Bloodline (38 page)

C
lair was shy around Roxanne.

It was early Sunday afternoon and we were standing in the Varneys' kitchen, sipping coffee while Mary prepared omelets on the big Franklin wood-burning stove. Roxanne and I had made love long into the night, slowly and gently, and again in the morning, and Roxanne's skin was glowing like rose quartz against the dark shine of her hair. I stood across the kitchen and took her in, still unbelieving. But then, that had always been the magic of us being together. We took nothing for granted.

Clair had shaken Roxanne's hand with his big hard paw. Mary, strong and pretty and silver-haired, had given her a little hug. It was like they were us in twenty years, or so I hoped.

We stood and chatted. Mary asked me about my face and I said I fell in the woods at night, out looking for owls. Roxanne gave me an oh-come-on look, but then Mary asked her how long she'd been in Boston, and how she liked Colorado, where Clair once had been stationed. He said he liked Colorado but his real love had been New Mexico, which he said was like “a porthole back in time.” Roxanne smiled at him, surprised, and then Mary asked her if she'd bring over
the plates and she did, holding them out to catch the omelets as Mary slid them from the pan.

The omelets had cheese, peppers, tomatoes, and scallions, all from the Varneys' garden. We ate and drank coffee and talked about gardening and old houses and Millie Tint's sculpture and the fall warblers, which were coming through on their way south. Mary said she'd just heard that Susan and her husband were coming for Christmas. Susan wanted to get her traveling in before she got too pregnant. Mary said she was working on Jen, but Jen's husband in the State Department didn't know if he could get away.

“And how is that story on the babies coming?” Mary asked me.

“Pretty good,” I said. “It's very interesting.”

“And sad, I'll bet,” she said. “Those poor little girls. Life's hard enough.”

“Sometimes,” I said.

We ate and then sat for a long time. When the coffee was gone and the coffee-cake plate picked clean, Mary said she'd give Roxanne some needlepoint if Roxanne was interested. Roxanne said she was and they went upstairs, chatting all the way. I handed the dishes to Clair and he put them in the dishwasher. The frying pan he scrubbed in the black slate sink.

“Your girl's a peach,” Clair said, running the water.

“Thanks. I think so.”

“If I were you, I wouldn't lose her again.”

“I'm not planning on it.”

He clanked the pan in the rack and reached for the coffeepot.

“Come up with anything down south?”

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

He waited. If I was going to say more, it would be my choice.

I found the lawyer who handled Missy Hewett's baby. He's from Portland. Missy called his house so much she got to know the guy's daughter.”

“So how'd he react?”

“Went berserk. Pretended I had the wrong guy.”

“Not very smooth.”

“Nope. One of the worst no-comments I've ever seen.”

“Guy must tend to panic under pressure.”

“Surprising for a lawyer,” I said. “Unless he's used to working in the back room, doing research in the law library. I can't imagine him in a courtroom.”

“They have to go to court to do adoptions?”

“Just probate. And it's just filling out forms, basically. Showing the judge that the new parents aren't ax murderers. But, you know, I don't think the guy—his name is Putnam—I don't think he's an adoption lawyer. His wife said he didn't do adoptions anymore.”

“Was she more cooperative?” Clair asked, giving the pot a last rinse.

“Not really. She said that just before she started screaming for somebody to call the cops.”

“Didn't like your looks, I guess.”

“Hard to believe, isn't it?”

Clair dried his hands on the towel and hung it on a hook by the stove. We could hear Roxanne and Mary laughing upstairs.

“Let's go outside,” Clair said.

“I'll bring the cigars.”

We went out the back door and around the shed to the barn. It had turned cloudy overnight, and without the sun, the air was cold
and chilling. Clair opened the side door to the barn and we went in. I flicked on the lights and watched as he stuffed newspaper and cedar kindling into the stove. When the pile was crackling, he closed the stove door and opened the damper wide.

“That oughta do her,” Clair said, and he went and leaned against the workbench. I pulled up a chair.

