Border Town Girl (13 page)

I had the gun. She looked at me. Her eyes were like frosted glass. The lower half of her face was slack. Her underlip had fallen away from her teeth. I remember that there was a fleck of brown tobacco on one of her lower teeth and that I had the insane impulse to reach out with my finger and remove it. I do not know what was said, if anything, because at that point there came one of those blind spots in memory.

I remember standing there with the rifle in my hands. Linda had apparently walked up the beach some hundred feet. She was standing in the water, in shallow water, bending awkwardly forward and being sick. I could not look at the body of Stella or the body of Jeff. I have always been that way. Linda laughed at me one time a few years ago. During the night a cat had died in our yard. I don’t know what had killed it. I could not touch it. I could not stand looking at it. I dug the hole for it and went in the house. Linda put it in the hole and covered it up.

As I walked up to Linda she reached down and brought up sea water in her cupped hands and rubbed her mouth vigorously. She looked at me and her face was the same as before. “Go… report it!” she said in a thickened voice.

“Come with me,” I demanded.

“No.”

I took her by the wrist and tugged her toward the cottages, toward the car. Partway up the beach she let herself go limp. She lay there on the sand, her eyes closed. “Come with me. You’re sick,” I said.

“No.”

Again there was a gap in memory. I remember next getting into the car. There was something that impeded me and irritated me, and I did not realize what it was. I brought my attention to focus and found that I was sitting behind the wheel with my left hand still grasping the rifle, my fingers holding it so tightly that they were cramped. I could not shut the car door without either releasing it or bringing it inside. It was very like the infuriating obstacles which confront you when you are very drunk. I put the rifle on the back seat. I remember no aspect of the trip to Hooker. I was not thinking constructively about what should be done. Linda was sick and had committed senseless violence. Her violent temper had taken that one last step over the borderline into insanity. It was a hideous mess, and I realized vaguely that there would be no end of confusion and heartbreak. I believe that on that short drive I resolved to stand by her and convinced myself that her curious actions of the previous two weeks had been, had I only known it, the danger signal.

I parked in front of the market. The Jethro woman has given a description of the way I acted when I came in. “He come in here breathing hard and looking sort of wild. He stood looking at me and licking his lips and I asked him twice what the trouble was, and then he said his wife had shot and killed the couple in the next cottage, the other Dooley cottage. People like them, they come down here and drink and carry on and half the time they don’t know what they’re doing. He was in his swimming pants and it was hot in the store, but he was all over goose lumps and shivering.

“Buford Rancey was in buying bread and they got this Cowley over in a chair in the back while I phoned over to Bosworth, to the sheriff’s office. They said one car was on road patrol over on the Trail, and they’d be along in maybe five, minutes after they told them over the radio. This Cowley sat in the chair with his eyes shut, still shaking, still licking his mouth every once in a while. Buford Rancey gave him a cigarette and he shook so bad I thought he’d miss his mouth with it.

“The road car came roaring up in front and there was just that Dike Matthews in it. That Cowley acted a little better. Dike said as how Sheriff Vernon and some folks were on their way from the county seat, and somebody better be at the market to guide them on out. Buford said as how he would do that, so then Cowley got in the big car and Dike followed him on out. People had come in the market knowing somehow there was some kind of trouble, so there were two more cars that followed along. I’d say that twenty minutes later, after Buford had just left to ride out with Sheriff Vernon, half the town of Hooker had gone on out to Verano Key to stand around with their fool mouths open.”

Because Matthews was following me in the other car, I didn’t get any chance to talk to him on the way out. I pulled in front of the Jeffries cottage, wondering in that moment if I would have to pack up their things and ship them north, and wondering if I would have to drive the car north.

Matthews pulled in beside me. You can’t see the beach proper from directly in front of the cottages, on the road. He was an angular man with a weather-marked face, lean throat, wattled jaw, prominent Adam’s apple, narrow blue eyes.

We got out of the cars and he looked in at the back seat of Jeff’s car and said, “That the weapon?”

“Yes,” I said, and opened the door to get it

“Leave it be,” he said sharply. “You put it there?”

“Yes,” I said.

