September 2012
Bud anderson
The newspaper was spread out over my belly as I lay on the couch, trying to catch a wink before my goddamn three to eleven shift. In a few hours, I’d be heading to the prison. The Sunday visit with Mom and Dad had me running in and out of the bathroom all morning, the way visits with them always do. I slugged another mouthful of Maalox and fell into a nightmare. It was warm that day. For some reason, the sun on my arms and the visit to Mom and Dad’s house reminded me of the county fair. It wasn’t something I ever thought about so maybe I was dreaming.
I rose with a little boy’s anticipation of the day ahead. The curtains were threadbare and faded by summer. Dappled sunlight spilled onto the wide floorboards, the cracked green paint crumbled in flakes. I lay in bed and savored the warmth of a summer morning. I had pushed the twin bed against the wall so I could look at my heroes—you know, the sports posters every kid has in his room. I pictured them talking to me about power, about the ability to face opponents without fear, to resist attack and be tough. These guys, the ones who could slam a ninety-mile-per-hour pitch or had the lightning speed of a running back carrying the pigskin to the end zone, were my heroes. I wanted to slam-dunk. A slam-dunk that would make everything all right again.
I pulled on my tee shirt and shorts and my sister yelled at me to hurry.
We rolled the windows down, the wind hot against our faces. All we could talk about were the animals, the cotton candy, and the midway. Dad was a strong, strapping foreman at the Seneca Foods Plant next to the fairgrounds. He pointed out the water tower, shaped like a sixty-foot ear of corn, storing 50,000 gallons of water. “Seven million nine hundred thousand acres of corn planted that year alone,” he said proudly.
We had arrived and Dad paid the admission. A woman with a triangular face and a large tattoo on her arm took the money and handed over our tickets. Inside, vendors hawked lemonade and cheese curds. On the midway, old carnies with nicotine-stained teeth, egged us on to try our hands at winning cheap souvenirs.
The sun was high. Hot, dry dust rose to coat our faces. Streaks of dirt mixed with sweat drew crooked lines in my sister’s elbow creases. Dad bought cotton candy. I took one bite before dropping it.
“What the hell, Buddy?” Dad swore. “I paid good money for that.” Right then I knew something bad was going to happen.
In the 4H tents, my sister laughed about the large floppy-eared rabbits nibbling feed pellets. Dad bought a handful and lifted her up so she could feed them. I breathed in the smells. The dusty, green smell of hay, the manure, the horses’ sweat. They whinnied in their stalls, thrilling me when I walked by.
Dad carried Sharon on his shoulders and Mom and I struggled to keep pace. Everywhere there were sounds. “Buy your corn-on-the-cob, corn-dogs, cornbread, corn muffins, corn pudding. Corn Carnival in Mankato coming up next!”
Mom was ridiculously dressed in bright yellow pants and high heels. She looked like a canary let out of its cage, confused about which way to go. I stayed with her, carrying the goldfish I had won in a plastic bag. “For crissakes, can’t you keep up?” Dad snapped. “I haven’t got all day here.” I pleaded with her to hurry.
At home, I shut his eyes and covered my ears to the shouts behind their bedroom door. I was hungry and my belly full of dread, when he yelled, “No matter what I do, you’re never happy.”
Mommy came out of the room, stony faced as Dad slammed the front door shut and threw our battered old suitcase into the pickup. He turned and nodded to me. I stood at the front door crying. “Daddy, no, don’t go!”
* * *
A knock at the door which sounded like it had been going on for a while woke me.
“Bud Anderson?” a man and a woman flashing police badges were standing on the cement step. “I’m Detective Meyers. This is Detective Donnelly.” A tall man in a checked sport jacket with dandruff on the shoulders pointed to a middle-aged woman with a pinched face and a surly manner. “Mind if we come in?”
“What’s going on?” I shook myself awake and wished there wasn’t an empty six-pack by the couch and that the house didn’t look so rundown.
“Just a friendly chat, that’s all.” They edged their way in through the crowded hallway. “Moving somewhere?” Donnelly asked, skirting around the boxes stacked three feet high on the floor.
“Just moved in. Haven’t had a chance to unpack yet.” I cleared the sofa of newspapers and paper plates. “Have a seat. What’s this all about?”
“We have a few questions we’d like to ask you, pertaining to the disappearance of the children of one of your co-workers,” Detective Meyers said. His pistol glared from its holster.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Not so quick there, buddy. Did you know Dr. Grace Rendeau’s children have been reported missing?” Detective Donnelly asked, looking directly at me.
“How the fuck would I know that? I’ve had a few days off.”
“Do you mind telling us what you did during those few days off?” she asked in a more accusatory tone than was called for.
It was getting stuffy in the small living room. “Actually, yes, I do mind.” I stood and opened a window. Without my boots on and without the orthotic, I limped a little. That bitch, Grace, must have given my name to the cops.
