Emmett's Gift

EMMETT’S GIFT A novel

ALSO BY CHARLES DEEMER Three Oregon Plays Midnight Cabaret: The Writings of Ger Moran (Editor) What Happens Next?: An Introduction to Screenwriting The Deadly Doowop Selected Stories Five Screenplays Seven Plays Elderberry Wine (Editor) Seven Come Eleven: Stories and Plays, 1969-1999 Screenwright: the Craft of Screenwriting Ten Sonnets Christmas at the Juniper Tavern

EMMETT’S GIFT A novel

Charles Deemer

Three Moons Media 2003

Copyright 2003 by Charles Deemer All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in whole or in part, in print or by any other means, without the written permission of the author. You can contact Charles Deemer at [email protected] Printed in the United States of America. Three Moons Media 2300 Bill Owens Parkway #928 Longview, Texas 75604-3059

ISBN 0-9725164-9-2

Book orders: Libraries and bookstores: http://www.booksurgedirect.com Individuals: http://www.booksurge.com

You could be a jukebox. I could be a dime. Marty Christensen

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach – and due south. Bill Deemer

Puritanism: The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy. H. L. Mencken

With special thanks to Stacy, Jackie, Harriet, Alex and Jeremiah, who read an earlier draft of this novel and gave me much useful feedback.

EMMETT’S GIFT

JULY 5, 1976 A Special News Bulletin interrupted the Today Show while Shandy was in the shower. The body of an old man had been found hanging from a tree in a park in a small town in Oregon. A police spokesman said a note had been pinned to the old man’s shirt, and its contents suggested a lynching. When the anchorman said this, his voice quavered with emotion, as if to cry, My fellow Americans! How can this be so? A lynching in 1976 during the glorious Bicentennial. He would have details as they became available. By the time Shandy stepped into the motel room, wrapped in a towel in order to hide her body from herself, Barbara Walters was gushing rhapsodically about the majesty and elegance of the tall ships that had sailed up the Hudson River yesterday. For a moment Shandy thought she was watching a scene from a pirate movie. She sat on the edge of the bed and started brushing her hair with long, rhythmic strokes. She brushed and brushed, though there was little point in it. Nowhere was her hair longer than two inches. Only a few days ago, her black hair had fallen in a single pigtail to her waist. Now her energetic movements looked exaggerated, like something out of a cartoon, all limbs and bone and ivory skin. Behind the white towel her small breasts were unnoticeable, her figure a leap of faith. She looked closer to fourteen than twenty-one. A series of commercials came on, the TV volume so low they were barely audible. Shandy kept brushing her hair. When the Today Show returned, Barbara Walters had moved to a kitchen set where an excited woman whose smile was all teeth began to prepare tuna casserole. She barely had started when another news bulletin came on. Shandy paid little attention

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until a photograph appeared on the screen, and this made her stop brushing. It was a picture of her hometown, Hamartin, the same flattering, aerial view that was on a postcard for sale at Hamartin Market & Mercantile on Main Street. The small town, looking as magical as Brigadoon, sat on a high plateau in Cascadia County in Central Oregon. In this photograph, homes with large yards surrounded the town, tucked in close, and spacious farms and ranches stretched beyond them, a mosaic of golden wheat and green alfalfa, brown earth and mottled pastures, with snow-capped Mt. Hood looking mysterious in the far distance. Shandy stared at the familiar image, puzzled why her hometown was on TV in California. Then came an even greater shock: a photograph of Emmett Hale appeared in an upper corner of the screen. Shandy gasped and dropped the hairbrush to the floor. For a moment she didn’t budge, frozen by the shock of what she was seeing. By the time she reached the TV and turned up the volume, the short news interruption was over and the toothy, enthusiastic woman was telling Barbara Walters that the secret to tuna casserole was keeping it moist. Shandy switched channels but could find no other news program. Shandy quickly put on the same jeans and sky-blue T-shirt she had worn yesterday. Under the shirt was her usual padded bra, which she wore not to enhance her figure but to hide the protrusion of what she considered to be abnormally large and ugly nipples. Shandy raced barefoot to the newspaper dispenser in front of the office. Back in her room, she yanked open the curtains and sat down at the table in front of the window. But she could find nothing about Emmett or Hamartin in the paper, which was filled with stories and pictures of yesterday’s Bicentennial, looking more like a souvenir program than a newspaper. The paper’s TV listing said the next scheduled news was at noon.

