Preston Falls : a novel (41 page)

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"Well, could you just tell her that I'm on my way and I'll see her soon and that I love her?"

"Sure, will do."

"Captain Petrosky's going to pick her up. Or actually he might have you bring her somewhere."

"Well, that's more than I know," he says. "But we'll keep her safe until we hear."

"Thank you. Please.''

Jean hangs up and looks at Mel's face again. So much like her father. Nothing to give you a clue what's going on.

How will she even get up from this chair? Let alone catch a train and then drive to Preston Falls. It's like if you can do that much—just get to your feet—you can do all the rest of it, thing after thing after thing. She's shouldering her bag when the telephone rings. Jennifer, returning her call: Hey, it's been so long, how are you?

The whole way up, she goes over it and over it. If she could just wholeheartedly tell herself that marrying Willis had simply been an insane decision, a way of doing herself in—even that would be something. But.

He was a friend of Jeff and Jennifer's. Jeff's college roommate, actually, or maybe he'd lived across the hall; Jean could never keep the histories straight. He'd just broken up with a woman named Cynthia. Who now lives in Madison, Wisconsin, and runs a place for battered women. Lately Jean's thought about calling her up out of the blue, the way people with some rare disease will network. She could never get much of an answer from Willis as to what had gone wrong: People change was about the extent of it. Of course, what People change means is Men get tired of you, but Jean stupidly didn't process that. Even though Carol's marriage had fallen apart for that exact same reason, just about the time Jean was deciding whether or not to marry Willis. She was arrogant enough to think. Well, crazy Carol and her had choices.

That first night, the four of them—Jean, Jeff, Jennifer and Jeff's college friend—drove up to Hartford to see Bob Dylan. (Jean bit her tongue.) This was during the born-again phase, and it was so weird and so loud that they all agreed, in dumbshow, to walk out. They ended up at Denny's, where Jeff's friend started going on about how he must be getting old, and maybe he could still handle Perry Como. Jean found herself thinking that she could get this man into bed. Though this wasn't her style, at all, to in any way come on to a man. And did she even want to be in bed with this man? Well, actually yes, she very much did. And she still refuses to believe that it was only about her own low self-esteem, though now, of course, after fifteen years of Doug Willis, there's no sick motive she can't pick out in herself. And everybody else in the world.

Even back then, Jean never thought of herself as the world's most

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sexual person, so it was a shock and a joy to be noticing that she was noticing this man's cheekbones, his mouth, the way his eyebrows came together, making him just the teensiest bit apelike. Hair along the edges of his hands from wrist to pinkie. He was saying that lately he was in practicing mode—he played the guitar—and something about his calluses. She wasn't listening, really: just rudely drinking him in. Then Jennifer said, "Oh, can I feel?" and he held up his index finger as if about to declaim.

"Yuck," said Jennifer. "Jean. You won't believe this."

"Could I?" Jean asked him.

"Not if I'm exposing myself to more withering criticism," he said.

"Oh, Jean's not a ballbuster like me," said Jennifer.

"But darling, who />?" said Jeff.

Jean took his index finger in her palm and ran her thumb over the tip; it was like it had this hard thing packed inside. Then she ran her thumb over his fingernail, which seemed like an incredible trespass, way over the borderline of what she'd been authorized to do. She said, "I wish my calluses were in that good shape."

"You play?" he said.

"Not a lot." She had a nylon-string guitar and at one point had figured out most of the songs on Blue.

"You guys didn't prepare me," he said to Jeff and Jennifer. He looked back at Jean. ''And she plays guitar. This is very cool."

A couple of weeks ago, Jean told Mel that if she ever felt like learning guitar—Mel's the ideal age—she was welcome to use her old one in the closet. Since Willis's guitars were just so precious. Plus he'd taken them all to Preston Falls. In fact, Jean said, she'd be glad to show her some chords to get her started. Thinking this might be a little bond that wouldn't just be like Mel helping out in the kitchen, which essentially was women being drudges together.

Mel said, "No, thanks, Mother." In a way that just cut.

"Well, if you change your mind. I was thinking how much you enjoy listening to music, and it can be really sort of liberating to be able to play things for yourself."

"I said no, thanks, Mother."

"Right," Jean said. "I heard you."

The sun has set when she comes up the real last hill and turns, again, onto Ragged Hill Road. Past the tumbledown barn, the first trailer, the new little house. (Framed in its picture window, a brightly lit glimpse of a woman bearing a baking dish in oven-mitted hands, like a technician handling something radioactive.) Past Calvin Castleman's, where her headlights pick up the Hog Roster, full of dead leaves. Around the last corner, and there's the house: all lit up except for the window with the plastic over it. White smoke pours up out of the chimney. Weird that the place looks so cheery. A police car's parked in the yard—almost as alarming as if she hadn't expected it.

