McMansion (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

I called Fred from the car. “Ten bucks says they'll buy it.”

“You're kidding.”

“They want to sleep on it.”

“Uh oh.”

“Yeah, but they're going sleep here, at the Drover.”

“Can we get Anne Marie to give them the Orgasm Suite?”

“Already done. I'll take them over again in the morning.”

“Excellent.”

“Another ten bucks says, the only thing they're going to change in the whole house is the front door.”

“God bless you, Ben. If I live to be a hundred I will never understand this business.”

My machine was blinking when I got home in a celebratory mood. The first message was from Aunt Connie, her voice thin and agitated. “Ben. It's Connie. I just wanted to say, air guitar.”

The second message said, “It's Bruce Kimball. I appreciate the work you tried to do for Jeff. The negotiations are at a very delicate stage, so I know that you will do nothing to upset them. When they are completed, I'm sure that Attorney Roth will tell you the outcome.” As in, “Butt out.”

The third message said, “Ben, air guitar.”

The fourth and fifth and sixth said, “Air guitar.”

The seventh said, “Oh God, where are you, Ben?”

I ran across the street and found her thawing soup she had frozen in single portion containers. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly fine. How are you?”

She looked absolutely normal. “I thought maybe you had telephoned.”

“No.”

“There was a hang-up on the machine. I thought maybe it was you?”

“No. Would you like some soup?”

“No thanks. You're sure you're okay?”

“Perfectly fine.”

“Call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Ben.”

I walked back across Main Street. Tom was sitting under the kitchen table, staring at his dish. I fed him. Then I went back to the barn to invite Alison and her mother to grill pork chops on the fire, but they were just leaving to go over to their Tom's house for supper, so I opened some wine and went on line, bounced around the websites of the
New York Times
, the
Washington Post
, the
Guardian
, the
New York Observer
, Late-Night Political Jokes, and National Weather Service. It beat television, but not by a lot. It didn't matter. I was marching in place, wondering what would be the point of approaching Caroline Edwards.

***

In the morning, I walked over to the Drover, found my potential buyers smiling over breakfast and anxious to see Billy's house again. We drove out in their Prius. As we pulled up and the slanted morning sun revealed just how yellow the brick was, I fully expected them to scream, “What were we thinking?”

They clamored to be let in and they ran room to room, exclaiming. I stayed out of their way by wandering room to room, from cellar to attic. In the master bedroom, I opened the curtain. I had a stronger than ever impression that Caroline Edwards had spent days weeding a garden she had originally helped Billy Tiller plant.

“Ben?”

There was a problem in the living room. Pat hated the fireplace. Brenda agreed it was ugly, but respected the concept of an art material surround. They wanted me to mediate. Reluctantly, and very gingerly, I observed that on one hand an artistic fireplace was a fine thing to have, but on the other hand, certain art was not the kind of art you wanted to look at every day.

“I'd feel funny jack hammering it off.”

“We don't want to be Rockefellers destroying Diego Rivera murals.”

I opted for silence until they chorused, beseechingly, “Ben?”

“I would say this. If you do want to replace it, do it before you move in your furniture. Messy job.”

That was a mistake. Their faces clouded up.

“But a quick job. One afternoon, no more.”

“Hey,” said Pat. “I wonder if we could get any more of that brick. Like the outside.”

“Oh, cool. Reprise the theme. Ben, do you know where the builder bought the brick?”

“I gather it was a one-of-a-kind run. It would be impossible to ever buy such brick again.” They looked devastated. “But,” I said, “let me show you something.”

I led them down to the enormous cellar. One thing about builders. They build great cellars. I pointed out that Billy's was dry, and a full nine feet deep. Massive I-beams carried the upstairs. Lovingly stacked against the furnace room wall was a fireplace worth of extra hideous yellow brick.

We drove back to my office, discussing a bid in the car. They asked my advice. I suggested they estimate what it could cost to replace the front door and the art material fireplace and make an offer accordingly. They came up with a shrewd number. I called Fred with it and he said, instantly, “Done!” which, as I had suspected, meant Fred had already informed Total Land Rape that he had a couple of live ones who should be encouraged to close a deal before their keeper escorted them back to the asylum and took away their checkbook.

We went through the paperwork. It was a lot simpler than I was used to, with no need to enumerate worries like removing buried oil tanks, wet cellars, dubious wells, weary septic systems, termites, mold, and rot.

We signed the agreement contingent on them getting a mortgage and the house passing inspection, neither of which would be a problem as they were pre-approved and Billy had done a fine job of building his own house. Pat and Brenda hugged and kissed. Then they hugged me, thanked me profusely, and galloped back to the Orgasm Suite.

