked me to have a quick drink because you felt sorry for me, because you're polite.”

“I'm not polite,” I insisted.

Finn opened the front door; snow swept over the polished floor, icicles hung from the roof like daggers, just above Finn's head. “Good night,” he told me, softly, quietly, as if his words were some long farewell meant to last years.

“Don't forget our appointment Thursday,” I called.

“I'll think about it,” Finn said as he walked out on the porch. “I can't promise anything more. I can't promise you I'll be there.”

I watched as Finn got into the Camaro and drove away, then I went back to the parlor. Minnie had taken out her sewing box and was repairing the torn doilies which covered the arms of the easy chair. I stood at the window, behind the glass and the lace; I imagined the apartment where Finn would sleep that night: I was certain the room was not well heated. Finn would sleep in his clothes, and would shiver beneath a thin cotton blanket; in the early morning, when the sky was still black, he would call out in his sleep, his own cry would wake him.

I went to the stove to warm my hands; when I looked up, Minnie was watching me. She tore a piece of thread with her teeth and then tied a knot. “So?” she said.