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Shandy decided to phone Josie in Hamartin to learn more. Although fifteen years older, Josie was her best friend and mentor, a painter of landscapes who showed in galleries in Portland, the most successful artist Shandy knew and an inspiration for her own artistic ambitions. She called Josie, charging it to her room, but no one answered. Josie, who valued her privacy, didn’t have a message machine. Shandy went outside and sat in Ruby, her VW Bug, the motor idling, searching AM radio stations for a news program, another bulletin, anything to tell her why Emmett was on the news. She feared the worst. Small towns made the news for catastrophic reasons, not celebratory ones. What had happened to him? She suddenly regretted leaving town without saying goodbye. In the restaurant next to the motel, tiny American flags stood at attention on every table. Shandy ordered a small stack of hot cakes but couldn’t finish even one. She ate the three strips of bacon with a piece of toast, drank the orange juice, and left. Back in the motel, she threw up, then stretched out on the bed with a damp washcloth covering her eyes. Automatically she reached out and felt for the toolbox on the chair beside the bed. She’d been unable to sleep last night until she’d brought it in from the car. Under the top tray, wrapped neatly in newspaper, were thirty one hundred dollar bills, the three thousand dollars Emmett had given her for “escape money.” She considered this the most remarkable gift she’d ever received. Certainly it went far beyond what Emmett had been paying her for sex. Not even the horniest old man on the planet would shell out three grand for a few blowjobs. Feeling herself about to fall asleep, Shandy forced herself to get up and pace back and forth across the carpet, waiting for the news. A maid knocked on the door and reminded her that

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checkout was at noon. Shandy asked for permission to watch the news on TV before she left. Hamartin was the lead story. Emmett was dead. An anchorman reported that Emmett apparently had been murdered in the most grotesque manner, lynched from an oak tree in Vista Park. A reporter on the scene said that the note pinned to Emmett’s shirt contained “a hate slogan against homosexuals” and that it was the first time anyone had been lynched in Oregon in half a century, since the 1920s when the Klan was so active it had elected the state’s governor. Shandy was stunned. Emmett’s body had been discovered early this morning, the murder apparently taking place after midnight. Local authorities had no suspects, but the F.B.I. was coming to Hamartin to look into the matter. Shandy got sick in her stomach again. She thought of trying Josie but decided to phone later, after she’d covered some miles and calmed down. She wanted to return as soon as possible. There would be a funeral, of course, but she also was impatient to learn what had happened, and she felt powerless being so far away. She made one more phone call before she checked out. She called Heather in San Francisco, her destination, but got the same recorded message she’d heard the night before from the guy Heather was living with. Shandy said something had come up and she had to go back to Hamartin for a few days but that she’d be in touch. Finally on the road, she was soon crying so hard she couldn’t see and had to pull over to regain her composure. The same thing happened again within the hour, and so it went until early evening, less than halfway back, when she called it quits for the day and pulled into another motel. She intended to call Josie right away but drank too much too quickly in the lounge in the motel’s restaurant and when she returned to her room, she plopped onto the bed and passed

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out. Shandy slept soundly, without dreaming. This silence was the highlight of her day. When Shandy awoke, it was almost nine in the morning. Sometime during the night she’d attempted to undress and most of her clothes were scattered across the floor. She took a quick shower, dressed, and only then realized she’d left the toolbox in Ruby all night. She hurried outside and checked that it was still in the trunk. She returned and called Josie. “Where are you?” Josie asked. “I don’t know. Not even to Roseburg.” “I’ve been so worried about you. I didn’t know whether you’d hear what happened or not.” “I saw it on the news yesterday. I tried calling you. I can’t believe this is happening.” “I know.” “I don’t understand this,” said Shandy. “He planned to kill himself.” “Really?” “He didn’t want to suffer at the end the way his wife did. He’d bought a gun. He showed it to me.” “There was a note,” said Josie. “Death to all queers or something.” “Emmett wasn’t queer.” There was a silence. Josie said, “So you’re heading back?” “Of course.” “Are you okay?” “No.” Shandy bit her lip. Josie said, “Shandy, what’s the matter?” “If I hadn’t slept with him—“ “Stop that. You were both adults. You can’t hold yourself responsible for madness like this. Just get here as soon as you can.” “Okay.” 13

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“Drive safely.” “I will. I guess I’ll stay at the farmhouse.” “Come here first.” “Okay. Have you talked to Arnie?” Arnie Woodworth had been Shandy’s high school art teacher and greatest fan. He lived in an old farmhouse out of town, which had been in his family for generations. At the farmhouse Shandy and Emmett had rented rooms across the hall from one another. “Not yet,” said Josie. “I’ll call him.” “Maybe it was the same person who did the graffiti on the barn.” “Maybe.” “I don’t know what to think.” “You just get here safely. I love you,” Josie said. “I love you, too.” After hanging up, Shandy stretched out on the bed and fell to sleep. The maid woke her, and it was almost noon before she was out the door and back on the road. But it was still tough going. Shandy had a hard time driving more than an hour without having to stop to compose herself. The slightest memory of Emmett could make her weep, and she was making no quicker progress back to Hamartin today than she had yesterday. Still she continued north along the Interstate, doing the best she could. By late afternoon she was ready to call it quits for the day but felt a responsibility to continue on. She’d told Josie she’d arrive tonight. An hour later, stopped at a gas station, she again called her, this time collect because she didn’t have the right change. “I don’t think I can make it tonight,” Shandy said after Josie accepted the charges. “That’s okay. Take all the time you need.” “Maybe I’ll try to drive for another hour.”