I walked their binder check over to the bank.

When I got back, Bruce Kimball was parked outside my house in a white Hummer. Amanda was perched beside him, head tilted into her cell phone. Kimball was drumming the wheel with busy fingers.

I stepped into the street and rapped on his window. “If you drove up here to tell me to butt out, I already got your message.”

“I need a favor.”

“What?”

His mouth worked, like he was re-chewing a piece of garlic that had gotten caught in his teeth. He stared straight ahead and drummed the wheel harder. “Go on,” Amanda whispered. “Ask him.”

“Ben?” I heard Aunt Connie call. “Ben Abbott.”

Outfitted for gardening in a cotton dress and a simple string of pearls, Connie barreled down her front walk, banged open her gate and crossed Main Street waving her cane at the cars she stepped in front of. “Ben! I saw you there—Oh, good morning, Amanda. Good morning, Mr. Kimball. Mr. Kimball, you should be ashamed of yourself driving such an extravagant vehicle.”

“I need it for business.”

“The nature of your business permits you to set an example. Neither our environment nor our national security can abide spewing pollutants into the atmosphere and wasting precious fossil fuels—Ben, when you have a moment, please come see me.” She lowered her voice. “I finally remembered air guitar. Don't worry, I wrote it down, this time.”

I walked her safely back across Main and told her I'd be over as soon as I got done with Mr. Kimball who needed my help. I returned to Kimball and asked, “What do you need?”

“Could you possibly talk my son into letting me visit?”

He still wouldn't look at me. I looked past him at Amanda, who mouthed, “Please.”

“Jeff still won't talk to you?”

“No.”

“I can try. But I'm not on the visitor list.”

“I already had Roth fix that. Hop in.”

I glanced across the street. Air guitar could wait a few hours.

Many gallons of gas later, we pulled into Plainfield. I'd been in more uncomfortable vehicles, but I could not remember when. Kimball and Amanda, who had spent the journey repeating over and over that they could not believe that Jeff had confessed when he had such a good lawyer, waited in the Hummer.

“Ben Abbott,” I said to the duty guard. “I'm back on the Kimball list.”

“Just got the call.”

He escorted me to the interview room and came back in a few minutes with Jeff.

“What the hell did you confess for?” I asked, the minute we were alone.

“Because I did it.”

“Could have fooled me—Actually, you did fool me.”

“Sorry, Ben. It wasn't personal. I just was kind of confused and now I'm not.”

“Well, I wish you luck.”

Jeff Kimball's face fell. He got a haunted look in his eyes. I thought for a second he would cry, but he got past that and said, “Thank you, Ben. You know, it was always cool talking to you.”

“Will you do me a favor?”

He looked around the room and gave the heavy mesh that protected the small window in the door a thin smile. “Sure. If I can.”

“You can. And if you would, I would feel a little better about everything.”

“What do you have to feel bad about?”

“Lost hope, my friend. Will you do me this one favor?”

“What?”

“Your father desperately wants to talk to you.”

“Fuck him.”

“Jeff, please. He's been on your side all along. He's done everything he could think of to help.”

“Throwing his money around? Big fucking deal.”

I motioned him close, pointed at the table where there could be a mike and whispered, “He was ready to risk his own freedom to bribe a judge.”

“Bribe? He would bribe—that's disgusting.”

“I know it's disgusting. I told him in no uncertain terms that it was both wrong and stupid. I'm only telling you because as misguided as he was, that's how much he cared, that's how much he would risk to help you. Talk to him.”

“What good will it do?”

“None at all. Just let the man see your face.”

***

Kimball said, “Wait here, Amanda.”

I walked him back inside and introduced him to the duty guard, who remembered him from earlier attempts to see Jeff. I was heading outside to sit with Amanda, when I ran into the guard I had talked to in the diner. Prison guards, who had loomed large in my days at Leavenworth, were not my favorite people, but this man's lament about overtime keeping him from a day in the woods had struck a chord.

“Hey, buddy. Are you taking that real estate course?”

“Matter of fact, yeah. Went over to UConn. Signed up for a night class, starting in July.”

“All right!”

“I'm scared stupid. I haven't learned something new since high school.”

“Good luck with it.”

“I feel lucky just doing it. So your kid confessed.”

“I couldn't believe it.”

“You couldn't believe. You should have seen the state's attorney. Came in Sunday morning, tearing his hair like a winter cat stripping down for summer.”

“Were you surprised?”

“What do you mean?”

“When Kimball confessed?”

“Well, I would have been, except for one thing.”

“What was that.”

“I been here so long nothing surprises me.”

“Why would you have been surprised if you hadn't been here so long?”

