They had talked awhile in the kitchen: she served him a bowl of beef stew and chunks of the homemade bread she was so proud of and that Wade loved; and while he ate and she sat opposite him at the table, watching, he told her what had happened in Concord, his disappointing meeting with the lawyer (he neglected to mention the wheelchair) and his exhilarating discovery later. He did not tell her about his phone conversation with Lillian’s husband.
And then they went straight to her darkened bedroom. He lit the candle by the side of the bed, as he always did, and in seconds they both had their clothes off, the covers kicked back, and were wordlessly wrapped in one another’s warm skin. She came quickly, and then a minute later came a second time, more powerfully, gulping and crying out several times, until he, too, was inundated by the orgasm, and he suddenly found himself coming and heard himself moan along with her and then sigh.
They lay on their backs — feet, hips and shoulders touching — in silence for a long while. Finally, in a low flat voice, as if talking to himself, Wade said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about Jack Hewitt. I’m worried about him,” he went on. “About that business yesterday, with him and that guy Twombley.”
Her voice, too, came from a distance, from another room in the large old house. “Jack’s sort of sensitive, I guess. More than most. But he’ll be okay in a few weeks. Maybe even sooner.”
“There’s something funny about that shooting. There’s lots funny about it, actually.”
“I heard he was drunk as a coot last night and got into a big fight at Toby’s with Hettie when she wanted to drive him home. He got mad and drove off without her. Left her standing in the parking lot.”
“I’m sure, I’m positive, that it didn’t happen the way Jack says it did. It could have, of course, but it didn’t. I know he’s lying.”
She went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “Jack’s turned into one of those men who are permanently angry, I think. He used to be a sweet kid, but it’s like, when he found out that he couldn’t play baseball anymore, he changed. He used to be so sweet,” she said. “Now he’s like everyone else.”
“I’ve been wondering if maybe Jack shot Twombley, instead of Twombley shooting himself. I’ve even been wondering if maybe Jack shot him on purpose.”
Now she heard him. “Wade! How can you even think such a thing? Why would Jack Hewitt do that, shoot Twombley on purpose?”
“Money.”
“Jack doesn’t need money.”
“Everybody needs money,” he said. “Except guys like Twombley and that sonofabitch son-in-law of his. People like that.”
“Still, Jack wouldn’t kill somebody for it. Besides, who would pay him to do such a terrible thing?”
“I don’t know. Lots of people, probably. Guy like Evan Twombley, big-time union official and all, he’s probably got lots of people want him dead. Believe me, those construction unions are full of mean motherfuckers. Down in Massachusetts all those unions do business with the Mafia, you know. My brother told me some stuff.”
She gave a laugh. “The Mafia wouldn’t hire a kid like Jack Hewitt to do their business for them.”
“No. I guess not. Still… I just know Jack’s lying about how it happened. I can tell. He just seemed too… too tight or something, too slick, when he told it. I know that kid, I know what he’s like inside. He’s a lot like I was when I was his age, you know.”
“Yes. I suppose he is. But you never would’ve done something like that, shot somebody for money.”
“No, I guess not. Not for money. But there were times back then, when I was a kid, when I might’ve shot somebody if I’d been given half a damned excuse. I used to be pretty fucked up, you know.”
“But you’re not now,” she said, and she smiled in the darkness.
Wade lapsed into silence and for a moment thought about his recent days and nights, wondering how to characterize them. Fucked up? Not fucked up? What kind of life did he lead, anyhow? What kind of man had he become in his forties?
He rolled over onto his side and, propped on one elbow, rested his head in the flat of his hand and studied Margie’s broad face. Her eyes were closed. She breathed lightly through her mouth, which curved into the residue of an ironic smile. To him, her face was wide open, bravely unprotected; her mouth was relaxed, and her lips parted, so that her upper front teeth protruded slightly and looked like a schoolgirl’s new teeth to Wade; the two vertical lines that usually creased her forehead were gone, as if erased, and she might have been a mischievous child pretending to be asleep: her skin seemed to glisten in the half light of the room, and Wade reached over and brushed away a moist strand of her hair, then leaned down and kissed her on the exact center of her forehead.
“I can see what you looked like when you were a kid. Exactly,” he whispered.
She kept her eyes closed and said, “You knew me when I was a kid.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did, but I never knew what you looked like. Not really. I mean, I never really studied your face, like now. So I never was able to see you as a kid, a little girl, when you actually were a little kid. Until now, this way.”
“What way?”
“After making love. I like it. It’s nice to be able to see that in a grown-up person. And strange,” he said, and added, “It’s scary, sort of.”
“Yes. It is nice. And strange,” she said. After a few seconds, she added, “I don’t think it’s the same for women, though.” She opened her eyes, and the vertical creases in her brow reappeared, and Wade’s view of her as a child got blocked. “I mean, women can see the little boy in the man pretty easily, you know. But I think we see it mostly when the man doesn’t know we’re watching. It happens when he’s paying attention to something else. Like watching sports on TV or fixing his car or something.”
“What about after making love?”
“Well … I think mostly men try to hide the boy in themselves. They think it’s a sign of weakness or something, so they try to hide it. Maybe especially when they’re making love. You, for instance,” she said, and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “After we make love, you look like you just climbed a mountain or something. Triumphant. The conquering hero! Tarzan beating his chest.” She laughed, and he laughed with her, but hesitantly.
“Oh, you try to be cool about it,” she went on, “but you’re proud of yourself. I can tell. And you should be,” she added, and she punched him again. “Frankly, though,” she said, and she peered out from under her eyelashes, “frankly, though, you needn’t be proud. Because I’m easy. Real easy.”
“For me.”
“Oh yes, only for you. Very hard for anybody else.”
Wade laughed and slid out of bed and padded barefoot and naked down the hall to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Rolling Rock. By the time he got back to the bedroom, the bottle was half empty. “Want some?” he asked, and passed it over to her.
She said, “Thanks,” propped herself up and took a delicate sip.
Wade lay on his back, folded his arms behind his head and peered into the cloudy darkness above him. The candle beside the bed was guttering; on the wall the flickery shadows of his elbows and arms looked like tepees and campfires.
Margie sipped at the beer and studied the shadows and decided once again, as she always did at times like this, when Wade was peaceful and sweet and smart, that she loved him.
“Do you still think,” he said, “do you think I ought to forget this custody thing? After what I saw tonight, with Lillian and that lawyer of hers? Illegal drugs and illicit sex, you know.”
Margie was silent for a moment. She sighed and said, “Wade, you got to be able to prove those things. But really, I don’t know what I think. It’s not me who’s the father, it’s you.”