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“Don’t push yourself. There’s nothing urgent that needs doing here.” “Okay. Thanks, Josie.” Shandy paid for the gas and continued on anyway. An hour later, she was carrying the toolbox into a motel room. She crashed early, careful to avoid the bar in the restaurant next door. Sleep, not booze, was her best escape. In the morning, she was back on the road early. She should be in Hamartin by afternoon. From the beginning she had known that Emmett was dying but his dying had seemed a distant and foreign thing, in a future she would not be sharing with him, and she never expected his death to be so upsetting and so difficult to understand.

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PART ONE

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CHAPTER ONE i Emmett was sitting up against the bed’s ornate headboard when Arnie entered with a pot of tea. Although it was nearly noon, Emmett, a morning person, was still wearing his gray pajamas, and the curtains remained drawn, casting the small room in flat gray light. Arnie had bounded into the bedroom like a beacon, wearing red corduroy pants and a purple turtleneck shirt. “If you’re not up yet,” said Arnie, “I can leave this and come back.” Emmett made room for the teapot on the bedside table, next to the photograph of Mary, his deceased wife. “Want me to open the curtains?” Arnie asked. “No.” “Are you feeling okay?” “I feel fine,” Emmett said, which wasn’t true. He didn’t want to get into it. “I just got a call from an old student of mine, Josie Barnes, you remember her? Maybe she was before your time. But I’m sure you remember Shandy Anderson.” “Of course.” Shandy. She was probably the most remarkable student Emmett had ever had in Hamartin. In both algebra and trigonometry, she’d earned her A’s effortlessly and yet expressed no desire to continue her mathematical studies in college, or even to go to college. Finding this out about her had not been easy. Although filled with nervous energy and often talkative, Shandy clammed up when the subject of conversation became her plans for the future and getting information out of her was not easy. Emmett took it upon himself to look up her records and ask other teachers about her. She was very intelligent, with an IQ of 145, one of the brightest students ever 19

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to pass through the Hamartin school system, but she also came from a troubled home. Her mother was a drunk who had a bad habit of moving in with abusive boyfriends, and her father had been an early casualty in Vietnam. As well as Shandy did in Emmett’s classes, art was her real passion, and other teachers considered her to be a talented, budding artist if sometimes controversial, or at least eccentric, in her personal behavior. These same teachers were amused to learn that Emmett considered Shandy something of a budding mathematician. Shandy seemed to have few friends. Her best friend at school, to Emmett’s surprise, was Heather Talbott, the spoiled daughter of the wealthiest rancher in town. The only thing they shared in common was the same frantic, theatrical energy. Heather used this energy to win the lead in every school play and to drive most of the boys on the football team crazy. Shandy used her energy to build a shield of wit and performance around her, keeping others from getting too close. Arnie said, “Josie said Shandy’s in a bind and needs a place to crash.” Arnie waited for a response. Emmett said, “You mean, here?” “If you object, of course I won’t let her.” “No, I have no problem with it.” “You’re sure?” “Positive. I always liked Shandy.” “Tons of talent and almost no discipline.” “Very bright girl. What’s she been doing since high school?” “Last I heard from her, she was doing her art. But that was almost a year ago.” “Why’s she need a place to crash?” “She’s been living at home. Something about her mother moving to Seattle. I wanted to get your permission before I went farther with it.”

