Elijah Murphy held the board in place with his left hand and wielded the hammer with his right. He got the nail going straight and hammered until the head was flush with the wood. Then he pounded some more. Pounded and pounded until his wrist and arm ached.
The weak autumn sun warmed his face and arms, but the hammering was what he needed. He got another nail from the sack, made sure the board was in the right position, then got the nail started. He beat on the head of the nail with all his strength. The whamming of the hammer made the hollow ring.
His visit with preacher Carcano kept running through his head, things she said, in no particular order. Funny, he had spent over an hour with a preacher and she hadn’t once offered to pray over him. Come to think of it, she did mention prayer, though. Told him if he was going to get anything out of it he was going to have to do it himself.
Hell of a thing for a preacher to say. That’s what Murphy told himself now as he beat nails into submission. He had never met a preacher like her, that was certain. Never in his life.
Elijah Murphy knew precisely what she had been talking about when she spoke of waking up sick and shaking in jail. He had been there, more times than he could count.
But jail was not a regular thing with him, really. Usually he awoke in a vacant lot or an alley—lots of times in the alley behind the Paris Saloon—or alongside roads all over this end of the county. In fact, he had probably spent more nights outside sleeping it off than he had spent in bed these last ten years. No, twenty. Well, twenty-five. Okay, thirty. Nearly thirty years.
When he awoke it always took a while to figure out just where he was. Jail he knew: The bars were a decorator item you rarely found other places. And the alley behind the Paris Saloon—he had slept there so often he always recognized it in short order.
But when he woke up beside the road someplace, well…there was always a period of time when he didn’t recognize anything, couldn’t remember how he got there. Sometimes he wondered if he were dead and in the Hereafter. He would get up, which made the top of his head feel like he had been scalped, wander along, looking about through bloodshot eyes, trying to find something familiar, a house or a barn or a road sign—something!
One time he wandered for a day without seeing a single, solitary thing he could recognize. Someone, perhaps the Barrow boys, had rolled him into a ditch two counties away. He was three days getting home that time and still had only the haziest idea of where he had been.
That was when? Two, three years ago?
He paused in his hammering and tried to recall just when that odyssey had been, then gave up. Doesn’t matter, he thought.
He had lived the last thirty years in a drunken stupor. Most of it just ran together in his mind, and none of it was of any importance.
It…is…important. I matter. To me. This…is…my…life…and…I…am…not…going…to…throw…it…away. He hammered the message on the board.
“Aren’t you going to use nails, Mr. Murphy?”
He turned. Mrs. Wilfred was standing there looking at him quizzically with a pitcher of water in one hand and a glass in the other. She repeated her question.
He had forgotten the nails, was just hammering.
He tried to grin at her.
“Some water, Mr. Murphy?”
“I got drunk the night before last, Mrs. Wilfred. Fell off the wagon.”
“I heard. Won’t you have a drink of water?”
“Thank you. I will.”
He cleared a place for her to sit, sipped at the water. His right arm felt like rubber. He rubbed it, drank some more water.
“You’ve been wasting your life, Mr. Murphy.”
“Yes,” he said.
After a bit she remarked, “Sometimes the people who appreciate life the most get it taken away, and people who don’t value it at all get lots of it. It seems that way sometimes. I’ve never understood that.”
“Hard to figure.”
They sat looking at the bare trees in the cool sunlight. Mrs. Wilfred pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders, but she stayed seated.
“I think you are strong enough, Mr. Murphy.”
“We’ll see,” he said. He didn’t want to make any promises. Not to widow Wilfred, not to preacher Carcano, not to himself.
“But you’re going to try?”
“Yes.”
“I think you can do it.”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Wilfred. I really don’t. I never did much figuring on life, about why things are like they are. Never spent time fretting on it. I’m not really sure why I drink. I want to quit, but it’s going to be real hard. Mrs. Carcano told me I’m going to have to fight it every day for the rest of my life. I think she may be right. So the battle will never be won.”
“It’ll be won a day at a time.”
