Light of Day (15 page)

“That's something I've always wished I could do. Be an artist. Take an abstract idea and make it something beautiful and tangible. Did you ever want to make movies?” Marty smiled. “I'm curious. Really.”

“When I was in high school I wanted to be a director, a great auteur. That's why I went to Gilbert College. Because of their film department.”

“And?”

“Look, Marty—I admit that I've been having a tough time—”

“Did you ever make movies?”

“I lacked a little something called talent.”

“Someone once said talent is a cheap trick.”

Jack's body started shaking again, and his breathing was loud and fast. He didn't care that Marty was watching him—observing him, and not accidentally; Jack was beginning to realize that there were few things that Marty did accidentally, or innocently. He leaned back on his elbows, waited while his body calmed down, and he caught his breath. “You like doing this,” he said. “You like being a detective.”

“There are other things I like more.” Marty kicked a cigarette butt away from his shoe. “I'm not even sure I ever wanted to be a cop. But I needed a job after high school, and since I don't come from the kind of family that encouraged us to go to college, when a guy I know said he was taking the police exam, I figured I'd take it, too. I graded high and decided to join the department.” He turned to Jack and grinned. “Being a cop in Gilbert is kind of like being a fisherman, it's never exactly been a hotbed of crime—even Indiana's very own John Dillinger never committed a crime here, never even
tried
to rob the banks. One of the few towns in the state he left alone. Anyway, I did a little crime scene work, mostly burglaries. I started seeing some domestic violence cases and I got into
Victim Support. After a while I got it through my thick skull that people responded to my help. The department pays for half of your college tuition if you get a job-related degree, so I started taking sociology and criminology courses at ISU. I like kids, so I figured I'd do some work in the Juvenile Division where I could help them and their families.”

“Which includes consoling bereaved fathers.”

“What can I say?” Marty answered, in the same sympathetic tone he'd used earlier, but Jack had no impulse to punch him this time. He wanted only to go home. He felt the familiar rush of anxiety, the foreboding, unbearable and insistent. He drummed his fingertips against his knees. He tapped his foot against the pavement. He had to get away right now, even if it was too late, even if the answering machine was already blinking bad news; and he felt ashamed of himself, ashamed of his fears; and he felt something else as well, something more than shame. He felt small inside, weak and clammy because he needed to be here with Marty, he needed to be carried through the night.

“I'm in the middle of the lake,” Jack said, “aren't I?”

“There are worse places to be.”

“And you're trying to get me to stay out here.”

“I'm not so sure about that. Maybe you're trying to get yourself to stay out here.”

“I'm not so sure about that, either.”

“Fair enough,” Marty said, and a moment later, “I guess we're just two guys who don't really know what the hell we're doing out here,” and managed again not to sound patronizing.

Half a mile away, a freight train tore a piece of silence out of the night. In a minute, the warning bells at the Third Street crossing would clang frantically and the red lights would flash like a nervous tic while the wail of the train whistle expanded and the diesel engine shined its ever-lovin' light, pulling and rolling, eating up the steel-slick tracks, in and out of town without stopping.

“You know why Dillinger never robbed the banks in Gilbert?” Marty asked. “Because the town's surrounded by railroad crossings, and there was always the chance that all his escape routes would be blocked at the same time by passing trains and he'd've been trapped here.”

T
he red light on the answering machine had not been flashing a warning, and the cold stone lodged inside Jack's stomach had loosened its grip. Something was happening, it was not unpleasant and it was not filled with dread, if Jack didn't think too much about it, if he didn't say to himself, “Well, nothing happened tonight. Not
this
time. Not yet.”

Outside the house, orange sunlight rippled just above the horizon. It wasn't so bad sitting in the backyard watching the dawn, taking off his shirt, lying back in one of the chairs, feeling the slight, excuse-me breeze rustling the trees. Maybe he'd bring a book out here and try to read, or go ahead and accept Marty's lunch invitation.

Lunch, while the rest of my world falls apart.

He watched the morning sun rise over the rim of the field. He felt all the familiar feelings of loneliness and sorrow, and something not as familiar: a sudden spasm of disloyalty to Danny for going out last night, for wanting to go out today.

What did Marty say about that? Jack couldn't remember.

He remembered, instead, that he and Danny would have been to New York and gone by now. They'd have seen their doubleheader—the rich red clay of the infield when you walk out of the dark runway and into the sunlight, which is not unlike stepping into a dream. The deep green grass and how perfectly it's cut, how perfectly it grows. He
thought of the way Danny had gripped his hand the first time they went to a ballgame together, back in 1985. Danny, wearing his little blue baseball cap, red sneakers that seemed too big for his small body, looking up, asking, “Why didn't Mummy come with us?”

“Mummy's very busy today,” Jack explained.

He thought about Danny lasting through five innings. He thought of all the baseball games he would never see with his son—somewhere in the basement, in a box against a wall or on a shelf, was the box score of Danny's first game.

Jack whispered, “Danny and I would've been on the Cape the day before yesterday.”

He thought about the expanse of summer—wicked nights, he called them.

