I watched my eyes the whole time I shaved. It was like I kept expecting someone else to spring out from behind them. I washed the lather off and walked to my room. My mother had folded the clothes, again. I growled under my breath, and took a shirt from the top of one of the stacks. Sliding into it, I walked down the stairs. In the living room, I fell onto the couch with a loud exhale. My father didn’t look from the paper. I pulled my shoes on, again, and tied them. They were still damp from the long walk.
“I have to go take care of the paperwork with the Sheriff,” I said, “okay if I take the car?”
The paper shifted slightly, then “Sure. Keys are on the table.” I stood and went into the kitchen. My mother wasn’t there, and there was a real emptiness. On the refrigerator was a small note: ‘Mikey—call Susan ASAP.’ Below it was the number back to the apartment, as if I didn’t know it. I shook my head and, out of instinct, reached for the phone. I stopped myself, though. What would I tell her? My hand slid down off the phone slowly, and I left the kitchen.
After the long walk, the car felt like a luxury. I turned on the radio and dialed around a bit. I found an oldies station, and listened to it. The DJ said that it was “Wreck Wednesday;” all songs about car wrecks, all day long. I rolled my eyes, and turned the volume up.
I thought maybe I’d have to ask for directions on how to get to the Sheriff’s office, but didn’t. I remembered exactly where it was. The town moved all around me as I drove; life on the sidewalks, life in the windows—I felt cut off from it. I wondered what they’d say if they knew what I’d done. I dialed around some more on the radio, until I found one of my father’s talk radio programs. A baseball player had died recently, and everyone was talking about his career. I wasn’t listening; it was nice to have noise that was easy to shut out, though.
I parked the car just up the block. The meter read ‘expired’ in yellow. The sign above it said “No Parking 7 a.m. to 5 p.m. Mon.-Thurs.” I started to turn the car back on, but decided to let it go—I would be talking to the Sheriff, so it was unlikely anyone would be reading the meter. I got out, and checked my zipper. It wasn’t until that moment that I got nervous about seeing Sheriff Aiken.
As I walked, I remembered how he’d been a sort of scarecrow to all of us as we’d grown up. He lurked around every corner, in every darkened window. The Sheriff saw everything you did, and if you were bad, he’d come and take you to jail. Our parents planted this fear in us from the time we were small, and it grew with each strange story. Any time someone was missing from class for more than two days, we were sure the sheriff had taken them off somewhere and eaten them. Aiken was larger, and more horrible than life. I felt like I was walking into the den of some monster, and that I might not make it back out again. I wanted armor and a sword, like one of the movies Susan loved so much.
‘Placerville Police Station’ was stenciled on the glass, with a yellow five-pointed star just underneath. I took a breath and pulled on the handle. I stepped inside and, as the door closed behind me, I felt the cold air inside. A small wooden wall that came up to about my knees separated a five foot area from a larger area beyond it. A tiny gate lead from one to the other. I stepped toward it. A large desk, piled with paper, sat on the far wall, and a hallway began just behind it. From this angle, I couldn’t see where it went to. The window on the rear wall showed cars passing by through the slats of an ancient blind.
“With ya in a minute,” someone said from a back room. I heard the dull thud of boots on hard wood coming closer. I had to breathe in deep, then out through my mouth. One of my therapists had taught me that. I tried to remember which one, but couldn’t. The thudding grew louder until the Sheriff emerged from that hallway. He seemed to be adjusting his collar. He was looking at the floor. When he looked up, he stopped. His eyes squinted, folding the skin along his eye sockets some.
“Help ya?” he asked. His hands were near his hips.
“Um—I was just—,” I started.
“Say, son, I remember you from the other night down at the store. Albert Kendall’s boy, aintcha?” I nodded. He walked over to his desk and sat down.
I gestured toward the tiny gate, “Can I—?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, smiling. I was immediately afraid of that smile. I remembered seeing pictures of barracuda; it was the same. He smiled and leaned back further in the chair, “Ol’ Albert Kendall. How is he?”
“He’s doing fine,” I said, coming through the small gate. It clicked shut behind me. I stepped closer to the desk as he put his feet up on it with two dull ‘thunk’ sounds.
“Yeah, I bet,” he leaned back even further, and I thought for a second he might fall over. He pulled out a cigarette from the top drawer of the desk. He lit it, puffed on it twice, then set the lighter down. He put his hands behind his head. “Ol’ Albert Kendall,” he said around the cigarette. “Well, you ain’t come this far just to hear me jaw about the past. What can I do you for?” He smiled a bloodless sort of smile.
“The other day at the church, umm—,” I started.
He took his feet down off the desk, and leaned forward. I had to stop myself from jumping back. “Hell, that’s right. Ol’ Albert smacked up into Missus Dodgeson. Ain’t it always the way?” As he talked, he rummaged through some papers. He picked two or three from the pile, read them, then handed them to me. I had to force myself to step forward. I took them. “Now, you tell Ol’ Albert I said it was okay if he reads those before he gets ’em back to me. When them folks up to New York or wherever call, I’ll set ’em straight.”
I nodded, and he smiled. I could tell that was supposed to be all. I tried to turn to go, but couldn’t. Before I could stop myself, I heard my voice ask “I’ve, uh—,” I began, “I’ve been reading about the case. The, umm, the remains?” I said. Something in his eyes went instantly from glossy and far away to focused and intent. I waited.
“God damn shame what this world has come to, ain’t it?” he asked, his lips still moving around the cigarette.
“Yeah,” I said, “Umm, I guess—I guess I was wondering if there’s been any investigation into who, umm, who the bones might belong to.” I said.
He sat up, the chair protesting the whole way. He put the cigarette in the ash tray, and put his arms on the desk. “They’s over at Jim Clarke’s place right now. He’s workin’ ’em,” Aiken said, then “Something on your mind, son?”
I swallowed, “Just—,” I started, stopped, started again, “just wondering. I dunno if you remember a while back, a boy named Randy McPherson came up missing.”
“You ain’t the first one come askin’ ‘bout that particlar case. When Jimmy’s done sawin’ away on ’em, I’ll get someone over here from the paper and give out somethin’,” he said, leaning back some once more, “God damned shame what happened to that boy. Pete McPherson wan’t never the same after that. Went a little loose in the skull, if you know what I mean,” he said, and I did, “Shit, I’s just a young buck back then, myself. Didn’t know nothin’,” he said. His eyes grew far away and he turned his head to stare out the window. He was quiet for a long time, and I started to think I should leave, but then he whispered “Gwen Ladd.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, craning my head forward.
“Gwen Ladd,” he repeated, “Was to ‘ventually marry Pete McPherson. Though, not right away, you can be sure ‘a that,” he said, turning his head to catch me out of the side of his eye “God damn shame, that was. You know Pete McPherson?” he asked, head still sideways. I got an image from a film Susan and I watched on sharks. Any minute, I expected his jaws to open impossibly wide, and four rows of teeth to glitter out. I nearly had to shake my head to clear it.