The Cypress House (17 page)

    "All
right," she said, "then you stay in the boathouse tonight."

    "The
boathouse ?" Paul said. "It doesn't even have a roof."

    "You're
the one who won't leave; you can deal without a roof for one night." She
snapped it at him, and Paul's jaw tightened and he looked away.

    
That'll
do it, Arlen thought. He's going to say enough is enough, finally, and take
that money from her hand and we'll be on our way
...

    But
Paul said, "Fine. We'll stay in the boathouse."

    Rebecca
lifted a hand to the side of her face, and for a moment, just a blink, it was
the gesture of some other woman, a gesture of someone vulnerable. Then she
seemed to catch herself and pushed her hair back over her ear as if that's what
she'd been planning to do all the time.

    That
was the last that was said about it. Paul continued to battle with the
generator. By midafternoon he was satisfied that the mechanical workings were
solid again and began to put the pieces back together. Arlen watched him do it,
rebuilding something he'd never built in the first place, working without
benefit of a manual or diagram, and shook his head. The kid was a natural, no
question. He still didn't think the thing would ever work again, though.

    By
five he had the generator together and hollered at Arlen to come down so they
could test it. He came over and watched as Paul filled the tank with gasoline
and explained that he had it connected to the battery bank, and once he was
sure it would work all they'd have to do is wire it back into the house and
build a new enclosure for it. Rebecca came out while he was talking, and as
soon as she arrived Paul's voice deepened and his speaking became more
authoritative, as if he'd been repairing generators all his life. Arlen lit a
cigarette to hide a grin.

    "Here
we go," Paul said, and then he made some adjustment, which Arlen figured
was to the throttle, with his left hand while turning the crank with his right.

    Nothing
happened. There wasn't a sound but the turning of the hand crank, not so much
as a gurgle or cough of gasoline power. Paul frowned and jiggled the throttle
and spun the crank faster, sweat beading on his forehead. Still nothing. He
dropped his hand from the crank and stepped back.

    "Give
it a minute," Rebecca said. "Maybe you just need to crank
longer."

    He
shook his head. "It's not even trying. Something's still wrong. It
wouldn't even try to start."

    His
voice was his own again, softer and younger. Arlen blew out some smoke and
said, "You did more than I thought you could just getting it put back into
one piece. Getting it to run is a mighty tall order."

    Paul
didn't answer, dropped to his knees and picked up a screwdriver and set to work
removing the inspection plate again.

    Rebecca
said, "You may not be able to get it, Paul. It may just be ruined."

    "It's
not ruined," he said, but she'd stopped looking at him and the generator,
was instead staring up the road and into the dark trees. She wet her lips.

    "You'll
have to stop soon," she said. "I need you to be gone by the time the
. . . guests arrive."

    "Right,"
Paul said. "The guests."

    Her
"guests" had arrived in three vehicles that came in succession, like
the funeral procession of an unpopular man. The cars pulled in and parked, and
their occupants began to pile out. The first was a battered truck, with dents
all over the door panels, and the last was the sheriff's car. Between them was
a shining black Plymouth.

    Arlen
and Paul watched from the trees, silent. It felt like the war again to Arlen,
crouched in the brush with a comrade, treachery nearby. When he saw the
Plymouth, his throat tightened, and he thought for a moment that he ought to
get the license number. Who would he give it to, though? Sheriff Tolliver?
Judge Solomon Wade? No, he didn't need to have any more knowledge of that car.

    A man
and three boys who couldn't be out of their teens filled the lead vehicle.
Country folk. Wore clothes you wouldn't see in a department store, the sort
that you ordered from a farm-supply catalog, with tattered hats that had been
kicked around in the dust a time or two. The man had a thin string of gray hair
that hung down past his neck. The watcher from the boat in the inlet. The three
boys followed at his heels like obedient but wary dogs.

    There
was only one man in the Plymouth, a sharp-looking, tidy boy in a suit. Tolliver
had also traveled alone, no deputy along for this ride. He stood in the yard
and looked around with a suspicious stare while the rest of the group went
inside. His gaze floated over the trees where Arlen and Paul hid, but he did
not see them. At length he followed the others into the Cypress House, and then
they were gone from view, hidden behind the closed door.

    "I
don't like this," Paul whispered. "We ought not leave her —"

    "Shut
up," Arlen said, his own nerves making his voice harsh. "We'll do as
she asked. She knows what to expect; we don't. You in a hurry to chat with the
sheriff again?"

    That
quieted him, and they slipped out of the trees and back down to the dock. Paul
settled on one of the floor planks, with his feet dangling in the gap where
others were missing.

    "We
could fix this dock easy enough, if she had the lumber," he said.

    "I
expect we could."

    "And
isn't anything to that boathouse but basic carpentry — roof repairs, wall
reinforcements, that sort of thing."

    "Sure
isn't."

    "So
we could do it."

    "Sure
could." Arlen was distracted, thinking of that group up at the inn.

    He
lit a cigarette and looked at the boy's slumped shoulders and then out at the
wooded inlet. The sun had disappeared, vanished beneath the waves of the Gulf,
but a faint pink smudge along the horizon remained, fading fast to shadow. The
air was the sort of warm that made you comfortable, ready to stretch out and
watch the stars rise as your eyelids became heavy.

