difficulty I kept a straight face as she went on.
"We belong to the country club. And he's decided
to go into politics." She looked up blearily. "All of it is
very important to him. You see, he came from a very
poor family, and ..."
Oh, please; not another old story. For a minute
there I was tempted just to bonk her over the head with
the Cutty bottle.
Instead I sat down again. "So I guess a scandal,
even an old one, could hurt him in a lot of ways. Financially
too, maybe."
She snorted, not prettily. "Especially an old one.
God, his opponents could go to town on me. Old dirt's
the hardest to clean up. As for money, well, you know
what they say: it's who you know that counts. And if
people don't want to know you anymore ..."
She trailed off, then rallied with an effort. "One
thing about Eastport, it doesn't matter how much
money you have. It's how you act that people judge
you on, here. But boy, do they ever."
A hideous gust of wind shook the building; the
lights dimmed and the draperies shivered as the windows
thought about breaking, decided against it.
Thick, water-resistant pelt or not, I hoped Willow's
creature-feature husband was tucked snugly into the
Waco Diner or at La Sardina having a beer.
"What about Reuben?" I asked. "I heard you were
with him the night he set fire to Uncle Deckie Cobb's
shack."
She looked up, her mascara-smeared eyes surprised.
It didn't seem like an act. "No. I was following
him. I was not with ... that was Mike Carpentier. I
was following them."
Another rush of wind roared. The lights flickered.
We held our breaths until the power came on steadily
again. The kids clicked the remote control through the
channels.
"Why were you following them?" I glanced at El
lie, whose gaze remained studiously fixed on the television
screen. But I could tell she was listening.
Willow looked impatient. "We--Mike, Paddy Far
rell, and I--all lived within sight of one another, you
see. On Beech Street. And Reuben used to climb the
trellis into Mike's bedroom window at night. Stay
there, sometimes for hours."
I'd heard of Beech Street, didn't think I'd been on
it. It was in a ramshackle part of town, I knew that
much. But twenty years ago, probably it hadn't been
run-down. "When Mike was about twelve, and Reuben
was--"
"Right. Nineteen or so. God, it was weird." She
grimaced, remembering. "He used to get these little animals
and bring them to Mike. Mikey, we called him
back then. A bird in a cage one time, and another time
I think a puppy. How Mike explained those to his
folks, I don't know." She sat up straighter, shook off
the recollection.
"But you were supposed to be his girlfriend, right?
I mean, sort of, anyway? So did you ask him about
that? Or ask Mike?"
Willow nodded reluctantly. "Sort of his girlfriend.
He was the bad boy, I was the bad girl: perfect fit,
right? And sure, I thought I would ask him about it.
Sometime when I really wanted a split lip, or a black
eye."
She frowned impatiently. "I wouldn't have asked
Mikey anything like that, though. He was just a little
kid."
Willow finished her coffee, looked around for
more. When I didn't get up immediately, she went and
got it herself, putting the pot and a bowl of creamers
and sugar packets on the table.
Not for the first time, I thought about money and
manners: that sometimes when people forget they've
got it, they remember how to behave. But it's a hard
thing to forget for some people, especially ones like
Willow who've had to try so hard to get it.
And like you, a small voice whispered unpleasantly
in my head. I banished it, concentrating on what Willow
was saying.
"He would do that, though," she went on. "Take a
liking to one of the kids, make a pet of them. Or a
dislike, and ..."
Make a mess of them, I wanted to say, thinking
about Boxy Thorogood. But she was going on pretty
steadily and I didn't want to interrupt her.
"Anyway, that night they both climbed out of
Mikey's window again, and that was different. I was
curious so I followed them."
She paused, her forehead furrowing. "Uncle
Deckie had a shack at the edge of town. Boards, tar
paper. They went inside. Then they came out, Reuben
kind of giggling the way he did and Mikey looking
... I don't know. Strange. Like maybe he was in
shock or something."
Willow looked over to make sure her kids weren't
listening. Ellie's head tipped bemusedly at the TV; the
kids' faces were blankly avid.
Willow sighed. "And then the place just sort
of ... erupted. A ball of flames. Deckie, screaming
inside. He screamed for a long time. And Reuben just
stood there. Giggling."
"Did you try to get help? Or tell anyone, afterwards?"
Her face closed abruptly. "Someone must have
seen, because the fire sirens went off almost right away.