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“Bring her on,” said Emmett. “Maybe she’ll cheer up the place.” “Opening the curtains might do that.” When Emmett didn’t react, Arnie said, “I’ll call Josie back and tell her it’s fine then. She’ll bring Shandy over later today.” Once again Emmett didn’t respond. “I haven’t seen Josie for a while,” said Arnie. “She’s my one Hamartin student who became a professional artist. Would you mind if I invite her to stay for dinner?” “Quit asking my permission for everything. This is your house.” “I don’t want to invite company over if you’re not feeling well.” “I’m feeling fine,” Emmett lied again. “Invite her.” “I just wanted to check.” After Arnie was gone, Emmett sat on the edge of the bed, trying to muster the energy to start the day. He knew he should shave and shower and get dressed and go downstairs and sit on the front porch swing with a book. Even falling to sleep in the hammock would be a change of scenery. Anything to escape the inertia of the long morning. Shandy Anderson. He used to see her in town but hadn’t run across her in a long time. Of course, lately he wasn’t going to town much himself. Shandy had always been a mystery to him. Emmett couldn’t understand why a girl with her brains didn’t go to college. She was smart enough to win a scholarship. If she was chiefly interested in art, she could study it at college and still make mathematics her minor. So few students had passed through his classes with her raw talent. What a shame to waste it. ii As soon as Shandy learned that her mother was following her boyfriend, Craig, to Seattle, she went over to Josie’s for a sympathetic ear and some quick brainstorming. Her mother, 21

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counting on the upcoming move and wanting to save money, hadn’t paid the rent on the first, and the landlord was evicting them, which meant Shandy immediately needed a place to stay. She didn’t expect Josie to offer to put her up since Josie’s small house amounted to a cottage, with her bed doubling as a sofa in the living room. The small bedroom proper had been turned into a studio. Josie was totally focused on her painting. With her full figure and wild red hair, her love of bright colors and “hippy dresses,” Josie reminded Shandy of a gypsy artist, opinionated and self-reliant and sensual. Younger, Josie had been a prostitute at the infamous Mustang Ranch, the most famous brothel in Nevada. She was the most bohemian person Shandy had ever met and the first person Shandy went to with a problem. Shandy did not expect Josie to say, “You can crash here for a few days.” “How? Where?” “On the floor. I have a sleeping bag and an air mattress.” “You’re sure you won’t mind?” “I said for a few days, and I mean it. I wouldn’t be able to function with company longer than that. Not even you. Why don’t you go home and get your stuff ready, and I’ll make a few phone calls.” As it turned out, Josie was able to find Shandy a new home right away. When she phoned later in the day with the good news that Shandy could rent a room dirt-cheap at Arnie Woodworth’s farmhouse, Shandy let out such a whoop that her mother, who was packing boxes for Craig to carry out to the UHaul truck, took it personally. “You’re not even upset that I’m leaving,” her mother said. Shandy was used to ignoring her mother’s self-pity, especially when it was fueled by alcohol. She said, “Josie fixed it up so I can stay at Mr. Woodworth’s farmhouse.” “The queer teacher?” 22

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“No, my favorite teacher.” Later, as they embraced in front of the house as Josie waited for Shandy in the car, Shandy’s mother started crying. “I’m going to miss you so much. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to live in Seattle?” “I’m going to be fine,” Shandy assured her. “I’ll send you our phone number as soon as I can. Maybe you’ll come to Seattle for your birthday. I bet I could send airfare. Craig’s starting at twice what he gets for driving that beer truck around.” “We’ll see.” Craig stood at the curb next to the U-Haul truck, leaning on a fender, smoking, waiting for the goodbyes to end. Like many men reared on the movies of James Dean, he’d perfected waiting around into an art form, a kind of stylized and formal insouciance. They were going to pull his pickup behind the Uhaul, and the second car, the wrecked VW that he’d bought for practically nothing and restored, had been up for sale. Shandy broke the embrace and called to Craig. “You be good to her!” Craig grinned and lifted one arm casually, then wiggled his fingers to invite her over. He had a movie-star smile and knew it. “I have something to show you,” he called when his little finger gesture didn’t do the trick. When Shandy reached him, Craig was holding out the keys to the VW. “Happy birthday,” he said. “My birthday’s week after next.” “I know that, for Christ’s sake. Take the keys before I change my mind.” “I thought you sold it.” “You thought wrong. Now do you want it or not?” “You’re serious?”

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Her mother had joined them, and Shandy searched her mother’s expression for a hint of clarification. “Take the damn keys, Shandy,” Craig said. She grabbed them. “Where is it?” she asked. “I’m having it serviced. You can pick it up tomorrow at Johnny’s Texaco.” “Mother?” Shandy said, looking for reassurance that this wasn’t the cruelest joke ever played on anyone in the entire history of the world. Her mother said, “He’s been like a little boy at Christmas, waiting to see your reaction.” “Worth the wait,” Craig said, grinning. Spontaneously Shandy fell into his arms, hugging him and kissing him on the cheek. “Calm down,” he said. “I’m not giving you the pink slip yet. I figured insurance would kill you, so we’ll keep it in my name until you get on your feet in San Francisco or wherever the hell you end up.” “In Seattle,” her mother added hopefully. Shandy began jumping up and down. “I don’t know what to say! I’m going to call her Ruby. Josie,” she screamed, “I have a car!” “You can drive up and visit us on your birthday,” said Craig. “She can fly,” her mother quickly corrected him. “Whatever.” But Shandy was already running to show Josie the keys to the VW.