He spat and glanced at the sky. “Well, where are they?”

“Down on the beach. We were lying in the sun. Mr. Jeffries was shooting at floating cans. My wife took the rifle. She shot Mrs. Jeffries in the head from close range. She aimed at Mr. Jeffries. He ran. She hit him and knocked him down and shot him again. I got the gun away from her. She’s been… acting strange lately.”

We walked toward the road and the beach. Two other cars had pulled up beside the road. People had gotten out. They saw where we were heading and they began to drift in the same direction.

“Killed ’em both, eh?” he said.

“Killed Mrs. Jeffries. Maybe Mr. Jeffries was only seriously wounded. But I think he was dead.”

“Didn’t you look?”

“No. I—I should have. But I was shocked. I went after help.”

We stood on top of the sand rise and looked down at the beach. From that distance and that angle, Stella could have been sunbathing. I could see the dark glasses on the corner of her towel, see the glint of her lotion bottle in the sun. My blanket was spread out beside her body.

And that was all. Jeff’s body was gone. Linda was gone. I couldn’t understand it. I had all sorts of crazy conjectures.

Linda had drowned herself. Jeff had crawled up to the cottage somehow.

We walked down toward the body. I forced myself to look at it. When I saw the sharp circling of the flies I looked away.

“Where’s the other body?” Matthews asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe he wasn’t as badly hurt as I thought.”

“Where was he?”

“Right there,” I said. “Right about there.” I pointed. I walked over with him. He sat on his heels and looked at the sand. He stood up.

Six people had moved down to within twenty feet of the body. They were all staring at the body. “Git back, dammit. Git back!” Matthews bawled. They all moved back a half-step, still staring. He strode over angrily, snatched up my balled towel, snapped it out and spread it with surprising delicacy over Stella’s broken head.

I looked at the sand. Hot dry sand takes no tracks. The sand spills loosely into any depression. A bare foot makes a depression indistinguishable from that made by a shod foot. I searched the water, far out, looking for a head. I looked north along the deserted beach, and south to the headland. The wide beach was empty. Terns dipped and laughed.

“Where’d she stand?” Matthews asked me.

I stood where Linda had stood. With my towel across Stella’s face, I could bear to look at her. It was a dark maroon towel. I remembered when Linda had bought the set. They had been on sale. I saw a small white diamond scar on Stella’s slack knee. The body bears the marks of life. A wound from skating, or a bold venture in a playground swing. Tears and comfortings, and a scab to go almost too tritely with the braces on her teeth. I tore my mind away from such imaginings.

Matthews squatted beside the cartridge case which had been ejected after Linda had shot Stella. He regarded it somberly, sighed and stood up and spat again.

“I’ll go look in the cottages,” I said.

“We’ll both go.” Now there were eight people standing around. I had not seen the other two arrive. Matthews bullied them back and then said, “You, Fletch.” A fat man in torn khaki pants nodded. “Keep ’em all back, will you? Don’t let ’em stomp around none.”

We went up to the cottages. Another car was stopping. The people got out and glanced at us and then hurried down to the beach. We went in our cottage first. It was empty. It felt empty. Our footsteps were loud. We looked in the other one. It was just as empty. We went in back and looked at the dock.

“What does Dooley get a month for these, this time of year?” he asked.

“A hundred and fifty apiece.”

“Hmmm,” he said softly. “You all friends to these Jeffries long?”

“About a year.”

“Drive down together?”

“My wife and I drove. The Jeffries flew down. Got here two days after we did.”

“Who owns the weapon?”

“Jeffries did.”

“Bring that on the plane?”

“No. We brought their bulky stuff down in the car. It’s his car, actually. He was going to drive it back and we were going to fly, leaving Saturday.”

“Sort of changes all your plans.”

“Yes,” I said. “It does.”

“Know why she up and shot them?”

“I haven’t any idea. She’s sick, I think.”

“Any medical history of being sick like that?”

“No. None. But I guess nearly anybody can go off the deep end.”

“We better get back on the beach before somebody gets the idea of looking under that towel.”

I counted fifteen people on the beach. Two small boys had lost interest. They were up the beach, excavating a sand crab.