“So this kid, your buddy with the shotgun?”

“Kenny.”

“Yeah. He's in a bad way.”

“One can only hope.”

“No, I mean it. Something was wrong with the kid. Wasn't he cocky?”

“Oh, yeah. With a big chip on his shoulder.”

“Ready to fight the world, right?”

“And he picked me to go first.”

Clair fiddled with a pile of open-end wrenches.

“Well, he was jumpy. Said he was looking for you. Acted like he was looking over his shoulder, afraid of something.”

“That is different.”

“Guy was spooked. He didn't look like somebody who'd shoot out your windows.”

“Maybe he was coked out,” I said.

“Just plain scared, is my guess.”

“Of what?”

Clair looked at me.

“He looked a little rough on the edges, but I wouldn't say you giving him a little whupping would change his attitude like that.”

“What do you mean, little? I kicked his butt,” I said, grinning. “Now what about the teacher?”

“Hell, Jack, I would have said you should latch on to her, but now I know why you wouldn't. But hell, this one was pretty and said hello just as friendly.”

“And she said she wanted to talk to me?”

“Yup. I figured you were scooping her when you were supposed to be working.”

“Are you kidding? She gave me the chill like you wouldn't believe.”

“Well, something must have changed her mind.”

“She had a divine revelation as to my true worth.”

“Maybe she was just playing hard to get,” Clair said.

“But I wasn't trying to get her.”

“Maybe that was the problem.”

The door to the house banged and, through the window, I saw Roxanne and Mary come out. They paused by the flower gardens, then started toward the barn.

“What about Poole, the cop?” I said quickly.

“Nothing much to say there. Pretty easygoing. Said he needed to check with you. I said I didn't know where you were and he left.”

I didn't say anything.

“I don't know, Jack,” Clair said, moving away from the bench as the women approached. “But when people change character like that, something's going on. You be careful.”

“I'm always careful,” I said.

Clair looked at my face.

“That's what I'm afraid of,” he said.

As we walked back down the road to the house, it started to rain. Roxanne hooked her arm through mine and I felt like she should have
a parasol and I should be wearing a bowler. We strolled along and she asked me who lived in the college girls' house. I told her and said they were away for some sort of break. Roxanne said that was good, because she didn't want them coming over to borrow sugar.

When we came to the yard, she stopped and looked at my burned-out truck.

“It's art, don't you think?” I said.

“It's art in the Museum of Modern Art. Here it's junk.”

“What a Philistine. You're lucky you're good-looking.”

“And what if I wasn't?” Roxanne asked.

“I'd trade you in for a Bohemian.”

She kissed me and held me close.

“Your trading days are over, Jack McMorrow.”

“I'll retire gracefully,” I said.

We went inside and Roxanne started poking around and picking up. I told her she didn't have to do that, but she said she wanted to. She said if it was going to be her space, too, she had to organize it to fit her needs.

“You mean the bundles of newspapers have to go?”

“Unless you were planning on rereading them.”

“I'm not planning on having that much time on my hands.”

“Why's that?”

“Because I'm planning on having you on my hands.”

“The best-laid plans?”

“I thought I was the one with the puns.”

“It rubs off,” Roxanne said.

She drifted around the house, climbed the stairs to the loft. I sat in a chair by the back window and watched the rain, which was now coming harder. It was half past three and the light already was fading.
I sat there and watched the field and the dark woods and thought about Kenny and Poole and Janice Genest and the Putnams, with the Flanagans bringing up the rear. I had made no progress when Roxanne came down the stairs and asked if I owned a broom.

“Just what are you implying?” I said.

“Nothing,” she said, smiling.

“It's in the closet,” I said. “Like brand-new.”

“I'm sure.”

I looked back out at the rain and the woods and then felt her stare on my back. When I turned, Roxanne was standing there with Clair's rifle, holding it at arm's length by the tip of the barrel, like it was a rotting carcass.

“What's this?” she asked.