After that I ran. But not," she added, "until after Mike
Carpentier saw me."
She shivered, as if trying to shake off the memory.
"He got home afterwards somehow, so hardly anyone
else ever knew he was there but me. But if looks could
kill, when he saw that I knew he was there that night,
I'd have been dead on the spot."
"And neither one of you ever told anyone officially
that Reuben did it."
Her laugh was scornful. "You still don't really believe
it, do you? How bad he was. But that's because
you weren't a part of it. You didn't tell on Reuben
Tate, see. You just ... didn't."
The kids were getting restless, saying there was
nothing to watch on TV. I thought if the wind kept up
they'd be watching a dark screen soon; the lights flickered
again, warningly.
I got up. "So that put the nail in your coffin, reputation-wise,"
I guessed. "Who was it put the story
around that you were there with him? Implying you
were in on it, instead of Mike?"
She nodded, began clearing up the coffee things. "I
don't know. But I couldn't really prove otherwise,
could I? So I didn't bother denying it. I just got out of
town as soon as I graduated, swore I'd never come
back. And do I ever wish I hadn't."
Another gust, more ferocious than any before, hit
the motel and made the structure shudder. The windows
thrummed as we all waited to find out whether
they were going to burst in at us, Willow in the act of
rinsing the coffeemaker's basket at the kitchenette sink.
"What did Weasel Bodine have to do with any of
it?" I asked.
Willow looked surprised. "Nothing," she said.
"Who's he?"
The lights went out.
The power was off for only a few pitch-
black instants, but when it came on again
Willow's face had firmed up determinedly;
she began making the subtle, ushering movements
of the practiced hostess, informing us that the
party was over.
"Did you see Reuben before he died?" I asked as
she handed me my rain slicker. "Did he come around,
making a pest of himself?"
"Oh, sure. Wanted money. And he'd done his
homework. Reuben always did. Always knew," she finished,
"how he could hurt you."
She gave me my rain hat. Ellie got up from in front
of the television and said goodbye to the kids.
"Said he'd rake up all the old gossip," Willow
went on. "I gave him," she added a little shamefacedly,
"fifty dollars to go away. Do you think the police will
keep us here for very long?"
"I don't know," I began, and then the door flung
open, wind-driven rain sheeting past the big man himself:
Willow's husband. He wore a bomber jacket,
wide-wale corduroys, and running shoes, all drenched;
shoving the door closed, he frowned in displeasure,
and not only at being wet.
Willow hastened to introduce us as two old East
port chums, a story he accepted scowlingly but without
questions; it was just possible, I thought, that his development
level was preverbal.
Although that of course would have ruled out aspirations
to politics, so probably he was able to pronounce
words, if not necessarily to understand all of
them. Also it seemed to me that Willow was a little
afraid of him, or why not tell him the truth about why
we'd come?
"Good t'meet 'cha," he managed finally, not offering
a hand or the pretense of a smile.
"Likewise," I replied, noting again the big, square
head and blocky neck, the meaty, plug-ugly cast of his
face.
Businessman, my aunt Fanny. This guy was a thug.
It was the pinkie ring on his right hand that finally
nailed it for me: a thick, vulgar object of gleaming
gold, dripping with diamonds, about as subtle and
tasteful as a set of brass knuckles.
I didn't get a look at the left hand, to see if there
was any mark on it. He kept it stuffed in his jacket
pocket, probably to keep it from bumping along on the
ground when he shambled.
Meanwhile, there was one final thing I wanted to
make sure of, while I still had the chance.
"Willow," I said, "you must meet Victor, my husband,
sometime. Even though we're divorced we're on
such good terms and I know you'd enjoy hearing
about ..."
This, you see, is the trouble with very fast improv:
you run out of logic long before you run out of breath.
All I really wanted was to confirm that she'd never
been in Victor's house. Which I felt fairly sure she
could not have been, but ...
"Actually," she said, "I have. Met him, that is. Jeremy,"
she waved at the blond boy in front of the TV,
"fell off a bike the first day we were here. Hit his head
hard, and someone said go see Dr. Tiptree. So we went,
and he was so kind and reassuring to us. Wasn't he,
dear?" she added to her husband.
"Mmmph," he agreed, pouring himself a Cutty.
Which was when I finished pulling on my rain stuff