But a deputy’s training wasn’t all filled with material from the FTO Manual. Lester made a point of asking them questions about their home life, their childhood, why they were going into law enforcement in the first place. One boy, his face still full and soft-looking, said he hadn’t made it through marine boot camp in San Diego, so he decided to try this instead. It was rare for Lester to hear such a naked admission from a trainee. Usually most of them spoke in slogans, the kind of language you see on military recruiting posters on bulletin boards in community colleges: I want to make a difference. I need to make a contribution. I don’t know, I feel the need to serve.And that was all fine, but Lester noticed that eventually, as one hour became the next, one day another, spilling into weeks, more than one trainee would begin to open up a bit about his family, the muscles in his face seeming to stiffen as he mentioned his father or mother, the one who was either gone when he was still very young, or else stayed around the house much longer than was good for anyone. They spoke in vague terms like this, hunched slightly over the wheel, looking out the windshield into the sunlight at all the civilians in cars or on foot, and once again Lester would see himself, someone who wanted not only to clean up everybody else’s act, but to make the world safe again by doing so, to make it right once and for all.
LESTER WENT INSIDE the cabin, lit the Coleman gas lantern, then took it out to the clearing and set it on the ground while he gathered an armful of logs for the iron stove. It was too dark now to see the fog in the trees and the clearing anymore, but the air was still heavy with it and he could smell the ocean, that and the almost earth-yielding scent of split hardwood. It wasn’t cool enough to light a fire really, but he wanted it there anyway.
The gas lantern let off a breathing hiss and gave off a white light that gave Lester no comfort at all, and as he carried an armful of wood inside, he felt a well of self-loathing that comfort was what he craved; his young daughter was at home practically holding her breath, and what he really wanted was for Kathy Nicolo to walk into this one-room cabin lit up by the flames from the stove, a sleeping bag laid out on the floor in front of it, for the two of them to undress without a word, to make love without a word, then lie there, their sweat reflecting the firelight, and just feel what they would be now, the two of them. Kathy and Lester.
He lit the balled newspaper under the kindling, then got on his hands and knees and blew the flames higher, the newspaper perforated with heat, glowing orange. And he wanted that fireball to be inside him, incinerating those black tentacles. But it wasn’t fear, was it? No, it was doubt. Black doubt. And it wasn’t comfort he wanted from Kathy, it was reassurance, the silent kind that can show itself in the stillness after lovemaking, the kind that lives beyond speech. He didn’t want to hear from Kathy that he was doing the right thing, because honestly, she could never know that. Only hecould know that. And he also knew this knowledge would not be complete until he held her again, right now. It was why he didn’t drive straight to Alvarez’s office, and it was why he didn’t take his daughter for a drive or walk and tell her the truth of what was happening. Everything and everyone was stuck in time. It seemed like a month since early this morning when he’d given Kathy a distracted kiss before she backed her car up for him to leave. Where wasshe?
He squatted in front of the stove and laid in two split logs, the ash rising up, some clinging lightly to his forearm. He stepped back and watched the wood begin to burn. The fire seemed to at first diminish but then grow, blue-and-green flames flicking like snake tongues up through gaps between both logs, rising up around the smooth bark, lighting up what it would soon devour. The room felt suddenly too small, and Lester went back outside and stood on the porch, his hands in his back pockets. He thought of Alvarez probably writing up a report on his having disobeyed a direct order. That wasn’t good. Men got terminated for that. But they also had sloppy jackets, a code violation here, a write-up there. Despite Lester’s excessive arrests, his jacket was clean, not a coffee ring on it. And every time the Civil Service exam was announced, he’d get a memo from Captain Baldini’s office suggesting he take it, move to the top seven, then complete the Civil Service Board interview for promotion to sergeant. Career enhancement, the captain called it.
