Things seemed to be in apple-pie order, just as they were when Boyd left. That whole thing was entirely unfortunate. He thought with a bit of a thrill that he ought to go over to Boyd’s house and express his regret that things had ever come to such a pass.
19
There was a car parked in front of the Jarrell house, not Boyd’s black Chevy half-ton pickup. Frank walked briskly to the house. He shot his cuff to look at his watch, suggesting that there would be many stops today. When he knocked, it was to a jokey little rhythm. He whistled and cast an admiring glance at the scrubby vegetation. The door opened and there stood Mrs. Jarrelclass="underline" middle height, close-cropped hair, blue tank top and a face that saw through everything. She held the screen door in her hand and kept it between them. Frank was surprised to see her.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said. He could see the little irritated red dots in her armpit where she had shaved. The shadows that fell on her face from the door made her seem even more grave and unreachable than the already frightening tone of her voice.
“I won’t take any of your time. But I do need to reach Boyd. It’s business, that’s all. That’s all it is.”
“Maybe you’d like to come in.”
She opened the screen door a little more, just enough for Frank to sidle through, which he didn’t want to do. It seemed that if he declined he might set her off, and so, as obsequiously as he could, feeling the spaciousness behind him, he turned sideways to enter. She seized him by the shirt and pulled his face to hers, a knot of hatred and the pale ocher eyes of a weimaraner, her words full of spit. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she hissed. “You listening real good? Now get the fuck out.” And then he was looking at the discolored white mass of the locked door. He went around to the side window, which was partly opened.
“I’ll bet you’re a good cook too,” he called out. “Probably have a million friends, bunch of adoring nephews and nieces —” Glass exploded over the top of him as an electric flatiron came through the window. He picked a few shards from his hair. “I’ll catch up with you later. Ciao!”
Now as he drove he took no pleasure in the car. The way out of town had had all the expectation. It almost always does, thought Frank; all the movies, all the old westerns, had their great flavor in the road out of town. Going back to town was always somehow with your tail between your legs, kind of falling-on-your-sword in effect, and was just generally a joyless direction, devoid of chance. But going back with glass shards in your hair and the spit of a stranger on your brow would test anyone’s mettle. He liked to picture Mrs. Jarrell with her hand on her stomach, unable to find satisfaction, heading for the milk of magnesia. And there was no reason, short of the general rat-maze conditions of modern life, that they should not be kind to each other:
“Hello, Mrs. Jarrell. Just looking in. I know you’ve had some troubles lately. Anything you need? Anything I can do?”
“Oh, Mr. Copenhaver, leave it to you to worry about me. I’m adjusting quite well, thank you. In fact, I start today on a continuing education program up to the university. I don’t know if I told you this, but next year I plan to run for the United States Senate. I guess it was time I got on with my own life. I suppose I should thank you for firing Boyd. He got a great job at the White House, greeting dignitaries. George Bush will go anywhere to find hidden talent.”
“I just got lucky. Boyd playfully knocked my hat off my head. When I stooped to pick it up, I suddenly felt a new understanding to his working future.”
“We all just need our own space,” said Mrs. Jarrell. Evidently she felt it was time Frank knew more about her body because she …
The panel truck slid to a stop at Frank’s door and its horn blew continuously. Frank could practically reach out and touch the driver. And Frank could tell by the way the red-faced man was beating his steering wheel with both fists that he had not been driving attentively. He ducked his head apologetically and drove through. Pay attention or die, he told himself.
20
Wonderful suburbs! Wonderful with their regular streets and amiable rivalry of lawns! They were as successful as that assemblage of animals that make up a coral reef. Frank strolled through the heartening rectangles of Antelope Heights, savoring the color schemes, the orderly parking habits, the individuality of the mailboxes — some mounted on wagon wheels, some of fiberglass with brightly colored pheasants molded into the sides (must be a hunter in there!), some that anticipated only letters and some that anticipated great big packages. One or two lawns had the outlines of snarling rottweilers with blazing red eyes on stakes driven into the sod to indicate the presence of a guard dog, but by now everyone knew you just bought the sign and saved on dog food. There was a sweet cacophony of sounds which included television, radio, stereo, practice on musical instruments and the muffled shop tools in the basements of hobbyists. Frank wanted to be here among the families, to watch them in their ordinariness, that most elusive of all qualities. To simply carry on and ignore all that is unthinkable seemed to require a special gift; and, in the end, the world belonged to those who never thought about nuclear holocaust, the collapse of the biosphere or even their own perfectly predictable deaths. Carry on! Who made the playoffs? Let’s eat! Let’s eat something!
Frank walked softly past one of the rottweiler signs toward the well-lighted outline of a small mock Tudor painted in the cheerful colors of the Bahamas, pink and blue. There was a side yard that separated this house from its neighbor, a house with a For Sale sign in its yard, perfectly dark so that Frank could observe this family without thinking about the house behind him. Unfortunately, when he reached the beginning of the side yard, the guard dog exploded into his view, rigid against a short length of steel chain. Its rage and astonishment at finding Frank there reduced its snarl to something so internal as to be past a warning and simply the prelude to an attack.
“Ooh, datsa big fellow,” Frank murmured, backing away. He made himself feel, through waves of terror, real affection for this dog on the theory that any insincerity on his part and the dog would uproot the chain and tear his face off, leaving not even lips to offer an explanation to the homeowners. Frank made like a love-sodden star of some Podunk gospel hour and backed away into the next yard where he fell over the For Sale sign. A floodlight went on and, even though he was seated on the lawn, he cast a long black shadow in its harsh light. There was somebody standing on the front porch of the house.
“Frank?”
“Yes?”
“Frank Copenhaver?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Steve Jensen.”
“Oh hey, Steve!”
Steve, one of the doctors who rented from Frank, was having a wonderful time atop Phil’s wife Kathy, a remarkable lapse in his closely planned life. Frank was conscious of the acrimony over the clinic rent. He was even more sensitive to looking like an intruder.
“Frank, what are you doing?”
Frank decided to go into microfocus. “Tripped over this blasted sign,” he called out. “Fell on my butt!” He had a hold of the stake of the sign and was looking closely at the lettering. He could see the brush strokes in the paint.
Jensen walked over to where Frank now stood dusting the seat of his trousers. He looked at Frank blankly and then very slowly a knowing smile came over his face. He laughed to himself. Frank just waited. Jensen looked off, smiling, then turned back to Frank. “You’re checking out this house, Frank. I know you. You don’t want the realtors knowing you’re interested. Talk about your covert operations!”