News from Heaven (20 page)

“We'd need to get that in writing,” said Helsel.

“No problem,” Dick said.

They piled back into the Jeep. “I'm not thrilled about this road,” said Helsel.

“We could have it paved inside a week.”

“Still, it's pretty narrow. All these sharp curves.”

Nudo looked up from the topo map in his lap. “Looks like there's a more direct way back to town. What's Deer Run?”

“An old mining road,” said Dick. “Needs some patching.”

“Is it paved?”

Dick nodded.

“Let's take it,” Helsel said.

L
ater, back at the Commercial, Dick's wife brought out their lunches: burgers for Dick and Nudo; a chef's salad for Helsel, who'd had one coronary and was watching his weight.

“Geez Louise,” said Nudo. “That was some spread. I've never seen anything like it.”

“It's a mess,” Dick agreed.

“You never tried to make her clean it up? Send an officer out to the residence?” Helsel salted his salad. “I'm surprised the neighbors haven't complained.”

“There aren't any neighbors. I think that's why she bought the place.”

“What's the matter with her? A woman, especially. She must be crazy to live that way.”

“She's had her troubles.” It was known in town that Sunny Baker had spent time in Torrance and, later, a private mental hospital. Though what had precipitated these stays, the exact nature of her affliction, no one could say.

“How long has she lived out there?” Nudo asked.

“Twenty years. Maybe longer.”

Helsel clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “I'm surprised you let it go on that long.”

For Pete's sake, Dick thought, who's she hurting? It's her own business if she wants to live like a pig.

“We can't be running a state facility next door to
that.
”

It's a prison, Dick thought.

“I don't think the inmates are going to complain,” he joked.

Helsel did not smile. “Well, we can't have the COs driving past that every day to work.”

“Of course not. She'll clean it up, of course.”

“She'll have to,” Helsel said.

T
he Bakerton Borough Council met the first Monday of each month. A century ago they'd been called the Town Bosses, eight men handpicked by the Brothers themselves. (All of Bakerton, in those days, spoke the language of mining, in which every sort of authority was conveyed by the title
Boss
.) Under Chessie Baker, the system was codified, the Bosses duly elected. But by then the town was full of immigrants who viewed voting with suspicion. The voting minority—English-speaking males—chose people like themselves, the same Bosses Chessie himself might have picked.

In the spring of 2000 the council included two women, a fact that would have shocked Chessie. Neither would he have chosen Leonard Stusick, the town doctor, with his foreign-sounding name. Davis Eickmeier, who'd taken over Dickey's Dairy after marrying Marcia Dickey, was at least a businessman, though his surname, too, was troublesome. (Chessie's brother had been killed by Germans.) The other councilmen were even more objectionable. Leo Quinn was a barman, naturally. (In Chessie's view, the Irish were constitutionally alcoholic.) Eleanor Rouse wore trousers. The undertaker, cop, and beautician were all Italian. To Chessie, it was nearly the same as being black.

The council met in a conference room at Saxon Savings and Loan, by long tradition: in Chessie's day, the Bosses also meted out the mine's payroll, and it was deemed safest simply to meet at the bank. Ruth Rizzo, the beautician, read the minutes. So little had happened at the last meeting that her report lasted, in fact, just a minute.

“That's it?” Dick asked when she'd finished.

Ruth nodded.

“Well, then. On to new business. I've been in touch with the Department of Corrections.” He paused, savoring the moment. Like his father—a long-standing president of the Mine Workers' local—he was a natural public speaker, happiest in front of an audience. “We took a walk of the proposed site. They had some questions about snow removal, which I answered. Also, they want Garman Road paved.”

“Hang on there,” said Davis Eickmeier, the dairy farmer. A famously slow talker, he needed a moment to formulate his question. “How come you took them up Garman? Deer Run goes right to the highway.”

It was the first night of baseball season, Cleveland at Baltimore. Jerry Bernardi, the undertaker, looked at his watch.

“They figured that out eventually.” Dick hesitated. “They got a good look at Sunny Baker's.”

“Oh, dear,” said Eleanor Rouse, the school nurse.

“I tried taking them the back way, but they smelled a rat.”

“Well,” said Eleanor, “it was worth a try.”

