CHAPTER 3
Ed and Helen Deepneau lived in a small Cape Cod-chocolatebrown, whipped-cream trim, the kind of house which older women often call “darling”-four houses up from the one Ralph and Bill McGovern shared.
Carolyn had liked to say the Deepneaus belonged to “the Church of the Latter-Day Yuppies,” although her genuine liking for them had robbed the phrase of any real bite. They were laissez-faire vegetarians who considered both fish and dairy products okay, they had worked for Clinton in the last election, and the car in the driveway-not a Datsun now but one of the new mini-vanswas wearing bumper stickers which said SPLIT WOOD, NOT ATOMS and FUR ON ANIMALS, NOT PEOPLE.
The Deepneaus had also apparently kept every album they had ever purchased during the sixties-Carolyn had found this one of their most endearing characteristics-and now, as Ralph approached the Cape Cod with his hands curled into fists at his sides, he heard Grace Slick wailing one of those old San Francisco anthems:
“One pill makes you bigger,
One pill makes you small,
And the others that Mother give, you
Don’t do anything at all,
Go ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall”.
The music was coming from a boombox on the Cape Cod’s postage stamp sized porch. A sprinkler twirled on the lawn, making a shisha-bisha-hisha sound as it cast rainbows in the air and deposited a shiny wet patch on the sidewalk. Ed Deepneau, shirtless, was sitting in a lawn-chair to the left of the concrete walk with his legs crossed, looking up at the sky with the bemused expression of a man trying to decide if the cloud passing overhead looks more like a horse or a unicorn. One bare foot bopped up and down in time to the music. The book lying open and face-down in his lap went perfectly with the music pouring from the boombox. Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, by Tom Robbins.
An all but perfect summer vignette; a scene of small-town serenity Norman Rockwell might have painted and then titled Afternoon Off.
All you had to overlook was the blood on Ed’s knuckles and the drop on the left lens of his round John Lennon specs.
“Ralph, for God’s sake don’t get into a fight with him!” McGovern hissed as Ralph left the sidewalk and cut across the lawn. He walked through the lawn sprinkler’s fine cold spray almost without feeling it.
Ed turned, saw him, and broke into a sunny grin. “Hey, Ralph!” he said. “Good to see you, man!”
In his mind’s eye, Ralph saw himself reaching out and shoving Ed’s chair, pushing him over and spilling him onto his lawn. He saw Ed’s eyes widen with shock and surprise behind the lenses of his glasses.
This vision was so real he even saw the way the sun reflected on the face of Ed’s watch as he tried to sit up.
“Grab yourself a beer and drag up a rock,” Ed, was saying. “if you feel like a game of chess-”
“Beer? A game of chess? Christ Jesus, Ed, what’s wrong with you?”
Ed didn’t answer immediately, only looked at Ralph with an expression that was both frightening and infuriating. It was a mixture of amusement and shame, the look of a man who’s getting ready to say Aw, shit, honey-did I forget to put out the trash again?
Ralph pointed down the hill, past McGovern, who was standing-he would have been lurking if there had been something to lurk behind-near the wet patch the sprinkler had put on the sidewalk, watching them nervously. The first police car had been joined by a second, and Ralph could faintly hear the crackle of radio calls through the open windows.
The crowd had gotten quite a bit bigger.
“The police are there because of Helen.” he said, telling himself not to shout, it would do no good to shout, and shouting an as, “They’re there because you beat up your wife, is that getting through to youp”
“Oh,” Ed said, and rubbed his cheek ruefully. “That.”
“Yes, that,” Ralph said. He now felt almost stupefied with rage.
Ed peered past him at the police cars, at the crowd standing around the Red Apple… and then he saw McGovern.
“Bill!” he cried. McGovern recoiled. Ed either didn’t notice or pretended not to. “Hey, man! Drag up a rock! Want a beer.
That was when Ralph knew he was going to hit Ed, break his stupid little round-lensed spectacles, drive a splinter of glass into his eye, maybe. He was going to do it, nothing on earth could stop him from doing it, except at the last moment something did. It was carolyn’s voice he heard inside his head most frequently these days When he wasn’t just muttering along to himself, that was-but this wasn’t Carolyn’s voice; this one, as unlikely as it seemed, belonged to Trigger Vachon, whom he’d seen only once or twice since the day Trig had saved him from the thunderstorm, the day Carolyn had had her first seizure.
A-11, Ralph.” Be damn careful, you.” Div one crazy like a fox.
Maybe he wanted you to hit him.
Yes, he decided. Maybe that was just what Ed wanted. Why? Who knew? Maybe to muddy the waters up a little bit, maybe just because he was crazy.
“Cut the shit,” he said, dropping his voice almost to a whisper.
He was gratified to see Ed’s attention snap back to him in a hurry, and even more pleased to see Ed’s pleasantly vague expression of rueful amusement disappear. It was replaced by a narrow, watchful expression.
It was, Ralph thought, the look of a dangerous animal with its wind up.
Ralph hunkered down so he could look directly at Ed, “Vlas it Susan Day?” he asked in the same soft voice. “Susan Day and the abortion business? Something about dead babies? Is that why you unloaded on Helen?”
There was another question on his mind-who are you really, Ed?-but before he could ask it, Ed reached out, placed a hand in the center of Ralph’s chest, and pushed. Ralph fell backward onto the damp grass, catching himself on his elbows and shoulders. He lay there with his feet flat on the ground and his knees up, watching as Ed suddenly sprang out of his lawn-chair.
“Ralph, don’t mess with him!” McGovern called from his place of relative safety on the sidewalk.
Ralph paid no attention. He simply remained where he was, propped on his elbows and looking attentively up at Ed. He was still angry and afraid, but these emotions had begun to be overshadowed by a strange, chilly fascination. This was madness he was looking at-the genuine article-no comichook super-villain here, no Norman Bates, no Captain Ahab. It was just Ed Deepneau who worked down the coast at Hawking Labs-one of those eggheads, the old guys who played chess at the picnic area out on the extension would have said, but still a nice enough fella for a Democrat.
Now the nice enough fella had gone totally bonkers, and it hadn’t just happened this afternoon, when Ed had seen his wife’s name on a petition hanging from the Community Bulletin Board in the Shop) n Save. Ralph now understood that Ed’s madness was at least a year old, and that made him wonder what secrets Helen had been keep and what is behind her normal cheery demeanor and sunny sen’e, small, desperate signals-besides the bruises, that was-he might have missed.
And then there’s Natalie, he thought. What’s she seen? What’s she experienced? Besides, of course, being carried across Harris Avenue and the Red Apple parking lot on her staggering, bleeding mother’s hip?