I went out last night, and no one died.

Jack wanted to remember what else Marty had said. He thought it might help him tolerate what he was feeling now and what he was doing, what he had done and what this summer had turned into. He wanted to remember what Marty had said because thinking about it was the only thing that wasn't filled with regret, the only thing that didn't hurt to think about, not the way remembering the day he took Danny to his first ballgame hurt, the way it hurt to think about Anne.

A June bug flung itself at the screen door, making a heavy crunching sound. A hawk rode the thermal draft bold and preeminent above the field. Jack closed his eyes. When he opened them, the sun was high above the trees and the air was the coolest it was going to be all day.

“What I'm saying is, you're supposed to grieve, you're supposed to mourn and feel all the things,
anything,
you want, but there's a healthy way to go about it. That's all.” That's what Marty told him last night.

Jack got up slowly, slung his shirt over his shoulder and went into the house to shave and shower, to select the clothes he would wear; to prepare himself for the impending afternoon.

 

They were going to drive out to the country, to a little barbecue shack, Walter's, on the outskirts of town. Marty said it reminded him of the old chicken shacks in western Tennessee, where his grandmother used
to live. He said it always cheered him up to go out there, took his mind off his troubles. Maybe it would have the same effect on Jack, if only for the few hours they were gone. “Anyway,” Marty said, “it's a nice drive through the country.” He said this last night, while they were sitting in Jack's car waiting for the sunrise. Marty had his eyes closed and his seat pushed back and it seemed, for a moment, that he was talking in his sleep, his voice was that soft and far away. He said, “It's a pretty remote place. I found it when I was going through that rough time of mine.” Then he opened his eyes and sat up. “But I should tell you in advance, we'll probably be the only white people there. Will that bother you?”

Jack told him, “Don't be ridiculous.” Which made Marty smile.

“I didn't think it would. Anyway, I think you'll like it.” Marty said this as though Jack had already agreed to go, as though Jack wasn't shaking inside, certain that what remained of his world had fallen apart during the night. “But I better tell you, Walter doesn't know I'm a cop. If he did, he'd've never let me stick around. He got the idea that I haul cement over in Vigo County, and I haven't tried to change his mind. I don't have to tell you cops are not on the A-list of most African-Americans around here. In any case, a lot of his customers would be very unhappy if they knew.” Marty said he didn't even bring any of the guys he worked with. “The first time I walked in, I think Walter thought I was either some crazy redneck looking for trouble or someone from the board of health looking for a bribe, but all I was looking for was some good barbecue.” A moment later, he said, “It seems like a lot all at once and I know you don't really want to do it.” He turned his face toward the day's first light. “But you have to start sometime.”

“You're going to make me your summer project no matter what I say, so we might as well start tomorrow.”

Marty put his hands behind his head. “Fair enough,” he said, in a tone of calm resolve.

 

It wasn't a very big place, eight tables, a lunch counter with a dozen metal stools, the kind you see in a lot of diners, low backs and vinyl cushions. But it was pure country. The early afternoon breeze wove lazily off the river through the deep shade of the tall oak trees, wrapped
itself around the sweet smell of pork cooking out back in the smoker, climbed through the eyebrow windows and swirled in the vortex of the ceiling fans.

There were four men seated at the counter eating their lunch, talking and joking in that way people who know each other well talk and joke. They turned around to say hello to Marty and one of the men said it was good to see him again.

Walter was short and lean and looked about sixty. He walked with a hitch, and started talking to Marty as soon as he saw him, hurrying up to him to shake his hand, shake Jack's hand and say any friend of Marty's was always welcome, asking how Marty was doing these days while at the same time pulling two chairs away from one of the tables—old Formica trimmed with stainless steel and matching chairs, only none of the chairs matched—and saying, “Sit down, sit down.” He did nothing to hide his affection for Marty, the way he fussed over him and gripped his arm while he asked, “Where you been keeping yourself, young man?” in a sweet, paternal tone.

Marty said he'd been working. “Doing this and that.”

One of the men at the counter said, “Just don't do too much of this and stay
completely
away from
that
.” Which got a laugh from everyone, including Marty.

“That's Red,” Marty told Jack, pointing to the man who got the laugh. “He's a college professor, like you. Teaches structural engineering over at Rose-Hulman.”

“And the rest of us are just riffraff,” the man next to Red answered.

“That's ‘Big Man,'” Marty said. “And the man next to him is Doc and that's Elvin in the middle. This is my friend Jack.”

They said their hellos while Walter smiled and said, “Now that we got that over with, I'll have something good for you both before too long,” and walked to the grill on the other side of the counter.

There was an upright piano catty-cornered in the back of the room. The jukebox played Etta James singing: “I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places…” The men at the counter were now listening to Walter as he kept on talking to Marty: he hoped Marty was managing to
keep cool on these hot days, and was he planning on getting some fishing in, “the perch are biting real good.”