“For the love of Mike,” said Leo Quinn. “They're
prisoners.
What are they going to do, stage a walkout?”

A few titters around the table, a shudder of mirth. Leo Quinn was a comedian the way Dick Devlin was a politician, by temperament and by blood. His physiology, even, seemed engineered for it: the broad pliable face, the twinkling blue eyes.

Dick shrugged. “It's the guards, I guess. The DOC doesn't want them to drive past a dump on their way to work.”

“They have a point,” said Ruth Rizzo.

“They don't, either, Ruth, and you know it.” Eickmeier sat back, arms crossed. He was known to be country-stubborn. “I drive past it every day, and it hasn't hurt me any. Hell, I don't give a care.”

“How did you leave it with them?” asked Dr. Stusick, who could summarize a half hour's worth of blather in a single terse sentence. This habit irked Dick Devlin, with his love of oratory, though no one else seemed to mind.

“I said we'd make her clean it up.”

A silence fell. Leo Quinn chuckled in disbelief. Ruth Rizzo put down her pen.

“
We
will, will we?” said Leo, grinning broadly.

Dick ignored the satiric tone. “Someone will have to talk to Miss Baker.”

“Well, good luck with that.” Davis Eickmeier reached into his pocket for a tin of Skoal. Eleanor Rouse grimaced with distaste. “She's been my neighbor twenty-five years,” he said slowly, his lip packed with snuff. “And I can count on one hand the times I've seen her come out of that house.”

Another silence.

“Anyone?” Dick glanced around the room, appealing for help. “Jerry?”

“I got nothing to offer here,” said Jerry, who was missing the game.

“The Bakers have always kept to themselves,” Ruth observed.

The council remembered, all at once, Ruth's special connection to the Baker family. Even in her old age, Rosalie Baker had kept up appearances. For many years she'd had a standing appointment on Monday morning, Ruth reporting to The Mansion by a back door to do Miss Baker's wash and set.

“I was hoping
you
could talk to her, Ruth,” Dick said.

“Oh, I couldn't. What on earth would I say?”

There were nods of agreement. It wasn't just a question of approaching a Baker, any Baker (let alone Sunny, who was known to be cursed). It would have made for awkward conversation between
any
neighbors:
Your yard is a pigsty. Even rapists and murderers refuse to live beside it.

“It's private property!” Davis Eickmeier nearly shouted.

The council started. Davis never raised his voice.

He spat deliberately into a coffee mug he'd brought for the purpose. “Now, I don't like looking at all that junk. I don't guess Miss Baker likes smelling my cows, either, but in twenty-five years I haven't heard a peep out of her. To me, that's a good neighbor.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“You've got to be joking,” Andy Carnicella said.

Seven heads turned in his direction. He was the town cop, known all over Saxon County as Chief Carnicella, despite having no Indians. (The borough's budget provided for a police force of one.) The youngest council member by twenty years, he'd been silent for the entire meeting. Dick had forgotten he was there.

The chief leaned back from the conference table. He had a habit of rocking in his chair, like a restless schoolboy. “I can take the cruiser out there tomorrow. Write her a citation, if I have to. Should of done it years ago, if you ask me.”

Ruth Rizzo looked aghast.

“I'm not sure that's a good idea,” said Dick.

“Come off it, Dick. I don't know what you're all afraid of. To me, she's just an old crazy lady. A crazy old drunk.”

“Andy, that's enough,” Dick said.

There was silence.

“Miss Baker has had her problems. We all know it.” Dick took his time, pleased to have regained the floor. “And it might not be so good for her to have a police car show up in her front yard with the lights flashing. I'm no expert, though.” He nodded toward Dr. Stusick. “Len, what do you think?”

L
ater, the meeting adjourned, Dick led Dr. Stusick across the street to the Commercial. The dining room was closed, Dick's wife vacuuming the carpet. He ducked behind the bar for a bottle and glasses, as nervous as a schoolboy on a date.