iii Maybe her sudden good fortune – a new place to stay and her own car within hours! – was an omen. Shandy was overdue 24

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for a few good breaks to come her way. Three years out of high school and she still hadn’t gotten her life together, even though she knew exactly what she wanted to do. She wanted to become an artist. As a first step in this direction, her goal was to save enough money to move to San Francisco, where her best friend from high school, Heather, was living with her new boyfriend. Heather wrote occasional letters about how wild and wonderful life in the City was and how she was getting parts in plays and how Shandy shouldn’t have any trouble finding a gallery to show her paintings and drawings. Come on down, Heather pleaded, and we can put you up until you get settled. It was an offer Shandy didn’t want to refuse. Of course, she loved the idea of showing her work in a gallery. Later she might even take some classes at San Francisco State. The problem was saving the money to make the move. Even though she was still living rent-free in the house rented by her mother and shared with Craig, Shandy couldn’t hold down a job long enough to save anything. Nothing she tried after high school – counter work at Dairy Queen, waiting tables at Mom’s Café, stocking shelves at Hamartin Market & Mercantile – interested her long enough to stay focused, and in a matter of weeks she was daydreaming on the job or coming in late or otherwise behaving in ways that led to her dismissal. As Shandy flitted from one job to another, her mother was amazingly patient with her, and Craig kept his thoughts to himself. Shandy started holding garage sales to make pocket money, selling anything she owned that didn’t contribute directly to her needs as an artist. She’d been reading Thoreau and was determined to move forward on life’s journey traveling as light as possible. Even her art reflected this new frugality: she abandoned painting because supplies were too expensive and began drawing exclusively. Using a broad cartoon style, she typically drew people, especially women, in moments of crisis – a girl getting gang raped, an old woman 25

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having her purse snatched, a husband beating up his wife – and she added water colors over the finished drawings. She felt she was finding her own voice and started calling her work “Artoons” to suggest the cartoonish style with which she depicted serious subject matter. She liked inventing a word to describe her work, a word with no other use in the universe. A special word made both the work and the artist unique. Being broke made Shandy feel trapped in Hamartin. Then a way to make money came to her so suddenly it must have been a gift from the gods who looked out for struggling young artists. The plan for self-employment was perfect: easy to begin and continue, and very lucrative for the effort required. All she needed was the use of Craig’s old VW, a second car that he let her borrow whenever she wanted. So late that spring, after the roads were clear, Shandy started her new job. On Friday and Saturday nights she drove twelve miles southeast of town to Tony’s Truck Haven on the new north-south highway and gave blowjobs in the parking lot for twenty-five dollars a pop. The first night she tried this, she drove home with over one hundred dollars in her pocket. On her worst night to date, she’d still made fifty. Shandy’s plan was to save a thousand dollars or more for the move to San Francisco. At this rate, she’d have it in no time. The first time Shandy had been paid money for a blowjob, it was by one of her mother’s boyfriends; she was thirteen. Getting paid, even only two dollars, was a definite improvement over earlier boyfriends who had forced her to do it for nothing. Men, Shandy had learned, generally had one thing on their minds, and if a woman was smart, she used this fact to her advantage. That’s what Josie had done, working in her youth as a legal prostitute, and Shandy admired her for doing it. It was like making a man pay for sex before he got around to taking what he wanted by force. When a woman used sex to get what she wanted, she became powerful.

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There really were only two kinds of men in this world, Josie had told her: those who were honest and those who were not. The honest ones knew what they wanted, admitted they wanted it, and went out and got it. These had been Josie’s favorite johns. No matter how strange the sexual request – and Shandy would never forget Josie’s story of the man who paid her to urinate on a glass coffee table while he watched from underneath and masturbated – Josie admired men who weren’t afraid to tell her their desires and fantasies straight out. The others, the liars and deceivers, played mind games with her, sometimes expecting her to try everything until she discovered what they wanted, at other times not even knowing themselves what they wanted. Keep away from the liars and deceivers, Josie had warned Shandy, and the younger woman had never forgotten the advice. By offering blowjobs but nothing else in the parking lot at Tony’s, Shandy depended on satisfied customers spreading the word to those who knew exactly what they wanted, and so far she hadn’t been disappointed. Her mother, of course, had no idea that Shandy made money by selling sex. Shandy hadn’t even told Josie yet, the only person in the world, including Heather, she would have considered telling. Whenever Shandy felt guilty about freeloading at home, she gave her mother money for food or rent, lying that she’d sold a painting. Her mother, who lived in a perpetual alcoholic high, didn’t even know that she wasn’t painting any more. With the new steady income from Tony’s, everything was going great, and Shandy figured she’d be on her way to San Francisco before the Fourth of July. Then her mother dropped the bombshell. Craig had a brother in Seattle who offered him a better opportunity than driving a beer truck around Cascadia County, and they were moving. Suddenly Shandy was scrambling for a new place to live, and just as suddenly Josie had come to the rescue.

