Paris Trout (43 page)

"
It's like watching someone die," she said.
"The distance . . ."

He pushed himself up, arm's length, and moved his
head until he was directly in her line of sight. She said,
"Sometimes, when a person is dying, you wonder who it is that's
wandering away and who is left behind."

It was still in the room, and Seagraves lay back on
his pillow. He'd had similar thoughts himself, about the people he'd
loved.

"
At the bottom of things," she said, "he
might be stumbling around in the dark."

"You believe that?" he said.

She said she didn't know. "I don't think he's
come to the bottom of things yet," she said.

Seagraves pulled her into him then, one of his hands
resting in the small of her back, the other in her hair. "In a
month he'll be gone," he said. "He can't buy himself out of
any federal penitentiary. Carl Bormer will file the divorce papers,
and he's out of your mind."

She was pressed into his shoulder and did not answer.

"You could teach again," he said. "Go
into business, whatever you want. This thing today, it shouldn't of
happened .... " He was trying to find her now, but he couldn't.
"It's what you want," he said, "to be loose of him."

"What I think," she said, pulling away, "at
the bottom of things, I may be stumbling in the dark too, and he
might be down there with me."

"
You want me to let you alone?" he said.

She said, "I don't
know."

* * *

THE PAGEANT WAS SCHEDULED to run three performances.
Friday and Saturday night, Sunday afternoon. Admission was free, and
Charlotte Hock intended to see all of it, unless Mr. Trout kept her
late Saturday evening. She could not read his mood and was afraid to
ask his schedule.

On one hand, he was talking to himself more, sitting
in his office with his face in his hands, mumbling words she could
not understand. On the other hand, when he spoke to her, he sounded
unnaturally cheerful, a condition she attributed to the town
celebration.

He had seen his mother every morning that week and
twice had gone back to visit her in the afternoon. Charlotte Hock had
never seen Mrs. Trout and was curious if there was a family
resemblance.

He came into the office late Saturday morning, about
nine-thirty, and reported that he had been in an accident. A produce
truck had run into his Ford and bent the door so it wouldn't open. He
was soaked through from the rain.

"
My goodness," she said, "are you
injured?" She could see he wasn't. He disappeared into his
office and spent the next hour at his desk composing a letter. At
least that is what he was doing the times she passed the open door
and looked in.

She went by several times, waiting for him to notice
her so that she could ask about leaving early. He never took his eyes
off his work, though, not even when she stomped her wooden peg
against the floor, pretending to trip. She decided to wait until he
was finished and ask him then.

He came out of the office at ten-thirty, wearing his
coat and hat. He was still soaking wet. She thought he might be going
to see his mother again. "Charlotte," he said, "did
you drive today?"

"
Yessir," she said, "I always drive."
She was proud of the fact that A a peg leg didn't stop her.

"Let me borrow your car a little while," he
said.

It took her a moment to understand what he wanted. He
had never asked to use her car before; he had several of his own
parked in the alley with signs stuck to their windows.

"
My car?" she said.

"
Mine's tore up," he said.

She thought of the other cars in the alley but did
not dare to ask why he didn't drive one of those. She found her purse
behind the counter and looked through it for her keys. He didn't seem
to be in any hurry, which was out of the ordinary too. She thought it
would be a good time to ask about leaving early.

"
Here we are," she said, and took the keys
out of her purse. She had owned the car a year, drove it up into her
backyard every night, and locked it there, out of sight. No one else
had driven it, no one else had even ridden in it. She pictured it
running into a produce truck.

"I'll be back before lunch," he said.

"
Yessir." And then, as he was walking out,
she said, "Mr. Trout, you think I might could leave an hour
early today?"

He didn't say yes, he didn't say no. He heard her,
though, because she saw him deciding. He stopped a moment and cocked
his head. And then it was decided, but he never told her the answer.

He slammed the door on the way out, but it didn't
mean anything. She thought it was probably because he was hurrying.
She could hear the rain lacing the front window. She didn't think he
would borrow her car if she was fired.

The office door was still open. She waited until she
heard the car turn from the alley into the street and then went
inside. She had never been in the office alone before, she thought he
might have kept pictures of his mother in his drawers. She walked
farther in, listening for the car — the muffler was bad, so she
would hear it — and then saw that he'd left what he was writing on
top of the desk.

It was a note card, not a letter. She could not read
it from there. She listened again, making sure the car was gone, and
then stepped behind the desk. She did not pick the card up for fer he
had memorized where it was.

It was printed in pencil, dated Sunday, which was
incorrect. It was the Saturday. She thought the celebration might
have confused him.
 

To whom it may concern: I just do not care
to continue this the way it is going. In this connection, I will not
be able to do my full duty. I can do only the best that I can.
Paris Trout
—
I was
convicted by the highpocket boys and the courthouse gang who went
tampering with the jury.

Charlotte Hock, no longer
listening for her car, sat down in the desk chair, put her face in
her hands, and began to cry. Mr. Trout, she thought, had gone and
stolen her car and run for
the state line.

* * *

HE DROVE BACK TO the hotel in the rain and got out
without turning off the engine. The clerk seemed surprised in some
way to see him there. He thought it showed, what he intended to do.

He locked the door when he was in his room and
studied himself in the bathroom mirror. He ran a comb through his
hair. Water flew off and splattered against his cheeks and his neck.
He straightened his tie and studied his teeth; then he pulled back
his lips with his fmgers until he saw the face that he recognized, a
family resemblance. It satisfied him, and he left the mirror and
moved to his dresser.