“That’s what Mrs. Carcano said. That’s the way she said we have to live it.”
“What else did Mrs. Carcano say?”
“This and that.” Elijah Murphy was unwilling to repeat Mrs. Carcano’s personal history. If the preacher wanted it to become public knowledge, she could tell it herself.
Mrs. Wilfred took his silence with good grace. When he had finished two glasses of water, she stood and retrieved her pitcher. He handed her the glass.
“Have a nice day, Mr. Murphy.”
“Thank you. I’ll try.”
“Use nails. The job will go faster.”
Murphy nodded solemnly.
Arleigh Tate was in his office addressing an envelope to the state crime lab when he heard a rapping on the door. “Come in.”
His secretary opened the door and leaned in. “Sheriff, I just got a call from the hospital. Deputy Clay checked in there a while ago. They say he’s going to be there for a few days.”
Tate didn’t even look up from the envelope. “What’s wrong with Clay?”
“Hemorrhoids.”
“Those can be painful.”
“They want someone to come over and retrieve the cruiser. The receptionist has the keys.”
“I’ll walk over in a moment or two.”
“Should I call Mrs. Clay?”
“I suppose.”
When the door was closed again, Tate put the two rolls of film in the envelope and sealed it. Might as well mail this on the way to the hospital.
He was whistling as he walked past the secretary with the envelope in his hand.
Richard Hudson sat in front of his computer staring at the blank screen. He was ready for the final dash to the climax for his latest Prince Ziad novel, but the words wouldn’t come. He needed a hundred pages of manuscript to finish the thing. One hundred pages—twenty-five thousand words of deathless prose that would neatly solve all the prince’s problems and give the gallant warrior time to recuperate for his next adventure.
But it wouldn’t come. Richard Hudson’s mind was as blank as the computer screen. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
The cursor sat in the upper left corner of the screen blinking at him.
True, he hadn’t been doing much thinking about Prince Ziad lately. A writer must think about his characters, must see and hear them on the stage of his mind. Only then can he write them. It’s a very simple process; think about what’s happening to them, watch them react, listen to what they say, then write it.
The only prerequisite is that you must clear your mind of extraneous matters.
Richard Hudson hunched his shoulders, stared at the blank computer screen, and thought about the Ice sisters. Two women—well, there was no other way to describe it—throwing themselves at him. How in the world had this happened? To him, of all people, the last man on earth interested in a breeding partner? Or partners. Who would have predicted that the liberation of women would lead to predatory females stalking harmless, balding, fat male writers?
He was pondering the perverse ways of fate when he heard knocking on the front door.
He panicked. He had managed to run them off only an hour ago. Made them take Goofy home, insisted rather rudely that they both must leave.
His first impulse was to ignore the knocking. Maybe they would think he’d gone somewhere. Drat, his car was still in the driveway.
“Go away,” he shouted from the safety of the living room.
“I need to talk to you, Mr. Hudson.” A man’s voice.
Hudson scuttled to a window and peeked around the curtain. By putting his face almost against the glass he could just see the figure standing in front of the door. That state policeman. Neely. Alone. No women in sight. Perhaps they were hiding behind the bushes.
Aaagh, the paranoia has begun. Next will come madness, then jibbering fits, a complete separation from reality.
Steeling himself, he went to the door, unlocked it and pulled it open.
“I need a few minutes of your time.”
“What about?” Hudson was in no mood for chitchat. Unable to help himself, he scanned the yard to ensure the women weren’t rushing the open door.
“It’s personal, not official.”
He gave in and took the trooper to the living room. Then he went back to the door and locked it, just in case.
“I’m sorry to bother you this evening, Mr. Hudson, but I wanted to stop by and talk to you about Crystal.”
“I asked you to remove her from this house, and you refused.”
“I remember. But there was no way to do it unless I physically carried her out. You saw that, didn’t you?”
“Now it’s Crystal and her sister. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“They’re both in love with you.”
Richard Hudson goggled. “Oh, my God,” he moaned. “What am I going to do?”