“A rifle.”

“Yours?”

“Clair's. He wants me to take up hunting. He says he'll make a man out of me yet.”

“Is it loaded?”

“No. The shells are in the kitchen drawer, behind the dish towels.”

“These things scare me,” Roxanne said.

“Well, I don't exactly take it to bed with me.”

“If you did, you'd be going to bed alone.”

“Where's your sense of sexual adventure? How 'bout I dress up in a rubber suit and shoot apples off your head.”

“God, he's not only turned macho, he's gone kinky.”

“What a combo, huh? Let me tie you to my gun rack, baby.”

“Let me catch the next bus to Boston. Baby.”

Roxanne carried the gun back to the closet, still holding it by the barrel. She set it down gingerly and shut the door. If I hadn't been there, I think she would have nailed it shut.

“Ugh,” she said.

Roxanne swept, which meant I couldn't sit, not without feeling guilty. I got up and put the dishes away, then tied the newspapers into bundles and put them out in the shed. When I came back in, she'd started coffee and put on music, a Torelli concerto. The only thing missing was the Sunday paper. I said I'd go and get one in Albion.

“I'll stay,” Roxanne said. “I just want to put my feet up. I was going to have another cup of coffee but I'm starting to feel like I might take a nap. You wore me out last night.”

“I think it's the other way around.”

“We'll call it a draw,” she said.

“Okay. But listen. If anybody comes, don't answer the door.”

“Why not?”

“Just don't, okay?”

She looked at me.

“You're serious?”

“Yeah. Just for now. Until I figure some things out.”

“Okay,” Roxanne said, reluctantly. “But just for now.”

I grabbed a ten-dollar bill off the counter and went out to the truck. It was blowing harder and yellow leaves were falling from the poplars and birches in swirling clouds. The truck started hard, as if the battery were down, but the motor sputtered and I drove out the dump road and then on to the pavement, taking a left and heading for Albion. Sodden cows stared from pastures along the way, and I passed a family throwing firewood down a cellar bulkhead. The father waved and I waved back, but I didn't know them.

In Albion, the general store was quiet. I pumped five dollars' worth of gas into the Toyota and went inside. There was one
Boston Globe
left and a few
Sunday Telegrams
. I took one of each and placed the stack on the counter at the checkout. After a minute, a young woman came and punched the cash register and took my money. When she handed me my change, she gave me a lingering smile. When it rains, it pours.

I went out to the truck, put the papers on the passenger seat, and turned the key. There was a click. Another click. A faint, brief growl. Then more clicks and nothing. The battery again.

It could have been worse, I thought. I could have been stuck somewhere between Providence and Boston. Or on the streets of Cambridge. Or in front of Gary Putnam's house. Hey, Gary. How 'bout giving me a boost?

I got out and went back into the store. The same woman was at the counter and I asked her if there was anybody who could give me a jump start. She said, sure, she'd give me one, and she grabbed a slicker off a hook by the door and came outside.

She had jumper cables and a very big Chevy four-wheel-drive. If the Toyota didn't start, we could load it in the back of her truck and haul it home. But it started and I coiled her cables and handed them back to her.

“Your husband's truck?” I said.

“Mine,” she said. “He's history.”

On that note of conjugal bliss, I headed for home, but I didn't get far.

Just outside Albion, the two-lane highway makes a long, sweeping curve. Halfway through it, revving the Toyota right to the red line, I looked up and saw a familiar Ford pickup. Then a familiar face.

Kenny's.

I put on the brakes. He locked his up, bringing the Ford to a long, skidding stop. I saw his backup lights come on and he pulled off onto a pasture entrance and turned the truck around. I sat by the side of the road and waited. With a roar, he pulled alongside and leaned over and rolled the passenger window down. I rolled mine up.

“Follow me,” Kenny said, all business, no wise-ass. I looked at him, his long hair under his baseball hat. “Come on,” he said, and he put his truck in gear and took off. I thought for a second, then followed.