Preston Falls : a novel (25 page)

"Calvin the same way. Forty years old, he looks fuckin' sixty, and this money means he won't have to cut fifty cords of wood this winter. He tell you about his hands?"

"Carpal tunnel?" says Willis. "Yeah, he was telling me."

"You get weary, dealing with fuckin' pathetics."

Couple of whacks on snare drum. Thud of bass drum.

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"Sounds like they're about ready," says Willis.

"Yeah, well, they have their instructions." Reed picks up the staple remover. "Tell me something. How often you get up to Preston Falls usually? When you're not on vacation. Couple times a month?"

"Depends," says Willis. "Why?"

Reed makes the staple remover bite twice. "Seems to me, tiger, you're pretty well positioned to get a profitable little sideline happening. Look at you, you're a thing of beauty—chief whatever-the-fuck at a big company? Family man? All it would involve—okay?—you make your little trips up with the family, and every once in a while, three-four-five times a year, you bring an extra piece of luggage. Lot easier than old Calvin having to schlepp all the way up to Richford or some fuckin' place to meet the scary Canucks out in the woods. You make some tax-free bucks, you meet some interesting folks, plus you get to, you know, indulge your little hobby." He taps the top of the film can. "To the fuUest."

"I don't think so," says Willis.

"Hey," says Reed, holding up a hand. "Fine. If you're not comfortable, it may not be the right thing for you." The band starts up, loud, with the "Hard to Handle" riff. "Whoa, sounds fuckin' righteous. We got to get out there, man. Rock and roll. Too much business, you know? Listen, though. Fm just a little worried about one thing."

Willis turns a palm up. Damned if he'll ask.

"See, Fm afraid if you're not careful you could run into a problem with your neighbor there. You know, on the one hand it could be fine. But I think old Calvin was kind of counting on your continuing participation. And he's not a guy that handles disappointment real well—I know this about him. Be the easiest thing in the world for him to go in your house when you're away, plant some shit somewhere and call the tip line. You know what Fm saying? What I would hate to have happen, you come up some night with your family and there's half a dozen cop cars in the yard."

Willis says nothing.

"Hey," says Reed, standing up. "I don't mean to be a downer. Just give it some thought, okay? Meanwhile ..." He picks up the film can, comes around the desk and hands it to Willis.

Willis sticks it in the breast pocket of his denim jacket. "Thanks," he says.

"I better get out there. You comin', tiger? Or you want to hang here

PRESTON FALLS

for a while? Get yourself"—he flutters his fingers in front of his eyes— "prepared."

"Yeah, I think I'U hang," says Willis.

"Take your time. I'll lock the door behind me so you don't get interrupted. Shit, don't lose track of that." He points to the envelope in Willis's lap. "Or old Calvin really will he disappointed."

The door closes.

Willis feels his heart start to pound: the excitement of being allowed to get high all by himself. He looks up and sees what he can't believe he didn't see before: a calendar with a bleached and busty babe in a stars-and-stripes bikini bottom pouting astride a full-dress Harley with little American flags on the handlebars, her nips the same orangey red as her lipstick. The month is still July.

He takes out the film can, unscrews the top and tries to think what to use: ah, keys. He digs in his pants pocket for his key ring and dips the ignition key into the sparkly white powder. Through the wall he hears a yell go up and Reed howling Bay-bay, here Ah am, Ah'm a mane own the scene. Shit, maybe he better not. He needs to keep his wits about him. Because he's in deep shit here. But on the other hand.

He blocks the left nostril and snorts a little up the right. Blocks the right and a little up the left. Tilts his head back, keeps sniffing.

Oh yeah. The right decision, absolutely.

After a while he opens his eyes and looks at the busty babe. She is incredible. A prostitute who didn't even bother to bleach her black eyebrows. He can feel the Unnamable thickening: down, boy. Okay, heart's going a leet-tle faster, and if it keeps up, that is not cool. But he feels like it's sort of beating better} Jesus, this is the cure for depression, irresolution, inertia and every other fucking thing. Plus he can fucking think for a change.

It takes him all of fifteen seconds to figure out exactly what to do. So fucking simple: it's like when it hit the Buddha, sitting under his tree, that he was a free man. And all the shit fell away, supposedly.