“I don't know. Just talking. But you get so many people like him in here. Young ones, mostly. They think they're invisible. Like they get their license suspended for DUI, right? And their vehicle impounded. Right? So what happens, the troopers pull over a guy doing sixty miles an hour in a thirty zone and who is it? The guy with the license suspended who's somehow got his paws on another vehicle that he puts old plates on without a current marker. And he's doing sixty in a thirty. They haul him in here for driving under suspension, with no insurance, while transporting on the seat beside him six ounces of something that probably isn't oregano and he goes, ‘What lousy luck, the troopers busted me. Man, I can't get a break.' Why's he doing sixty in a thirty?”

“You tell me.”

“He thinks he's invisible. Or he's dumber than a tree stump. Same thing with this kid. Kid is telling everyone who'll listen, ‘Soon as I get outta here, I'm going save the environment. I'm going to serve Earth Liberation Front.' Outta here? He's facing murder charges. He's got no clue. He thinks he's just going to walk out the door, like he's invisible?”

“So why did he confess?”

“I don't know. I think he's a little screwy. Saturday night he's bawling his eyes out. Sunday morning he's saying he did the deed.”

“What set off the crying?”

“I don't know. Girlfriend, maybe. When she left he just fell apart.”

“The tall, skinny girl?”

“Jennifer. Man, I thought if I was only twenty years younger and three feet taller.”

I said, very casually and very carefully, “I thought they were just friends.”

“You're probably right about that,” said the guard. “They acted more like brother and sister, except he's not tall enough. But she made a lot of visits for just a friend. Here every day.”

“Did you let them meet in the interview room?”

“No! Course. Not. There was glass between them.”

“What did they talk about?”

“No idea. But man was she intense. You could feel it coming over her like electricity. He'd hunker up to argue and she'd just bore into him like a laser.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Kimball was very quiet driving back to Newbury. Amanda, apparently blessed with wisdom beyond her few years, kept quiet, too. But I found myself wondering crazy thoughts. What if for some crazy reason Jeff had confessed even though he didn't do it. What if, as I had wondered—with no basis for any connection between Bruce Kimball and Billy Tiller—his father had killed Billy. For some reason. Which made no sense at all, except the thought kept running through my head. But if—then what weight of guilt was Bruce Kimball carrying? In reality, though, it had to be devastating to see his only child in prison garb. My mother claimed that it had killed my father.

Swaying and bouncing in the back seat, getting queasy, I waited for Kimball to open up, assuming it would be easier for him to talk to a stranger than his girlfriend. But when I caught his eye in the rearview mirror, he looked right through me, and we made it all the way to Newbury without a word. Only when I got out in front of my house did he say, “Thank you, Ben. I owe you a big one.”

“Did it help?”

“It helped me. I don't think it helped Jeff. But it helped me.”

“Any chance he'll withdraw that guilty plea?”

“None.”

“What would you say if I said I still don't believe he's guilty.”

Kimball snorted a sad, dry laugh. “That's not what he says. Stubborn little bastard. I felt like he was still punishing me for the divorce.”

“That was nine fucking years ago,” said Amanda.

“He just told me that I ripped off his mother.”

“What did you say?”

“What was I going to say? Goodbye, Ben. You want some advice. Don't get married. And if you do, get your tubes tied.”

Amanda flinched.

***

I changed out of my shoes into my wood chopping boots—Raichle climbers I had long ago bought for a junk bond seminar in Aspen—backed the Fiat out of the barn and drove to Chevalley Enterprises. I borrowed a big four-wheel-drive pickup from Pink and headed north, up 7, and onto the county road where the Oldsmobile had met its end. Broken glass glittered in the sunshine at the curve I missed. I turned off onto the dirt roads that led, eventually, to the joint Audubon-EPA Federal Marshland Restoration Project formerly known as the Jervis Dump.

The yellow D-7R I had last seen in the River End's parking lot was snorting up an immense hill of detritus that did not bear thinking about. I drove past a trailer that housed a field office, waved to the professors and grad students gathered around a trough in which they seemed to be sorting things, and kept driving as if I belonged there. At the foot of the hill, I got out and waved to Jennifer, who was descending toward me at a pretty good clip.

I backed away, fearing I would have to return Pink's truck in a sack. She veered aside at the last moment and clanked to a dusty stop. “Don't worry,” she yelled. “I wouldn't run you over.”

“I was less concerned by your intention than your ability. Getting pretty good at it, aren't you?”

“It's easy with the joystick.” She jumped down from the machine and sauntered to me. “What's up? What are you doing here?”

“I saw Jeff. You heard he confessed?”

Her smile went out. “I know.”

“I was shocked.”

“I wasn't. I knew he would do it.”

“Do what? Kill a man?”