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iv “Are you going to miss your mother?” Josie asked as they drove through town on Main Street. The farmhouse was about five miles south of town, off what once had been called The Falls–California Highway but which now veered east to connect with a new improved state highway. At the junction was Tony’s Truck Haven, a thriving truck stop. “I love her but it’s time to be on my own.” “I can understand that.” “I really appreciate this. You saved my life.” Josie said, “You find a new job yet?” Shandy thought a moment before replying. “You know Tony’s Truck Haven?” “Who doesn’t?” “I give blowjobs in the parking lot.” Josie laughed, which wasn’t the response Shandy expected. “Did you say what I think you said?” “Actually it’s the best job I’ve ever had in this stupid town.” “You blow guys in the parking lot?” “Right.” “You’re serious?” “For twenty-five dollars.” “Twenty-five dollars! Why are you selling yourself so cheap?” “Nobody argues about the price. I can make over a hundred dollars in a couple hours.” After a silence, Josie said, “Is there a reason you’re telling me this?” “You asked if I had a job.” “And this is the best job you’ve ever had?” “It beats waiting tables or making burgers. I don’t get involved personally or anything. It usually only takes a few minutes. If it happens in three minutes, that breaks down to five 28

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hundred dollars an hour. I know it’s not as much as you used to make but I don’t think it’s so bad for an amateur.” Josie laughed again. “How long have you been doing this?” she asked. “About a month. I usually only do it on weekends. It beats sucking off my mother’s boyfriends for nothing.” “They make you do that?” “A few did. Not Craig, though. He’s never come on to me. He’s my favorite, especially now, but I think mother will probably blow it. She always blows it.” “Is that a pun?” Now it was Shandy’s turn to laugh, a great guffaw that Josie figured was driven by embarrassment. “Do you think I’m crazy or what?” Shandy asked. “I’m not sure what I think.” “I only do it because I want to. I’m in complete control.” “Being in control is important. But all it takes is one asshole to mess you up.” “I have a regular clientele.” “Aren’t you the little business woman? I’m serious, if you want to do that for a living, I still know people in Nevada where you can do it legally and safely.” “I’m not doing it much longer. Pretty soon I’ll have enough saved to move to San Francisco.” Josie started to say something but stopped. “Men are so easy,” said Shandy. “Very true.” “Every guy thinks with his dick.” “Do you really think so?” Josie asked with exaggerated disbelief. Shandy picked up on her meaning immediately, and they both laughed.

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CHAPTER TWO i Emmett awoke to laughter in the hallway. The sound of female voices seemed to come from right outside his door. The bedside clock read 3:34, and here he was still in bed, still in his gray pajamas, the curtains still drawn, the day practically gone, and Emmett with nothing to show for it. Perhaps he was losing his will to live. What else explained his still being in bed when Arnie had brought up tea? He was not in pain; he didn’t feel weak; he didn’t even feel ill. He felt none of the things his doctors had alerted him to watch out for. He felt listless, and for this he blamed his mental state, his attitude, and not the cancer cells that had invaded his pancreas with their perverse and insatiable appetite for reproduction. The symptoms he looked for each morning – the lack of sleep, the lack of energy, the loss of appetite, the increased pain – were not present. Waking around seven, at his usual time, he’d quickly monitored his body and discovered he was feeling better than he probably had a right to feel. All the same, he stayed in bed, past eight and nine, past ten and eleven, unable to muster enough will power to get up and dress and face the day. Something was different. Emmett couldn’t even say he was depressed. The sixmonths-to-live diagnosis that the doctor at the Veterans Hospital in Portland had given him, and the three-months revision that the second-opinion doctor in The Falls had insisted was more accurate, had settled into his consciousness with far less stress and turmoil than the news of his wife’s cancer six years ago. For three interminable months he’d watched Mary suffer through a series of treatments that only made her condition worse, her body deteriorating before his eyes like a grotesque fast-film clip of a prisoner at Auschwitz, and the ordeal had torn him apart and beat him down. What did the doctors think they were doing? How could any person 30