    A
heron slid in, sleek and swift as a bullet, then hit the shore across from them
and stood on spindly legs, studying the water. If you looked away from it and
then back, the bird was tough to find, a pencil-thin shadow amid the backdrop
of plants. Deeper in the woods, insects trilled and creatures rustled.

    "She's
ready to pay us," Arlen said. "And it won't be much, but it'll put us
on a train and send us back to Flagg Mountain."

    "Arlen,"
Paul said as the last glowing remnants of the sun slid beneath black water,
"I can't leave her."

    "Can't
leave her?"

    Paul
nodded, still with his back to Arlen. "Rebecca. I can't leave her."

    Arlen
closed his eyes and sucked deep at the cigarette, too deep, enough so the smoke
that touched his throat was hot and harsh. He swallowed down the cough that
wanted to rise, kept his eyes squeezed shut.

    "Tell
me why."

    "You
know why."

    "Paul
. . . that's a mighty beautiful woman. One could have a son near as old as you.
And I understand what you see in her. She's the kind that would weaken the
knees of most men. But she's also in a situation that you can't be a part
of."

    "What
do you mean? What do you know about it?"

    "Those
men up there, son, they aren't good men. And Wade? You think he's running a
legitimate business through here? Hell, the man we rode in with was a damned
bootlegger. What do I know about the details of her situation? Nary a thing.
But I know the gist, and that's enough."

    "Even
so, I'm not leaving her. I feel like I've been traveling through time to get
here, Arlen, just to find her. And now that I have . . . I can't leave."

    Paul's
voice was thick, and the sound of it made Arlen open his eyes and look at the
boy and then away, out across the dark waters and into the breeze that fanned
toward them from the west.

    "Son,
she's more than ten years older than you. Fifteen, maybe. She's a grown
woman."

    "That
doesn't mean a thing. She's alone out here, Arlen, and I can tell she's awful
tired of being alone. I can see that clear as anything."

    "She
made the choice to stay out here."

    "I
don't know that she did. Lots of people in this country are doing things they
didn't
choose
to do, things they have to do. And I'll tell you something
else: she doesn't show it, but she's scared. I saw that the day before the
hurricane came in, when I helped her board up the windows."

    "Lots
of people are scared of hurricanes."

    "She's
scared," Paul repeated, "but it's not of a hurricane."

    Arlen
didn't say anything. Paul turned and faced him, his jaw set.

    "She's
lonely, and she likes me." As if that ended the discussion.

    "She
does like you. I can see that. But it's in a different way than —"

    "How
do
you
know?" Paul snapped. "How do you know what she feels?
You married? You ever been married?"

    There
was a long silence, and then Arlen said gently, "You're fixing to marry
her?"

    "Oh,
I don't know. Don't twist my words on me like that. I'll make that easy on you,
and we both know it. What I'm saying is that I like her. I like her in a way .
. . Arlen, I can't even tell you the way."

    Arlen
understood, though. Had seen it rising since they'd landed at the Cypress
House, but now that Paul was trying to put it into words it set off a warning
in his head, a sense of a new trouble joining those he already had.

    "I
get it," he said. "But you're asking for trouble. You won't take
anything from this but —"

    "I
can't leave her, Arlen."

    The
thick, choked sound was gone from his voice now, and there was the ring of
finality to the words. He looked Arlen in the eye when he said them, held the
look, and then turned and stared back across the inlet. The heron had moved on
a fish in the shallows, moved with a splash and flourish, then stepped back.
Its beak was empty. Swing and a miss.

    "I
thought we'd agreed on returning to Flagg," Arlen said.

    "I
know it, and there isn't anything makes me feel worse than arguing with you.
But, Arlen?" He turned and looked at him again, and in the shadows he
seemed more man than boy, had the weariness of an adult in his countenance.
"I cannot leave her. Okay? I'm going to stay."

    "What
if she won't have you ?"

    "She'll
have me. She needs this dock fixed, and then the boat- house, and I'll be
damned what anybody says, I can make that generator run. I can do it. There are
things for me to do, and they'll let me show her . . . show her . . ."

    "That
she needs you," Arlen said softly.

    "Yeah."

    Arlen's
chest filled and he blew out air, but this time the cigarette was still held
down against his side. Darkness had shrouded them, and the cacophony of buzzing
insects from the woods had increased as the daylight faded. Out in the inlet,
the heron was marking new territory, ready for another strike.

    "I
brought you down here," Arlen said. "It was me who brought you south,
and it was me who took you off the train. Was also me who put you in Sorenson's
fancy car and dragged you this way, and I'm not going to leave you here
now."

    He
felt, as he often had since the start of this journey, like a man pushed by
unseen but powerful currents.

    "You
don't need to stay," Paul said.

    "I'm
not leaving you here alone. You're no fool, boy; there's trouble up there and
you know it. I won't leave you alone in such a place."

    Paul
said, "Thank you."

    "Shit,"
Arlen said, and fumbled in the dark for another cigarette.

    It
was quiet for a moment, nothing but the night sounds around them, and then Paul
said, "You don't think she can ever love me."