“I didn't mean that. I meant confess.”

“The poor kid is going to spend the rest of his life in prison.”

“But look what he's doing.”

“What's that?”

“He's standing up for truly important ideas, Ben.”

“Is that what he meant when he kept asking how could he serve?”

“He will use the trial to convince everyone to join the movement.”

“And then he'll go to prison. Or maybe get executed.”

“But he will do so much good.”

“Easy for you to say. You're not going to prison.”

“Maybe I am.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think I'm going to turn myself in.”

“For what?”

“The SUV fire. We'll have two trials.”

“Oh, good God,” I said. She sounded as benighted as the prisoners of my Plainfield jailer friend who acted as if they were invisible.

“People need heroes. We'll stand trial together. Every reporter in the world will come to Connecticut to publicize our trials.”

“They're not going to try you together.”

“No. Two separate trials will draw more attention.”

“Jennifer, did you actually set that fire?”

“Can I trust you?”

“No. You can't. You can't trust anybody when you talk crazy. It'll come back at you. But do me a favor and try to think about the consequences of what you're doing. No one was hurt at that fire. But if you confess, you're going to prison for a long time. They'll get you on Federal charges. They'll get you on terrorism charges.”

“Everyone will see.”

“The trial will be old news before you know it. Ask yourself what the hell can you do to change things when you're in a cage.”

“Jeff's in a cage.”

“Did you put him there?”

She looked suddenly very, very young.

“You did, didn't you? You talked him into confessing so he can stand on a soap box at his sentencing. How long do you think that soap box will last?”

“With blogs and the internet, it will last forever.”

“I don't doubt the blogs will last forever. But who will read them, in a year? Other than Jeff in his cell. And you in yours. If they allow you access to computers.”

“Every movement needs martyrs.”

“Name one since Jesus Christ who's made a difference.”

I could have named a few. She could not, and it clearly made her uncomfortable.

“‘Martyr' is Jeff's word. He says if no one listens at his trial, at least he'll be a martyr.”

“Oh good. A fallback position for a fall guy.”

“Jeff's not a fall guy,” she said, fiercely. “He believes. He's committed. He's a hero, Ben. He'll be a hero.”

“His word or yours?”

Her chin came up. “Mine. I gave it to him when he needed strength.”

“What are you going to give him a year from now?”

“Who knows where we'll be a year from now.”

“If he stands by that fucking confession, he'll be in prison. If you confess, you'll be in prison, too. That is where you will be a year from now.”

“Then I'll be a hero, too.”

“Jennifer.” I grabbed her hand and did not let her pull away. “I believe that both of you are heroes in your own hearts. I believe you are brave. I believe you are committed. But I do not believe for an instant that either of you has any idea of what you're getting into. Or what the cost will be.”

“The earth is burning up. Now is no time to count the cost.”

It was as dismal as talking to a suicide bomber who had somehow managed to step so far out of her own body that she couldn't imagine ceasing to live and breathe. Virgins awaited virgins.

“Let me quote Jeff's lawyer on the subject of a reduced sentence of ‘only' fifteen years in prison. Fifteen years: ‘The heart and soul of a young's man's life.'”

Ira, God bless him, had a way with words. They made her weep.

“You can change the gender if that's not personal enough.”

She cried harder, shaking her head. “You're ruining everything.”

“Do me one favor.”

“Why?”

“So you can thank me a year from now. Will you do me that favor?”

“What?”

“Do nothing until next week. No confessions. No statements. No graffiti. No blogs. No fires. Just keep on restoring this marsh and stay out of the picture.”

“While you try to change Jeff's mind?” she asked bitterly.

“I promise you that I won't waste one minute of my time trying to change Jeff's mind.”

***

Billy Tiller had constructed a slab-sided commercial building on Church Hill Road, painted it “colonial yellow,” and installed in it a branch of an out-of-town bank, a massage therapist, a CPA, my friend Mike's Allstate insurance office, a tanning salon, and a lawyer—Attorney Owen Woodward. A chandelier hung in the lobby to distract the visitor from the creaking stairs and the Luan plywood doors. I opened Attorney Woodward's and told his receptionist, a woman I had never seen before, that I would like to speak to him. She went into the inner office, while I examined Woodward's splendid collection of vintage U.S. Marine recruiting posters. Two were excellent digital reproductions. One, from the 1930s, was the real deal, expertly mounted.

The woman returned. “He's tied up, Mr. Abbott. Why don't you come back tomorrow afternoon. He might have some time then.”

I stepped around her, pushed through the interior door, closed it, leaned against it to keep her out, and said to Woodward, who rose from his desk in a defensive crouch, “Billy had no relatives. No one to complain when you stole his company.”