He stands up and sticks the envelope under his jacket, which is snug because of the weight he's put on. He tucks the film can back in the breast pocket, where it bulges out like a titty—but what he can«o^ indulge in right now is some fucking little aria of self-contempt. So he takes it out and carries it in his cupped hand. Better anyway, if you have to ditch it. Though he's not going to have to fucking ditch it—that's just more depressed thinking. When he tries to open the office door the son

of a bitch is locked, and that really does get his heart pounding, but it turns out all he has to do is turn the little thing.

Willis closes the door behind him. Whoa, out here they are fucking loud. The nasty texture of distorted guitar makes him grind his teeth, and he craves to get his own fingers clawing at the strings, bending them to torture out the shrieks. But it would be insane to let himself be tempted onto the stage. Even though they've got his guitar up there; that can't be helped now. Wait—actually this is perfect. See, if they do spot him picking his way to the exit, which they won't, they'll think he's just going out to his truck.

Hey, which he is.

Driving back to Preston Falls, he dims his lights for every oncoming car. When lights appear in his rearview mirror, he neither slows down nor speeds up; they want to pass, let them. On a straight stretch of empty road in a broad valley, with harvested cornfields on both sides and the full moon just pouring its fucking heart out, he ignores the urge to cut his lights and drive a larky mile by moonlight alone.

By the time he turns onto Ragged Hill Road he's crashing again, but that can sure as shit be fixed. Past Calvin Castleman's, casually. Get all your ducks in a row first, then deal with him. When he's safely around the corner he slows down, and now he does cut his lights, just on the off chance Calvin might be somewhere—in the woods, for Christ's sake?— where he could see somebody pulling in. Okay, and now if a bunch of cop cars will just please not be sitting there. By moonlight he bumps up into his dooryard and noses into the shadow of the woodshed. He climbs out and takes a breath of that clean air. A sky-sized silence, its surface etched by katydids.

He's afraid to turn on lights in the house, so he feels his way upstairs and into his study. Enough moon through the eyebrow window so he can see to boot up the computer. Someone might spot the glow of the monitor from the road—but enough, enough, enough. Jesus, drive yourself crazy. While waiting out the rigmarole of copyright screens and skittering digits, he gets out his film can. Just a tad, to maintain.

He clicks into Word and starts typing:

BiUofSale

Sold to: Calvin Castleman Sold by: Douglas Willis

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One Martin D-18 + hsc, ser. #

One Gibson J-200 -I- hsc, ser. #

One Rickenbacker 6-string electric + hsc, ser. #

One Fender Telecaster + hsc, ser. #

One Fender Twin Reverb, ser. #

For a consideration of $5,000

(signed)

A consideration of! That's the way to talk. Except five thousand's too low to be plausible; the Martin alone is worth that. Make it $7,500, ask Calvin for five and let him talk you down to whatever, though not less than four. Well, thirty-five. Leaving this up on the screen, he takes a pen and a piece of paper downstairs to get the serial numbers; the ones on the Twin and the Tele Calvin can fill in when he gets his hands on them. He should probably play a last song on each guitar, but what would be sufficiently ironic? He lights a match to read each number, then puts the cases by the kitchen door. He goes back upstairs and types the numbers in, prints the son of a bitch—double spaced, so it won't look lonesome on the page—and signs the bottom by the monitor's dim light.

He starts taking his pictures down, thinking he might want them with him wherever he's going. In addition to the imperishable memories. At least the picture of his house—his real house. Meaning his father's house. That is, his mother's house. Whoever the fuck's house. But no. This doesn't want to be another crawl-back-into-your-childhood thing; that was the whole mistake of Preston Falls. This wants to be going in the other direction, like a space probe, though that's a bum analogy: the idea isn't to find stuff out. And certainly not to send back signals. So you might say, Well, Doug, just what is the idea? But something or other being the idea isn't the idea.

He loads the Rick, the D-18 and the J-200 onto the truck. Anything else here? There's the truck itself, but he'll need that. The boombox? Hey, there's a quick five bucks. The computer's only a 486, worth zip anymore; he was going to donate it to Preston Falls High School this year and take a deduction. Couple cords of wood in the woodshed. The slates off the roof? Shit, if Calvin's still in the market.