The two men had never raised a glass together. They had nothing against each other personally, but their fathers had been mortal enemies. For nearly twenty years, Regis Devlin had been president of the Mine Workers' local—a position he'd expected to die in and likely would have, if Eugene Stusick hadn't run a dirty campaign against him. Stusick's platform had been simple and vicious: Devlin was in bed with management, making backdoor deals with Baker and leaving his men out in the cold. It was an easy charge to make and a hard one to refute. Stusick appealed to the men's greed and paranoia and won by a healthy margin. Regis Devlin—for thirty years a celebrity in town, more powerful than ten mayors—never recovered from the humiliation. He died a drunk, bitter and broken, while Gene Stusick succumbed even more horribly, crushed in the famous collapse at Baker Twelve. Anyone would say their sons had good reason to avoid each other. Any conversation between a Devlin and a Stusick could only lead to ruin.

Dick poured the doctor a whiskey, himself a club soda. Mindful of his father's end, he went easy on the sauce. “We need to get a handle on this, pronto. Carnicella's a hothead. I'm afraid of what he'll do.”

“Could be trouble,” the doctor agreed. “None for you?”

“Next round, maybe.”

They clinked glasses.

“The thing is, I have nothing against Sunny Baker, or any of them. Old Chessie wasn't a bad guy, my dad said. They did some drinking together. I guess you heard.”

This was dangerous territory—his father's alleged chumminess with Baker. But Rege and Gene were long dead, their sons old men. Baker Brothers, the Mine Workers, and the whole mining industry were relics of another century, never to return.

The doctor grinned. “I've never seen Davis Eickmeier so worked up.”

“I thought he was going to swallow his snuff.” Dick splashed whiskey into his glass. “He's right, though. It's her property, and I don't like the idea of poking in her business. And yet—”

“The prison,” the doctor said.

“Goddamn if we don't need those jobs.”

They drank in silent agreement. Nudo Construction, though based in Harrisburg, would use local subcontractors: electricians, plumbers. The prison would hire sixty full-time corrections officers and nearly that many janitors, secretaries, and cooks.

“Not union. Not like our dads had,” Dick admitted. “But no one in their right mind thinks those are coming back.”

The doctor nodded. Even after a drink, he was a man of few words, a trait that made Dick talk too much.

“Hell, I wouldn't mind one of them for Richie,” he continued. His oldest son—the only one who'd stayed in town—earned minimum wage driving a truck for Miners Medical, delivering oxygen tanks. It wasn't much of a job.

“I worry about his generation. We all want to keep our kids around, but . . .” He trailed off, remembering that Len had no children. “My point is, we need that prison. It seems crazy to lose it because one lady won't clean up her yard.”

L
eo Quinn shut off the ball game. He had never been a Cleveland fan—the Pirates were his team—and loyalty, like drink, was essential to the spectator's enjoyment. Watching baseball without benefit of either, he found himself agreeing with what his wife had said for years. It was, essentially, a slow and tedious game.

He'd left the council meeting in a dark mood, not even bothering to needle Dick Devlin about the late hour. In truth, he hadn't had the heart to: the old windbag had seemed as dejected as everyone else. The discussion of Sunny Baker had cast a pall over the room. Andy Carnicella's outburst, the way he'd resorted to name-calling, was a shameful lapse of civility, beneath his dignity as an officer of the law. Leo forgave him, a little. Rash judgment was a young man's sin. He'd been guilty of it himself years ago—free with his opinions, worked up about Communists and so forth. It had taken him sixty years to understand that compassion was the only virtue. He'd been raised to count faith, hope, and charity, but the years had eroded his confidence in the first two: his Mary was the true believer, and hope seemed foolish at his age, when life was all over but the singing. That left only charity, to the suffering especially. And who had suffered more than Sunny Baker?

Not that Leo knew her personally. Nobody did. But he'd run a tavern for thirty years. If he were a different sort of person, he could have told tales on half the town.

After her hippie boyfriend vanished, Sunny had lived alone for many years. Men came and went from the farmhouse at odd hours, according to Davis Eickmeier's wife; but who they were or what became of them, no one could say. Then out of nowhere, a rumor blossomed: Sunny had taken up with a local, or a near-local. Her new man came from Erie, a few counties to the north. His pickup was seen parked on Deer Run, its bed loaded with lumber. Sunny had hired him to work on her house. The pickup, a battered Ford with Pennsylvania plates, won the town's warm approval—a workingman's truck, the exact same model a Bakerton guy might drive.