Perhaps he could sell the house, move someplace else. Tell no one where he was going. Slip out in the dead of night and drive away, write to the real estate agent later listing the house. Have his agent mail the letter from New York. He could change his name. He could—
“I don’t know just how to say this, Mr. Hudson, but I was wondering, since there are two of them, could you…?”
“What?”
“Could you…tell Crystal there is no way, that you aren’t interested in her?”
“You idiot! I’ve told her that. Over and over. It’s like talking to a stump.”
“You should not have led her on,” Sam Neely said, “given her encouragement at the beginning of your relationship. Obviously she doesn’t believe you now.” His tone implied that he didn’t, either.
“I didn’t encourage either of them,” Richard Hudson wailed, deeply offended. “And I don’t know how I could make my feelings any plainer. I used English, no big words, spoke slowly in simple, declarative sentences. They won’t listen. They refuse to listen.”
Neely twisted his hat in his hands. “But you must be giving Crystal some reason to hope, Mr. Hudson, or she would have gone away. Heartbroken, of course—that’s unavoidable. Perhaps—”
The writer scowled. This simple fool thought he, Richard Hudson, had some control over this mess. “Perhaps what?” he demanded.
“Perhaps if you told her that Diamond is…your choice. That Diamond is more suited to your—”
“Are you crazy?” Hudson raved. He jabbed his fist into the air. “Are you out of your mind? I was happy with my life as it was. What’s so bad about that? Happy! Do you understand, you hormone-drenched nincompoop? I don’t want either of those oversexed women! And I am not about to encourage one to discourage the other. Not in a million years—”
A knock on the door interrupted this tirade.
“See who it is,” Hudson snarled at the trooper. “Don’t let those women in! No women at all.” He scampered for the study.
When he heard male voices, he peeked into the living room. Junior Grimes was standing there looking about suspiciously. Neely was still twisting his hat.
“Hey there, Hudson,” Junior said, and took a seat.
“Hello.”
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Discussing the state of the universe with Trooper Neely.”
“I came over to have a private chat with you about a personal matter,” Junior said, looking pointedly at Neely. “Are you leaving soon?” he asked the cop.
“If the personal matter is one of the Ice girls, or both of them, the answer is no,” Hudson said. “I am not about to pick one in order to get rid of the other.”
“You want them both? Like Hayden Elkins?”
Richard Hudson couldn’t believe this was happening in his own house. Before he could reply to that outrage, Junior continued, “There’s only so many women hereabouts. I don’t think it’s right for a fella to go hoggin’ more than his share. Now if we had a lot of extras—”
“I don’t want either of the Ice sisters,” Hudson explained with as much patience as he could muster. “I have been trying to explain that basic fact to Mr. Neely. I want rid of both of them.”
“Oh.”
“Which one are you interested in, anyway?”
“Diamond.”
“If you two weren’t such dismally poor suitors, I wouldn’t be plagued by these women. You are miserable specimens of the male gender, but better women have accepted worse. You could have tried a little harder. It’s outrageous that your innocent neighbors have to bear the burdens caused by your romantic failures. Outrageous!”
“I did try, Mr. Hudson,” Junior assured him warmly. “The very best I know how. Diamond is a tough woman to please, and—”
“Excuses” was Hudson’s bitter retort. He collapsed into a chair. “What am I to do?”
A heavy silence descended on the room.
“Maybe you should talk to Mrs. Carcano,” Junior suggested finally.
“The new minister?”
“Why not? She’s mighty sharp. What do you think, Neely?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” the state trooper admitted.
The conversation petered out there. No one had any other ideas. After a while Sam Neely and Junior Grimes left. Hudson locked the door behind them.
They stood in the yard and argued a bit, but the conversation stayed on a high, intellectual plane; neither threw a punch. Then they got into their separate vehicles and went their separate ways.
Richard Hudson returned to his study and sat staring morosely at the blinking cursor on the black computer screen.