He pulls into Castleman Enterprises and goes rocking over the ruts. Calvin's truck is still heaped high, and lights are on in the trailer. Willis

PRESTON FALLS

sees a window curtain move. He gets out of the truck, and Calvin comes out the door in a thermal undershirt, pulling on a plaid flannel shirt over it.

"What happened?" he says.

"Nothing," says Willis. "It's fine. I got it."

"Fuck you doin' here? This ain't the plan. What did I tell you, I told you stay there, I told you don't come back early, leave when everybody's leaving. Jesus fuckin' Christ. Reed tell you to come back here?"

"I needed to ask you something," says Willis.

"Where's the money?"

"I've got the money, don't worry about it. But I want to make you an offer."

"Yah, I don't want to fuckin' hear it. I don't want to hear no more of your bullshit. Reed's bullshit—"

"Calvin, would you fucking listen?" says Willis. "I'll be glad to give you the money. But —^would you just hear me out? I want to sign all my guitars and shit over to you, okay? Including the guitar and amp I left back there with Reed. I mean, those are worth probably close to five thousand just the two of them. Now, the other three I brought with me, okay? Now—" He takes the bill of sale from his hip pocket. "Now, I made this out to say seventy-five hundred because I didn't want it to look too low, but I really only want the five. And actually, seventy-five is incredibly conservative. Shit, the Martin I paid thirty-five for like ten years ago, the Gibson I paid like twenty-five—"

Calvin makes no move to take the piece of paper. "Where's the fuckin' money}''

"Calvin, you could make back—"

"Hey. I asked you something."

Willis holds up a hand. "Okay, fine. Look." He opens the door of his truck and takes the envelope from behind the seat. "Let me just give you this so you got it. You can count it—"

Calvin grabs the envelope.

"I was going to say,'' says WiUis. "After you count it—okay?—and you see it's all there?—maybe we can do some business."

Calvin opens it and feels inside. "Yah, well, let's not fuckin' stand out here."

In the shop, Willis takes the car seat while Calvin sits at his workbench and counts the money twice.

"Okay?" Willis says.

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Calvin looks at him. "Now, what the fuck is your problem?"

"Okay, basically, I need cash. I'm absolutely broke, I've got bills to pay, bunch of shit coming due—"

"Why's that make you special?"

"Look, all I'm saying is, I can sell you stuff for a very low price, for cash, that you'll more than get your money back on. Guaranteed."

"Guaranteed, shit. How'm I supposed to sell them fuckin' things?"

"Why can't you? Here, you got a bill of sale with serial numbers on it. Totally kosher." He puts the paper on the workbench. "Put 'em in Want Ad Digest. Worst comes to worst, you could take 'em down to Albany. Lark Street Music. They deal vintage instruments. Or up to Burlington. I forget what the place is called, but—"

"That easy, why'n't you take the shit and sell it?"

"I need the money now."

"That ain't my problem." Calvin picks up the piece of paper.

"Listen," says Willis. "I could also throw in my computer."

"What's one of them worth?" He's moving his index finger down item by item.

"Well, it's a 486. I paid twenty-five for it two years ago." Three years ago.

"Yah, I don't give a flyin' fuck what you paid'' Calvin puts the paper down. "I said what's it worthT'

"I'm sure you could get five."

"You might's well keep it," Calvin says. "I don't know nothin' about them piece of shits. Don't want to." He gets up and puts the envelope in the top drawer of his file cabinet.

"Okay, listen," says Willis. "A couple years ago I remember we talked about you taking the slates off my roof in exchange for putting on a new metal one, right?"

"I ain't in the roofing business no more."

"Five thousand doUars," says Willis. "All the slates off the roof, plus the guitars."

Calvin rests a buttock on the metal stool again and shakes his head. "Nah. Time I buy that galvalum roofing, screws, all that shit, pay some kid help me put it on there—"

"No no no. Forget the new roof. If you just put some plastic up there, that ought to hold until I can get some kind of roof on myself."

Calvin looks at him. "Be snowing in two months."

"Yeah, well," says Willis. "Like you say. Not your problem."

PRESTON FALLS

Calvin picks up a gun telescope from the workbench and sights through it at something. Maybe that Far Side cartoon. He sets it back down. "So you and Reed gonna make you some serious money, that the idea?"