Matthews herded the others back. He sat tirelessly on his heels, quite near the body. He had picked up a small white shell. He flipped it up and caught it, flipped it up and caught it.

“I’ll walk on down the beach and look,” I said.

“You stay right here. Sheriff should be here by now.”

Sheriff Vernon was a sick-looking man. He was heavy, short of breath, and his face was sweaty gray. Four men followed him, two of them in the uniform of the county road patrol. He shouldered through the crowd, turned on them and said, “Back!”

They moved back a few feet. “Back to the road,” he said. “All the way. All of you. Whoever belongs to those kids, get them back too.” His voice was like a whip. The spectators moved back sullenly, but they moved back all the way. They stood on the high mound this side of the road, outlined against the sky, watching us.

“Doc show yet?” he asked Matthews.

“Not yet.”

Vernon grunted as he stooped and lifted a corner of the towel. He looked for long seconds and dropped it again. He straightened up, glanced at me and said to Matthews, “Well?”

“This here man is named Paul Cowley. He and his wife was taking their vacation together with the Jeffries in those two cottages Dooley built. He says his wife…”

I stopped listening. I looked to the north again, and then to the south. As I looked to the south I saw two small figures in the distance come around the headland, walking toward us, walking side by side, a man and a woman.

“Somebody coming now,” Matthews said.

We all looked toward the two figures. They both began to hurry toward us. I recognized Jeff and Linda. Jeff carried a fishing rod. He began to run toward us, outdistancing Linda. I stared at him incredulously. He slowed down as he came up to the group, his face harsh with strain.

“What’s happened?” he demanded. “Paul, what’s the matter?”

He saw her then, beyond us. He dropped the rod and reel into the sand and plunged toward her. He fell to his knees, reached toward the towel, hesitated and then took it off. Linda had reached the group. She screamed. I turned sharply toward her as she screamed and saw the stringer drop to the sand. There were three plump sheepshead on the stringer with their gay wide black and white stripes. They began to flap around in the sand.

“What happened to her?” Jeff asked in a toneless, mechanical voice. “What did that to Stella?”

Someone took the towel from him and covered her face again. The people were moving down onto the beach again.

“She was shot in the head,” Vernon said brutally.

Jeff stared at me. “Paul… It was an accident. Wasn’t it an accident, Paul? Paul!”

He got to his feet. My mouth worked but I could not say anything. I took a step back. Linda made a sick sound in her throat, took a ragged step to the right and crumpled to the sand. Jeff came at me. His hard fist hit under my ear and knocked me sprawling. People were yelling. I was dazed. He fell on me and his hard hands closed on my throat. I grabbed his wrists and tried to pull his hands loose. He was grunting with effort. They pulled him away. I sat up, coughing and massaging my throat. Four men were clinging to Jeff’s big arms. He wrenched and plunged, trying to tear free. I coughed and swallowed. My throat felt as though it was full of sand. A man had rolled Linda onto her back. He knelt beside her, massaging her wrist, watching Jeff warily.

Suddenly the fight went out of Jeff. “All right,” he said woodenly. “All right, you can let go.”

They released him tentatively, ready to grab, again, but when he just stood there, they stepped back. “Just what in the purified hell is going on here?” Sheriff Vernon demanded bitterly. I got slowly to my feet. The whole left side of my face ached where I had been hit.

Jeff looked out toward the Gulf, his face bitter. “I guess I can tell you,” he said. “Cowley has been pestering my wife for the last two weeks. Making a fool of himself. Making clumsy passes. Stell was amused at first. I told him to lay off. He said he would, but as soon as he had a drink he’d start again. We threatened to leave. Linda—Mrs. Cowley, begged us to stay. He was better yesterday and this morning. I was going to go fishing. Linda wanted to come too. Stell said she’d stay. Cowley borrowed my rifle to do some target shooting, he said. He probably started the same old routine and Stell got annoyed. I felt uneasy leaving the two of them here. I should have come back.”

I stared at him. It was like being in a nightmare. They were all looking at me. A man in uniform had eased around behind me. Linda was sitting up, looking at me with completely phony sadness.