Jean gets out, into the sharp cold. November, and so far north. The light's on over the kitchen door: it's like, welcome to what? She picks her way through the high, frosty grass, then stops to look in the kitchen window; Mel's sitting at the table and Jean just wants to run to her. Yet at the same time, now that she knows Mel's safe, she wants to turn tail and not have to do this.

She opens the door and feels the heat of the stove on her face. A man in a police uniform stands up—skinny, shorter than WQlis—and lays a fanned handful of cards facedown on the kitchen table. Mel's sitting with her back to the door. She twists around in her chair, still holding her cards, and looks at Jean with her just-about-to-cry look—^wrinkles between her close-set eyebrows. Her face looks fresh-scrubbed. The policeman's belt is full of bullets, and he's got such a disproportionately big gun hanging off of him that it's hard to look at anything else. He sticks out a hand and says, "Mrs. Willis? Tony Petrosky." Not a handsome man: long chin, long flat nose, low forehead. Monkey man. She takes his hand: he's got a strong grip, but not crunching; he gives her hand a single squeeze before letting go. Then he flips his thumb at Mel. "Your daughter's a cardshark."

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Mel blushes.

"She's good people, though." His voice sounds deeper than on the phone. The voice of a thin man with a big penis, which is an awful thing to think when he's done all this for them. For whatever reason. "The water's turned off in here," he says, "so she boiled some seltzer to make me a cup of tea. Hey, and she had Sgt. Pepper's with her. Kids still seem to go for it. My kids, same way. I got a fifteen-year-old and a ten-year-old. So you made pretty good time. How was it coming up?"

"Fine," says Jean. "But I worried about this one." She goes to Mel, who's still sitting at the table, puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. First Mel stiffly allows it, then she puts both arms around her mother's hips. Jean strokes her hair. Mel takes her arms away.

"You two need a little time together," Petrosky says, and goes into the dining room.

Jean drops to her knees, grips Mel's upper arms and looks up into her face. Mel looks past her, toward the doorway. "I was so terrified for you," says Jean. "What were you doing?''

"Well, you weren't even trying to get Daddy back." Mel still won't look at her.

"Sweetheart, I've been trying everything I know to find Daddy."

"Yeah, right."

"Captain Petrosky's been helping, Aunt Carol and I went to see somebody she thought might be able to help, I've called everybody I could think of, the police have him in their computer that goes all over— everything's being done."

"Well, you didn't tell us. It was just like, big deal, Daddy's gone and nobody knows where he is and now shut up and be quiet."

"But I did tell you he wasn't here" says Jean. "Did you think I was lying to you? And anyway—" Okay, why not? "Apparently they found his truck in New York, honey."

"You mean he's in New York? And you knew that? Mother, I don't believe you didn't even—"

"Melanie." Jean puts up a hand. "I only found this out yesterday."

"Then why didn't you tell me yesterday, and then I ... I hate you. You made me do this for nothing."

"I didn't make you do this," says Jean. "And you were very, very lucky it didn't turn into a very dangerous situation. Why would you do such a thing?"

Mel closes her eyes and clenches a fist.

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"Look, this is stupid, okay? But I thought if I came here, then he would like have to be here, you know? Because I thought maybe he was like hiding or something when you came, but I thought that if I came, just by myself, it would make him be here. Because I just thought" —her shoulders start shaking—"that he would know and then he'd have to be here, to take care of me" —^weeping now—"and then he'd come back"

Jean gathers her in, pulling her off the chair and onto the floor in her arms, a slow collapsing, Mel shaking inside her mother's embrace. But as close as she hugs Mel, she can't press love and rest into her. And in fact isn't this just needy craziness, wrestling your daughter down onto the floor? She strokes Mel's hair and says, "I love you so much," which only sounds like a confession of helplessness in all directions.

Mel breaks away and sits up, hugging her knees, head down so you see the no-colored part down the middle of her hair. Then she raises her head to look at Jean. "Mother, you can not tell anyhody."

"It's all right, honey." She touches Mel's knee. Mel twists out of reach.

"It's not all right," she says. "If you tell anybody, I'll kill you. I will, Mother. I will really stab you when you're asleep."

"I understand." Suddenly Jean has this revelation: that she's always been afraid of Mel. But she can't tell if it's a true revelation. "I have to say, though," she says, "it's not exactly a secret. You know, Erin was worried and told people at school—"

"But they don't know I was stupid. They just think I ran away from home or something."

"You're not stupid, sweetie," says Jean. "Believe me. Look, we're all suffering right now."

"Yeah, like Roger's really suffering."

"Roger's having a very hard time. He's just a little boy who doesn't understand what's happening to everything. And so he's acting out. Roger needs all the help both of us can give him."

Mel looks at the floor.

"Do you remember when he was a little baby?" says Jean. "You loved him so much." At least this is the family myth.

"Well, he's not a little baby anymore," Mel says. "He's nine years old. Mother."