“We could bring you down to the station, if you’d prefer.” Donnelly crossed her arms over her chest, cool and composed.
“Fuck. Okay. Anything you want to ask me, you can ask me right here.” I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, a gesture which had caused Donnelly to raise her eyebrows. “This is crazy! You think I have something to do with those kids being missing?”
“Mr. Anderson, where were you on Sunday, August twenty-sixth?” Detective Meyers asked.
“I was home. I made lunch. Went out to do a little fishing.”
“What time was this?” Donnelly looked to be inspecting her fingernails.
Sharp-nosed little terrier bitch. “Around twelve.”
“Anybody see you?”
“How the hell do I know? I have a canoe. After I ate, I put it in the truck, took it over to the Zumbro River, got in and spent a couple of hours communing with nature.”
“Then where did you go?” Donnelly barked.
“I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to surprise my parents. My mother’s eighty-years old, so I drove out to Red Wing. They had just gotten home from eating lunch at the old St. James Hotel. It was good to be with them so I stayed. I played video games in their basement. You can call and ask them. They’ll tell you. I was on Xbox Live, logged in under my screen name, MilitaryMight, the whole time.”
“We tried to call earlier. Why didn’t you answer your phone Mr. Anderson?”
“I must have been on my way back. I left my phone at home. I realized it when I was halfway to Red Wing and didn’t want to turn around and come back for it.”
“Where was your car while you were visiting your parents?”
“My car was in their garage. Look, what is this? I have kids of my own. I’d never hurt anybody’s kids. Here’s my parents’ number. Call them. They’ll tell you I was there from Sunday afternoon at around 2:00 p.m. until today. I got home this afternoon and heard the news on the radio and the next thing I know I’m a suspect. I don’t know what the fuck is happening here, but you’ve got the wrong guy. I’ve already told you everything I know.”
“If you’ll just give me that number, I’ll certainly be calling. Probably paying a little visit too,” Detective Donnelly said. “So, which is it? You didn’t know anything about the Rendeau kids being missing or you did know? ’Cause it seems to me it’s either one way or the other.”
I gave her the number. “Jesus. My mother’s eighty-years old. You’re gonna give her a heart attack … I didn’t know until I got home today.”
The detective opened the door and stepped outside. Meyers sat on the couch. I reached in my pocket for a handkerchief and wiped a line of sweat dribbling down my cheek. I felt as though I had just farted in church. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who wanted to chitchat about the weather. Detective Donnelly’s voice drifted in from outside the screen door. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Yes, ma’am, that’s fine. Put your husband on the phone.”
“So, when did this happen?” I finally asked Meyers. “I mean, Dr. Rendeau’s kids. What happened?”
Meyers didn’t seem to want to make conversation. He stared me in the eye. “Why don’t you tell me?”
I took out my handkerchief out again and wiped my mouth. “I got nothin’ to tell,” I said deliberately.
The wind blew the screen door wide open and Donnelly’s nasally voice ricocheted into the living room. “Hello, Mr. Anderson? This is Detective Donnelly from the Rochester Police Department speaking. Your son is here with me. I’d like a few words with you, if you don’t mind. It’s about your son, Bud Anderson. No, he’s fine. I’m just checking on his whereabouts this morning. All morning? Thank you, sir. Goodbye.”
She came into the house and avoided looking at me. “I understand there have been some hard feelings between you and Dr. Rendeau.”
“Just a little misunderstanding, that’s all,” I answered with a nervous laugh.
“Care to let us in on this little misunderstanding?”
“I was drunk, okay? She’s hot. I tried to kiss her and she kneed me in the nuts. Period. End of story.” I knew they knew I was breathing faster.
Donnelly’s eyes glinted like a dog’s. “How’d you react to that, Anderson? Must’ve made you pretty angry, huh? A big strapping hunk like you to be rejected like that?”
“It happens. Look, I got over it. If it wasn’t for that meddling dyke Garrett it would’ve been the end of the story.” Why the hell didn’t the landlord put in the freakin’ AC when I asked him to?
“Can you think of anyone else who would want to take Dr. Rendeau’s children?” Donnelly asked.
“Why don’t you ask Garrett? She’s a real bitch. Probably do anything to make it look like I had something to do with this.”
“Mind if we take a look around?” Donnelly asked as she stood. Her gaze traveled around the room.
“Not at all. Go right ahead. I got nothin’ to hide.”
Fifteen minutes later, Donnelly said, “If anything comes to mind, give me a call,” and slapped her card down on the table. “Don’t leave town.”
“We’ll be checking with the gaming site, Anderson,” Meyers said. He snorted. “You wouldn’t be the first one who tried to pull the ‘I was signed on’ alibi. Get a subpoena for the site and the names of the gamers he supposedly played with to verify whether he was active or just logged on, will ya?” he said to Donnelly.