Red asked Walter, “How would
you
know?” and made a joke about Walter's fishing skills, or lack thereof, which got the others laughing. Then Walter got off a good one about Red and they all laughed at that, too. Doc made another joke at Red's expense. Elvin and Walter showed their appreciation by clapping their hands together, just before “Big Man” got off a joke about Walter, which Red appreciated. Walter threatened to take his meat cleaver “to the lot of you.” Talking and cooking.

It was something Jack might have enjoyed, had he been capable of enjoying things these days.

Marty said, “I'm really sorry.” He spoke softly. “I didn't think they'd get into it like this.”

Jack shrugged his shoulders. “There's nothing to apologize for.”

A few minutes later, Walter came back with two bottles of cold beer, a dozen napkins and two plates of pork with that sweet smoky smell, dripping with sauce and overflowing the buns.

Marty started eating right away. Jack picked up his sandwich and put it down without taking a bite. He pushed the meat around the plate, put down his fork and took a swallow of beer. Marty looked over at him, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Don't worry about it.”

Hank Ballard now played on the jukebox and Red and the others were joined by a handful of their friends, heavy-chested men with the dust of construction on their overalls and in their hair, a few wearing company uniforms, some in shorts and T-shirts. They carried trumpet cases, saxophone cases, a double bass, everyone talking and laughing. They put down their instruments, told Walter to hurry up with the food and filled the rest of the stools at the counter.

Not long after, several more cars scattered gravel in the parking lot and a small group of middle-aged women, finished with their day's work, came in, singing out greetings, telling Walter to hurry up with the food “or we'll come back there and cook it ourselves,” all said with good-natured amusement.

More cars arrived and the tables started filling up, beers were dug out of the ice chest, the laughter got louder, the talk faster. Walter stayed at his grill, slathering sauce on the barbecue, filling the rolls, spooning out the coleslaw, while some of the men brought out more tables from the back and filled in the few blank spaces at the corners, leaving only a six-foot perimeter around the piano. The jukebox now played Charlie Parker and Clifford Brown.

Marty told Jack, “The place gets kind of loud when the afternoon shift gets off. Walter brings the liquor out and everyone gets loose. The guys start playing. It'll go on all night.” He put his money on the table and stood up.

 

When they were in the car and driving down the road, Marty said, “It was getting kind of tough for you in there.”

“I suppose.”

“As long as you're aware of what you're up against, you're in control. Remember that.”

“You're a smart man, Marty.”

“I can't say I agree with you.”

“I'm not looking for a consensus.”

Marty grinned. “Fair enough.”

The paved road turned to dirt and stone, the stones jumped and popped against the bottom of Marty's car. A few miles further, it went back to pavement. And they were getting closer to home.

It was quiet in the car now. Jack assumed Marty had had enough talk and was glad for the silence. The silence held awhile longer the way it does when your entire person gets inverted into itself. It can be a very comfortable place if you're with someone else who's got his own thoughts, which is what Jack was thinking, and that someone else happens to be a stranger, or more a stranger than not, since the only thing you two have in common is knowing each other's sorrow—if not for the summer migrations of his friends, a coincidence of season and profession, Jack wouldn't have been with Marty tonight—and Jack knew that if he thought too long, if he started poking around in the dark, he'd hit upon the question that, when asked, would make Marty a stranger no
longer, that the answer would speak of deeper sorrow and do nothing to alleviate it, not even when told to a stranger, who wouldn't be a stranger after what was revealed. This was very dangerous territory to step into, asking personal questions. Marty must have known it. He stayed inside his silence, one place strangers are forbidden, riding further and further away from the cool of the country roads.

They drove through the hazy air, heavy with fumes, where the interstate cuts through the south side of town; and east, past the old houses with the tired roofs, where they kept the windows open and babies cried, where husbands and wives yelled at each other after another tough day and didn't care who heard them. Further east, Jack was still thinking about the question he wanted to ask Marty, about knowing more than a stranger should know. He was thinking: Did he stop loving his wife? But that wasn't the question.

He thought: Did
she
stop loving him? But that wasn't the question, either. That wouldn't have sent Marty into a panic.

They drove north now, where the houses are set back from the sidewalk and the lawns are mowed every week by the gardening service and when you walk down the street on summer nights like this you hear the comfortable hum of air conditioners and know that inside the house the rooms are cool, the television isn't too loud and the conversation is always civil.

Then they were on the other side of town, where there weren't quite so many houses and the lawns were replaced by cornfields and wheat fields and fields lush with alfalfa and soy. The sidewalks were narrow and melted into the road the way they do ten minutes from town. Marty pulled up in front of Jack's house.

You can't expect to spend most of the day with someone, drive into the deep country for barbecue, sit with your thoughts inside a car for an hour and a half and not say a few words before leaving, even if you have to be careful of what you say and what you ask. But Marty didn't say a few words. Maybe he knew what Jack wanted to ask. Maybe he just wanted to go home and put himself and his good deed to bed, which might have explained why he sat silently with his arms crossed over his chest and stared out the windshield. But Jack couldn't walk away. He
couldn't go inside, not before saying, “Do you want to sit on the porch awhile and have something to drink?” You can't expect to spend an entire day with someone and not offer him a cold drink.