There was a cocked double — barrel shotgun lying
across the top along with several pistols, most of them revolvers.
The ones he chose were automatics: a .45 caliber Commander, which he
stuck into his belt, and a smaller .38 caliber Colt, which he put in
his coat pocket.

He opened the top drawer of the dresser, where he
kept his ammunition. The maid had put his socks and undershorts on
top, and he dumped them all on the glass floor, hearing the shells
hit and scatter. The full clips made a heavier sound and did not roll
away.

He kicked the socks and underwear to the side and
picked up the clips: two for the forty-five, one for the
thirty-eight. He put them in the empty pocket of his coat. He went
back to the mirror, and then he walked out of the room, feeling the
weight in his pockets. His own
true weight.

The rain had stopped, the car was still running,
idling high. The windshield wipers rubbed and stuck, steam rose off
the hood. There were horses in the street, a few young girls with
batons. The beginnings of a parade. He watched a timid girl
approaching a horse, wanting to put her hand against its nose. She
inched closer and then the horse threw its head, and she jumped back.
She collapsed, laughing, in the arms of the other girls.

Then, untangling herself, she turned and her eyes
caught Trout sitting behind the car window, and what was in her face
changed. He knew he had caught her at something. He rolled down his
window, and she took a step in his direction and stopped.

"
You want to come with me?" he said.

"
No sir," she said. "I'm in the
parade."

He pushed the clutch to the floor and forced the car
into first gear. The transmission ground, and the child covered her
ears. He turned in front of the horse and drove across town. The
streets were half hidden by long puddles, some of them a foot deep.
The engine coughed and caught but did not stop.

There was an empty parking spot directly in front of
the nursing home, marked DIRECTOR, and Trout took it. His brakes were
gone from running through the standing Water, and the front tires of
Charlotte Hock's car hit the curb and bounced back.

Somewhere in the distance there was a band.

He stepped out of the car, leaving the keys in the
ignition, and walked up the steps into the front door. The lobby was
empty, save the one woman sitting at the reception desk. Trout did
not know the woman and walked past her.
 
The
stairway to the second floor was wide and empty. Someone had been
painting that morning and stopped halfway up. Probably to watch the
parade.

He took the stairs slowly, his wet shoes slippery
against the waxed wood, and then paused at the top to survey the
hall. He had been in this spot before, but it was brand — new.

He walked to room 26 and opened the door. The window
inside had not been closed. The curtains billowed, and Trout felt
himself shake, the cool air against his wet clothes. She was sitting
in her wheelchair, dressed in slippers and a robe, her long hair fell
over her shoulders uncombed.

"
It's time for us to go now," he said.

He straightened the old woman's robe over her chest,
studying her as he worked. Her breathing was quicker now, he saw that
she understood he was taking her.

He took the wheelchair down the steps backwards,
watching her head bob with each small drop. He stopped once to
untangle her hair from a wheel.

The woman from the reception desk was standing at the
bottom of the stairs, looking up. "Sir?" she said.

He did not answer.

"
Sir? Nobody told me Mrs. Trout was going out
today. I'm only a volunteer, and they told me I'm not supposed to let
anyone — "

He reached the bottom step and turned the wheelchair
around, so he and the old woman were facing forward. The woman saw
that something was wrong with him and stepped into his path. "Sir,"
she said, "could you wait one moment while I go in back and get
you some visit papers to sign?"

She saw he was not going to stop and moved just
before the chair hit her. The old woman went by, and then the man. He
pushed her through the front door, and she followed them, intending
to get the number of the license plate.

As she watched from the door, the wind blew the old
woman's hair straight back, and she looked for a long moment like
some ancient child on a carnival ride, frozen in speed.

Then the man picked her up
and put her in the front seat.

* * *

THE STREETS DOWNTOWN HAD been closed for the parade,
so Trout drove along a service road through the campus, coming out
just behind the courthouse. He turned the car off, left the keys in
the front seat, and carried her inside.

There was a crowd in front, its noises rose and fell.

He was between the second floor and the third,
carrying her in his arms, when he encountered one of the courthouse
regulars, an older woman who watched trials as entertainment. She was
wearing a straw hat today and a bow tie. Carrying a paper cup. She
recognized him and smiled.

"
Mr. Trout," she said, "you taking
your momma upstairs to watch the parade?" She studied the
package in Trout's arms, smiling. "It's a lucky mother whose
children don't forget her when they're grown."

He had stopped for a moment, now he climbed the rest
of the way up. He heard her behind him. "It's chilly up there,
Mr. Trout, you might want get her a shawl .... "

There was a small room on the south side of the
courthouse with a window that overlooked the street. He carried her
inside and put her in a corner on the floor.

Her robe rose up over her knees, her legs lay in
front of her at rag-doll angles. Her head tilted to the left, and her
mouth was opened wide at the lower side, as if by its own weight. She
watched him, though, he could see that she understood everything he
did.

He took the gun out of his belt and laid it across
the windowsill, then the one from his pocket. He put the ammunition
on the floor, next to her. He checked the line to the stairway. No
one could approach him from there without offering him a shot. He
walked across the hall and tried the bathroom door. It was locked.
There was a note in the comer: "Please see Miss Emma in records
for key!"