"And don't you remember when you were nine?" Jean's knees and ankles are starting to hurt from hunkering down on the floor. "I know he can be a pain in the butt."

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"I hate him. There's something really creepy about him."

"It's normal to feel that way, sometimes," says Jean. Willing it to be true. "But you know, when you're both grown up and have families of your—"

"Are you kidding? I would never have a family."

"Well," Jean says. "You may feel differently." Her big defense of their family. Of the human species in general.

"I won't.''

"Okay. It's not anything you have to decide today, I guess." Jean's got to get up; this is really uncomfortable. "I just want you to know that I love you very very much and I'm so thankful that you're safe. Okay?" She stands up and stretches. "We should probably find Captain Petrosky. Do you like him?"

"He's okay." Mel doesn't even look up. "I guess he's pretty cool."

"Tell me something. Is there any of that seltzer left to make more tea? If you could get that started, I'll go see if I can find him. Did you have anything to eat today? "

Mel shrugs. "He took me to McDonald's. That's probably what his kids like. So I'm like sort of hungry, but not really?"

"Well, I'm starving. I haven't had anything since lunch." Lunch being a couple bites of a Fig Newton she bought on the way up, then chucked out the window. She reaches down to help Mel up. Which is a way of telling her to get up. "There's probably some soup here, or there might be a can of that vegetarian chili." Maybe in front of Mel and this policeman she'll be too embarrassed not to eat.

"Okay, I'll look." Mel stands up by herself, ignoring Jean's hand. "It's so weird up here."

"How so?"

Mel looks at her as if she can't believe she heard something so stupid, then trudges over and opens the cupboard next to the sink. Well, Mel's right: it wouldn't have killed her to admit this place is weird.

Jean starts up the stairs, and Petrosky calls, "In here." He's in Willis's study, sitting at the computer; the broken eyebrow window's blocked off with a pillow and the space heater's going. "Caught in the act," he says. "Once I get started on hearts, it's all over."

"Oh, I know," says Jean. Actually, she never plays computer stuff.

"I hope you don't mind, but I sort of poked around in the C drive a little," he says. "Does your husband deal in musical instruments? Sideline of his?"

PRESTON FALLS

"Does he deal in them? No. He sort of collects guitars, but he doesn't like buy and sell."

"Tell me what you make of this." Petrosky clicks the mouse, and Jean comes to look over his shoulder. She takes a forbidden glance down at his lap—just folds of fabric—then looks at the screen. (What's got into her?) He clicks on the list of documents, double-clicks on one called SALEBILL, and the screen fills with type. "Seventy-five hundred dollars," he says. "For one, two, three—five guitars. Plus an amplifier. I wouldn't have thought Mr. Castleman was the musical type."

Jean looks at the thing. "I have no idea." She feels like she has to sit down, but there's just the one chair.

"Did your husband actually own all these instruments?"

She looks down the list. Martin, Gibson, Rickenbacker . . . "Well— I'm not absolutely sure, because I don't have the numbers anywhere, but yes. Those are all ones he had."

"Was your husband in any kind of trouble financially?"

"Just the usual. That / know of. Bills, payments. We were always sort of squeaking by, but we were squeaking by."

"He ever do drugs?"

"Oh please," says Jean.

"Hey, lots of people smoke a little dope once in a while; that's not so out of line. Guy your husband's age? I'd be more surprised if he didn't. Look, I used to party myself. And you know, frankly—I probably shouldn't say this, but our line of work, we see much worse things around alcohol. Drunk drivers, spousal abuse. That's just my opinion."

"No, he never did drugs," Jean says. "I mean, as a kid, yes. You know, a student. And I guess after that. But I never knew him to ever do anything. He told me he stopped smoking pot because it made him paranoid."

"He use cocaine?"

"I'm sure he tried it. But we're talking about years ago." Jean sits down on the floor and hugs her knees.

"See, the reason I ask," says Petrosky, "we naturally pulled up information on your husband, and one of the things, of course, that we came across was the incident that you're familiar with, which your husband was taken into custody? Now, anybody can lose their temper and get into an altercation. But by the same token, it can also be part of the profile for substance abuse. So times being what they are, it's something we have to look at." He half turns in the chair, and Jean sneaks another

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glance as he tugs at the knees of his pants to make the sharp creases hang straight.

"I have to say that was not all his fault," she says. "I mean, I was there—and yes, he was wrong, but—"

Petrosky holds up a hand. "I'm not trying to judge it. All I'm saying, it's just a thing that struck our attention as being out of the usual. But the other thing that—"

"Mo-ther?" Mel, calling from the foot of the stairs.

"We're up here. In Daddy's study."

"Everything's ready."

"Okay, be down in just a minute."

"She's something," Petrosky says, shaking his head. "This hasn't been easy on her, I can see that. But she's got an awful good heart."

"I like to think so," says Jean. "This thing today scared me to death, though."