Anne Harris and Matilda Elkins had become good friends in the last two weeks. They approached each other tentatively at first, with chitchat that avoided The Situation, but they found that the ground between them was surprisingly firm. The conversations broadened, deepened, and each had grown comfortable with the other.
“We weren’t really friends in the past,” Matilda said one day. “Just acquaintances. I seem to have a lot of acquaintances and very few friends.”
Anne wondered if men had the same problem with same-sex relationships. What was the pull that attracted Ed and Hayden to each other, and why was that relationship so weak that Hayden made a pass at Ed’s wife? She didn’t have an answer to that question and finally dropped it.
To understand that there are portions of the human experience that are beyond your ken, that you will never be able to fathom, was the beginning of wisdom, she mused. And yet the need to understand the motivations of your fellow man was the very essence of being human.
This afternoon the two women were sitting at the kitchen table eating cookies right from the oven and drinking milk when Anne said, “I’m leaving tomorrow, Matilda. It’s time.”
“Are you going home? To Ed?”
“No. But it’s time I left here. I’ve intruded upon your hospitality long enough. I’ve been a royal pain; I’ve put you through grief that no woman should have to endure. I’ve come to really know you these last few weeks, and I’m ashamed of myself. I’ll never be able to make it up to you.”
“You should stay here, Anne. At least until you decide what to do.”
“I’ll get a place of my own. An apartment or a house. Something month to month.”
“Anne, dear Anne. I’ve come to know you, too. A place by yourself alone wouldn’t be good. You need people around you. You need a friend.”
“Matilda, I’ve been such an ass. I’m sorry.”
Matilda Elkins went to the coffeepot and poured two cups. When she placed them on the table she said, “This experience has been good for me. I’ve learned about myself this past month, about what I want out of life, about how to go about getting it. This may sound strange, but I’ve become a stronger person, a better person. And Hayden is learning some lessons, too; he may actually turn into a human being worth loving. I might, too.” Her shoulders moved, hinting at a shrug. “In the long run this experience may strengthen our marriage.” She snorted derisively. “I needed a miracle, and I got one. You made it happen. Thank you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I really should leave.”
“You really shouldn’t.”
Anne began to chuckle. Then she laughed. “I wonder what Ed and Hayden would say if they heard this conversation?”
Matilda hooted. They made the kitchen ring with laughter, then helped themselves to more chocolate chip cookies.
“It feels good to laugh again,” Anne mused.
Five days after Delmar’s misadventure, Billy Joe Elkins was enveloped in the gentle folds of a great calm. He sat through his classes, strolled the halls with his books, and talked to friends and acquaintances wearing a gentle smile. He looked out the windows at the shifting shadows cast by puffy clouds that hurried through the restless November sky and knew in his heart of hearts that all was right with the world. It was a rare feeling for him, so he savored it.
Football season was over. It had been fun and he had done well, not well enough to get an athletic scholarship to college, but well enough that high school football would be a pleasant memory in the years ahead.
His parents and Anne Harris—the terrible threesome—were merely a source of amusement, not embarrassment. Their problem was theirs alone, and he no longer gave any thought to how they were going to solve it. Or if they were.
Nor did he dwell on the possible consequences of shooting Delmar Clay. If the law wanted him, Sheriff Tate knew where to find him: He was going to be right here until graduation in May. And if Delmar wanted a pound of flesh, he was welcome to try to take it. Not that Billy Joe was concerned about Delmar; he suspected that he and Melanie had heard the very last of Deputy Clay.
When he thought about Melanie a smile crossed his face. She was a dear, sweet girl, a warm, bright place in his life. Just thinking of her made him fill his lungs with air and exhale slowly.
While he hadn’t had a chance to use that condom, the urgency was gone. Someday, with the right girl…and that someday would be soon enough.
Despite the warmth and affection he felt for her, he was not sure that Melanie was that girl. He didn’t fret it, didn’t worry over it, just accepted it the way he accepted his parents and the possible consequences of pulling the trigger on Delmar.