But now there was the colonel incident to contend with. Only a couple of hours ago Lester could have driven into Redwood City and denied it all. His word against some rich Iranian son of a bitch who most likely wasn’t even a U.S. citizen. But now, because he hadn’t shown up, Lester’s integrity and judgment would be called into question and so too would his innocence. Assuming that’s what Alvarez wanted to confront him about in the first place. But Lester felt reasonably certain it could be nothing else. It would have been relatively easy for the colonel to go to Redwood City and file a complaint against a Deputy Sheriff Gonzalez only to find out he did not exist. This would have definitely piqued the curiosity of a prick like Alvarez. He’d probably served the colonel coffee and had him go through the department’s photo ID catalog. And Lester thought again how he should have considered all this before he ever put on his uniform and went to Kathy’s house, once again his emotion overruling his better judgment.
But he didn’t want to get caught up in a vortex of “should haves.” Regret was Fear’s big sister, the one he believed should never be let in the door. Lester preferred to watch Regret from the safety of an interior window, watch her standing there on the stoop beneath the light waiting patiently, always patiently, to be let in, her long hair prematurely gray, stiff with cold. Sometimes Regret would turn to him and smile at him through the window, beckoning him, her teeth straight and clean and transparent as wet ice. For years now she had been standing at Lester’s door, waiting, and sometimes she wore a wedding gown, a constant reminder that only two or three years into his marriage with Carol, he realized it was her conviction he had proposed to, her way of looking at the world with such an angry and compassionate eye.
He had assumed, because of her defense of organized religion in their ethics class, that she was some kind of born-again evangelist. But then he’d see her between classes working a political leaflet table on one of the library patios under the sun. Her blond hair was long then, and she usually let it hang freely past her shoulders and down her back. She’d wear shorts, and her legs were thick and tanned and muscular. One afternoon she’d be volunteering at the Palestinians for Self-Rule table, on another day it would be the South African Alliance to End Apartheid, and on another the Coalition Against Intervention and Oppression. She was working that one alone, sitting in the shade of a conifer eating a falafel pita sandwich when Lester walked over and introduced himself. She nodded and said she recognized him from class, which emboldened him because it was a class of a hundred and fifty students. He asked her what kind of intervention and oppression her coalition addressed.
“Multinational corporate intervention,” she said, chewing slowly.
“Like what?”
She looked him up and down, from his cowboy boots to his black Waylon Jennings road tour T-shirt. Then she drank from her bottled mineral water and pushed a pamphlet toward him. He told her he was a sociology major and had too much to read as it was, could she just give him a sentence or two? Months later, she said she was used to getting baited by Young Republicans and frat boys who would just end up cutting her off, calling her anti-American and a slut, but there was something in the way he had asked that made her talk; it was the sincerity in his voice, the lanky, slope-shouldered way he stood in front of her, his deep brown eyes empty of any judgment. And so she began to talk, and talk, unloading three history courses worth of news: the United States Marines being sent into Nicarauga in the early thirties to kill hungry peasants for United Fruit, the CIA killing the elected leader of Iran in 1953 for oil fields for the Rockefellers, the U.S. government supporting the fourteen murderous families who own all the land of El Salvador. She talked and talked, her cheeks flushed red, her voice getting raspy. Lester finally sat on the ground next to the table, listening, feeling he was in the presence of someone he hadn’t seen in a long, long time, someone who was as easily outraged by the unfairness of things as he was. The campus streetlamps began to come on, she began to run out of gas, and he asked her across town to an outdoor hamburger and beer stand overlooking a pink flamingo miniature golf course. They drank two and a half pitchers of beer and ate very little and they talked of their plans after school; she was going to travel to all the battle zones of the world with a camera and notebook and capture the truth of American imperialism, and Lester said he had no idea what he wanted to do, but whatever it was he wanted it to be good, he wanted to do good.And this seemed to touch something in her. She stopped talking and looked at him, her eyes slightly glazed, her lips parted as if she couldn’t quite take in what she had just heard. She looked to him the way he felt, sweetly, almost sadly drunk; and they went back to her dorm room, wedged a chair beneath the knob in case Carol’s roommate came home, and made love on the floor with their shirts still on.