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volunteer to be put through such “treatment”? It was a treatment that belonged in hell. He vowed to avoid Mary’s way of dying, though when his time came in the spring of 1976, the infection of his organs had progressed too far and had been discovered too late for treatment options. Emmett was given a bottle of pain pills, a stack of educational booklets, some phone numbers, and sent home. For what? To wait to die? So be it, then. Emmett accepted his fate. He was ready to die. He’d lived, after all, a life fuller than most. He regretted almost nothing. Well, one thing: he regretted his failure to put a bullet through his wife’s brain to save her, and himself, from the ordeal of her cancer. But other than that, he had nothing personal to complain about. His complaints, such as they were, were about what had happened to the world at large, how it had changed, especially in recent years, in ways incomprehensible to him. First, President Kennedy had been shot, which started a string of assassinations so bleak and unsettling as to suggest a conspiracy at work. And then came Vietnam. What a mess this war-that-wasn’t-quite-a-war had been, and Emmett had never understood why we were in there if we weren’t doing everything required to win. The Vietnam mess inspired college kids to burn down buildings one moment and fornicate in public places the next. Watergate followed, and Nixon’s resignation. Later came withdrawal from Vietnam, the television screen filled with images as surreal and sad as Kennedy’s casket in the horse-drawn wagon a decade earlier. The great United States fled Vietnam like an embarrassed poacher with his tail between his legs. What was the world coming to? What was happening to the habits and values of the country he knew, the one in which he had been raised and lived so fully, enjoying two careers? In his first career, he had served twenty-one years in the United States Navy. He learned the craft of a navigator and 31

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rose to the rank of Lieutenant Junior Grade. After the war he served as the Captain of a supply ship based in Guam. He loved the Navy and decided to go for thirty but changed his mind after an incident in Guam he never had shared with anyone. He told Mary he was retiring because he knew how much she had been looking forward to civilian life, and he was disappointed when she didn’t object. Emmett prepared for his second career by going to college on the G.I. Bill. He graduated from UCLA with a degree in mathematics and went on to earn a high school teaching credential. In 1952, he began teaching Algebra and Trigonometry at Pasadena High School, and to his surprise and delight, he loved his second career even more than the first. Life was good in Southern California until Mary was diagnosed with breast cancer, which was too far advanced for an optimistic evaluation. The doctor gave her only a fifty-fifty chance of survival. They both agreed that fifty percent was better than nothing, and so in 1970 they moved back to Hamartin, where they had grown up together, friends and childhood sweethearts, each the child of wheat farmers. Emmett was given a job at the high school, and they began making the regular two-hour trips to Portland for treatment. At least they would be ending their life together, if it came to that, where it had started. And quicker than either had anticipated, it had come to that. So Emmett knew how suddenly lives can end – and how painfully. He’d failed to save Mary from suffering, and he wasn’t going to make the same mistake with himself. He purchased a handgun and when the time came, he planned to use it. For a while, his death sentence seemed to be no sentence at all. He told no one about his condition. Alone in the small studio apartment he had moved into after retiring from teaching, he kept himself busy reading and walking. Emmett became as solitary a figure on Main Street as he had been on 32

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the deck of a destroyer in the South Pacific, alone late at night, shooting the stars with a sextant. Then Arnie Woodworth, a colleague at the high school who had recently retired, offered to rent him a room at his farmhouse out of town, and Emmett accepted. He wanted to get away from his neighbors in the apartment, especially the new young couple who liked to party late. The farmhouse was out of town and surrounded by pastures and wheat fields. Although Emmett had told no one about his illness, Arnie and nearly everyone else in Hamartin knew about it. You didn’t keep many secrets in a small town. When Emmett realized this, he wanted more than ever to live as far away from neighbors as possible. The last thing in the world he wanted was for people to start staring at him and feeling sorry for him. So Emmett moved out to what once had been called, with considerable pride, The Woodworth Farm. The Farm had been one of the largest wheat growers in Oregon until no more sons stepped forward to take over the business, the way three generations of sons had done. Arnie broke the tradition by going off to college and seldom coming home except for funerals. After the last one, burying his mother, Arnie astonished the community by moving into the farmhouse and getting a job teaching art at the high school. He quickly sold most of the family land to a neighbor, Ned Trafford. Emmett knew none of this family history when he accepted Arnie’s offer. He thought living in the country would raise his spirits, and he also felt it would be prudent to have someone around for the end. Emmett knew that Arnie was a homosexual but gave it no thought, and it never occurred to him that moving into the farmhouse would make Emmett himself a subject of the Hamartin rumor mill. A few people in town came to believe he was gay and later that he was something even worse, a bisexual. Before making the move, Emmett sold most of his possessions at a garage sale. What little remained went into 33