The view of Delmar’s naked behind over the silver bead on the shotgun barrel was still fresh enough to recall clearly. Billy Joe had been very calm then. Surprisingly so. He had intended to shoot only once, but after the first shot he automatically pumped another shell into the chamber, and good ol’ Delmar obligingly held the position—probably too frozen with shock and pain to comprehend what had just happened. So Billy Joe made him a gift of another ounce and a quarter of #6 birdshot.
Now Billy Joe realized that the hike over the ridge and through the woods to the Varner place with his shotgun in hand had been some kind of crossing, a bridge from one phase of his life into another. He had walked away from the problems of his youth into an unknown future, and he went knowing full well that this future was dangerous, fraught with unknown peril. He had gone anyway. He had already crossed that bridge when he pulled the trigger the first time.
The significance of that passage was nebulous, but instinctively he knew he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t undo what he had intentionally done, couldn’t cease being the person he had become. Even if he wanted to, and he didn’t.
He was thinking about the future when he met Melanie at her locker after school.
They had met the evening after Delmar’s accident, and he had told her everything: about Diamond Ice naked and graceful in the sun, about Arch and the sheriff taking pictures, about shooting Delmar…They had discussed the incident from every angle and agreed not to discuss it again, with each other or anyone else. They hadn’t. Billy Joe’s role in Delmar’s hospitalization for hemorrhoids—the kids here at school had heard and were snickering about it—was their secret.
Somehow Melanie sensed the subtle change that had occurred in Billy Joe. He was steadier, she thought, more confident these last few days, and now when his chums roughhoused in the hall he stood and watched instead of joining in. He smiled more now, too, she noticed, and she took pleasure in that.
Yet she felt a distance between the two of them that hadn’t been there before, which troubled her. At first she couldn’t put her finger on it. She thought Billy Joe might be worried about being arrested; gradually it came to her that he wasn’t. He truly didn’t care. That puzzled her.
Yesterday afternoon he had gotten out the college brochures that had resided in his locker unread all fall and spent thirty minutes with her looking them over. He thought he would like to become an engineer, build things, he said, and he wanted a college with a first-rate engineering department.
Melanie understood then. Billy Joe was growing away from her. He was going forward into a future where she couldn’t follow. It was bittersweet and tragic, and yet…and yet it was inevitable. There was nothing on earth she could do about it. Watching him walk through the hall today toward her with a smile on her face, she felt her heart fill almost to bursting. I know I am going to lose you, Billy Joe, but today we have each other.
“Let’s go get a Coke,” he said as he hefted her book bag.
“Lead on, Mr. Elkins. I want to walk beside you for a little while longer.”
“Pick your side, my lady. Right or left?”
She pretended to consider carefully, then chose his right side. Off they went, holding hands.
Melanie thought of the idea while scrunched beside Billy Joe in a booth at the Teen Shack as a pop tune blared from the jukebox four feet behind them. She broached it to Billy Joe as a “Wouldn’t it be funny if—”
To her surprise, he took it seriously. His eyes twinkled as he thought about it, and those eyes made Melanie’s knees feel watery. He was just so darn cute, so masculine, so very adorable. She leaned over and kissed him.
“That’s an interesting idea, Mel. I like it. Let’s go outside and talk it over.”
In the Jeep they discussed it. “We should invite everyone,” he suggested. “All their friends and all the neighbors, everyone who knows them.”
“This will kill or cure, Billy,” Melanie said soberly. “Think this through before you commit yourself.”
“Let’s go ask how long it will take to have the invitations printed.”
“Okay.”
At the print shop the lady behind the counter was aghast. “This is a secret,” Billy Joe cautioned her, and his seriousness convinced her.
“We won’t tell.”
“How long?”
“One hundred printed invitations and matching envelopes—I can have them for you in four days.” She offered him a form and a pencil. “Write out exactly what you want the invitations to say.”
“Let’s do it,” Melanie urged.
Billy Joe took a deep, deep breath and exhaled slowly as he considered. “Okay,” he said, and reached for the writing materials.