They got to Thebes and Wayne said, “Which way now?” The guy said turn here, turn there, okay stop. They were at the guy’s house. Wayne said, “I thought we were going to Cape.” The guy from the fucking Corps of Engineers said, “You’re going to Cape, I’m going to bed.” Wayne almost stole his truck. It took him three hours and forty minutes to hike it half in the bag, from Thebes to the bridge, not seeing one goddamn car on the road. He picked up the Olds at Cape Barge Line, got home feeling like shit and there weren’t any aspirin in the medicine cabinet. Carmen had taken them with her. Thanks a lot. There was a note on the refrigerator and his new work gloves he’d forgotten lying on the breakfast table. Wayne set the alarm and went to bed.
He woke up at seven wearing his Jockey shorts and the yellow cowhide work gloves, hung over, feeling mean and craving ice cream. For about fifteen minutes he lay there thinking about a chocolate milk shake. He had downed many of them in a hung-over state while other guys drank cold beer or hard stuff as a pick-me-up. Wayne believed drinking before noon could get you in trouble and ice cream was better than sweating out the clock. Carmen had bought some, he was pretty sure, the other day, a half-gallon of butterscotch ripple. He jumped out of bed to check and there it was, Thank you, Jesus, in the freezer part of the fridge. But hard as a rock. He took it out to soften while he showered and got dressed.
But then in the shower with water streaming over him, hair lathered with shampoo, he thought, Hell, bring the ice cream in here and it would soften enough to drink, just like a thick milk shake.
Wayne left the shower on and closed the curtain so the floor wouldn’t get wet. He walked out of the steamy bathroom naked and wet, tiptoed along the hall to the kitchen, on the right, and stopped, catching a glimpse of something to his left. Through the living room and out the window. A cream-colored Plymouth pulling into the drive to park behind the Olds. Deputy Marshal Ferris Britton getting out of the car, coming to the side door.
What would he want this early in the morning?
If the doorbell rings, Wayne was thinking, yell at him to go away. But the doorbell didn’t ring. He heard a key turn the lock and knew what Ferris wanted.
Wayne slipped back along the hall to the bedroom, closed the door partway and stood listening. He heard the side door close.
Ferris was in the house.
Wayne got a clean pair of Jockeys from the dresser and put them on. He was still wet, hair creamed and swirled with shampoo. He looked at his new work gloves, never used, lying on the bed.
Ferris was in the hall, looking in the kitchen. He came to the bathroom and for a moment stood in the doorway. He stepped inside.
Wayne came only a few moments later, into the steam and sound of the shower going behind the flowered plastic curtain. He stood looking at Ferris’s back, close enough to reach out and touch the big grip of the revolver on his belt, the shirt stretched across those solid shoulders, short sleeves rolled up, the muscles in his arms tightening as he raised his hands to his hips. Wayne was going to tap him on the shoulder and say ... whatever you said to a guy who thinks he’s about to surprise your wife in the shower. He hesitated, watching Ferris’s right hand reach up to take hold of the curtain. Maybe you don’t say anything.
Ferris did. He said, “Surprise!” Yelled it out as he tore the shower curtain aside, ripping part of it off the rod ...and stood looking at wet tile, the shower streaming into an empty tub. He stood like that for several moments, as though thinking, well, she must be in there somewhere. Wayne got ready.
He waited for Ferris to turn, saw his face, all eyes, and hit him. Hit him with his right hand in that yellow cowhide work glove, hit him as hard as he had ever swung a ten-pound beater, hit him one time with everything he had and Ferris went into the shower, bounced against the tile and slid down to lie cramped in there, legs sticking up over the edge of the tub. His eyes opened to stare dazed through the stream of water.
Wayne bent over, hands on his bare knees, to look at him. He said, “Oh, it’s you. Shit, I thought it was somebody broke in the house.”
The phone rang in the kitchen.
It rang five times before Wayne got to it, taking off his gloves, and answered.
Carmen’s voice said, “Wayne? I’m home.”
21
“I JUST WALKED IN THE DOOR.”
“How was it? You have any trouble?” “It wasn’t bad. When did you get there?” “Four a.m. I got up at seven, had a shower. At
the moment I’m having some ice cream. Butter
scotch ripple.” “Are we a little hung over?” “You took the aspirin with you. That was a
cruel thing to do, you know it?” “Wayne, why don’t you leave as soon as you
can. In case Ferris stops by.” “He already has. He’s here right now.” “You mean he’s right there, in the kitchen?” “No, in the bathroom. I think his jaw’s broken,”
Wayne said and told her about it. Carmen listened. She said, “Wayne, you better
get out of there, now.” “Soon as I clean out the refrigerator.” As he said it, and told her he didn’t see a prob
lem, he’d ask Ferris if he wanted him to call Emergency Medical or the cops, Carmen was aware of a humming sound, familiar, one she was used to, and turned from the sink to look at the refrigerator. The door was closed and it was running. Wayne was telling her now he planned to keep his foot on the gas all the way and try to make it in ten and a half hours, set a new Cape to Algonac speed record.
“We turned off the refrigerator,” Carmen said, “didn’t we? I mean the one here.”
“We shut everything off but the phone.”
“Well, somebody turned it on.” She paused, listening. “Wayne, I think the furnace is going.”
“Check the thermostat.”
“I can feel it. It’s warm in here.”
“Maybe Nelson had the house open, trying to sell it. I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Maybe,” Carmen said, looking across the kitchen to what had been a pantry and now was Wayne’s closet, where he kept his hunting and fishing gear, stacks of outdoor magazines. She listened to him speculate, Nelson gets an offer and the next thing they know he’s trying to sell them a two-bedroom over at Wildwood, your choice of decorator colors. The shotgun must be in there, in Wayne’s closet. It had to be, they didn’t take it with them. The closet would be locked and the key was on the ring with the rest of his keys, in her purse.
“Call your buddy Nelson and ask him.”
She’d get the shotgun out and put it by the door. It startled her, all of a sudden remembering the two guys.
“Carmen?”
“I will. I have to call Mom first.”
“You gonna be home when I get there?”
“I’ll see how she is.”
“Get her permission.”
“If I can leave her, I will. Okay? That’s the best I can do.”
“You get pissed off at Mommy and lay into me.”
“I’m tired,” Carmen said.
“Call the State Police, that detective, whatever his name is. Tell him you’re home.”
“I will. Hurry, okay?”
“I’ll see you about six, six-thirty. We’ll probably need a few things, huh, some beer?”
“It’s weird,” Carmen said, looking around the kitchen. She saw the oven door open a few inches.
“What is?”
“I don’t know—the feeling. I walked in, it wasn’t like coming back to a house that’s been closed up.”
“It’s only been a week but seems longer, that’s all. Call Nelson.”