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storage in Arnie’s basement or into making his room at the farmhouse his own: the framed military ribbons that commemorated his career in the Navy and the sextant he had used as a navigator; the framed Masters Degree from UCLA and his credential to teach; his favorite photograph of Mary, positioned on his bedside table so it was the last thing he saw at night; and her recipe book, which he’d never had the heart to throw away. In a drawer below the photograph was the handgun, his insurance against anything the future might bring. Emmett kept his new home clean and uncluttered, as sparsely neat as a military cadre room. Each morning he rose around seven, shaved, showered, dressed, went downstairs and sat at the coffee bar to enjoy the morning’s first cup of tea. Usually Arnie was already there, reading the paper. Later Emmett would take a morning walk, perhaps across a pasture next to the farmhouse, or out the long gravel driveway to the mailbox and back. Even later he would sit down in the leather chair in the living room, or perhaps out on the porch swing, or in the hammock strung up between two oak trees, where he would read. Emmett especially liked to read military histories and biographies, but the local library carried few of them. So most of the time he read mysteries, especially by Earl Stanley Garner and Ross MacDonald. This was Emmett’s usual routine until this morning, when he didn’t even get out of bed. But now he would get up and dress and find out what all the noise in the hallway was about. By the time Emmett stepped outside his room, the noise had moved downstairs. He’d put on khaki slacks that were baggy from the weight he’d lost in recent weeks and a brown short-sleeved shirt, which he had no energy to tuck in. He stood in the hallway, listening. He could make out the shrill laughter of women over a tape of one of Arnie’s operas. The door across the hall was open, and in the room boxes were stacked across the floor. Apparently Shandy had already moved in. Emmett headed for the stairway, walking slowly, 34

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one foot set carefully after the other, testing his balance. Despite the opera, it sounded like a party going on down there, more activity than he might have energy to encounter, but at least he could say hello to everyone before coming back upstairs. Arnie saw him first as Emmett made a measured, careful descent toward their laughter and lively conversation. Emmett dragged the pall of death behind him like a parachute. “Here he is,” said Arnie, trying to sound enthused, as if Emmett himself had been the topic of conversation. In fact, when the women arrived he’d dismissed his housemate with the quick explanation, “Emmett has the flu and won’t be joining us,” and had let it go at that. Josie and Shandy turned to see Emmett step off the stairway and enter the room. Arnie quickly went to his side. “You sure you’re up to this?” he whispered. Emmett forced a smile. He looked like he was about to say something to the women but his mouth hung silently open. Arnie saw a speckle of drool on his lower lip. Arnie said, more loudly than necessary, “You remember Josie and Shandy.” “Hello,” said Josie. Shandy looked uncomfortable and said nothing. “Hi,” said Emmett. He made eye contact with Shandy, who looked away. “Do you think you’ll feel up to dinner?” Arnie asked. “I made my special spaghetti.” Emmett said, “I’m not hungry. I just came down to say hello. Shandy, how long will you be staying with us?” Emmett faltered, as if so much language was more than he could handle, and Arnie steadied him. Arnie whispered, “I think you’d better go back to bed.” Shandy said, “Not long.” “I’ll help you upstairs,” said Arnie. To the women he added, “Be right back. Help yourself to the wine.” 35

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“I’m ready for a refill,” said Josie, looking at Shandy. The younger woman followed her mentor into the kitchen as Arnie helped Emmett start up the staircase.

ii “I feel better than I look,” said Emmett, climbing into bed. Arnie had helped him get back into pajamas. “That’s a relief because you look terrible. I think we need to take you to the doctor tomorrow.” “It’s nice to have young people in the house, isn’t it?” “As a matter of fact, it is. But I’m worried about you. Tomorrow I’m driving you to The Falls.” “I don’t have any pain. I just don’t have any energy.” “We’ll see how you feel tomorrow.” “I think it’s my attitude.” Arnie studied him without commenting. Emmett said, “Some mornings I wake up and wonder what the point of getting out of bed is. I …” He couldn’t continue. “You’ve had temporary setbacks before. You always come out of it.” “I feel so damn unmotivated lately. What’s the point of doing anything? I can’t keep any thoughts in my head. I pick up a book and can’t remember what I read a few minutes before.” “Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning.” Poor Arnie, Emmett thought. He knew what a burden he was becoming, and he didn’t like it at all. If he didn’t improve, he’d be better off in a nursing home than here, someplace prepared to care for those waiting to die. Arnie already had done much to make his final days, weeks and months far more pleasant and productive than he had anticipated when the doctor had given him the news. Emmett didn’t know if he was experiencing a temporary setback or whether this was the 36

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beginning of the end. He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to sleep, to shut off his mind. Maybe Arnie was right and he’d feel better in the morning. Or maybe not. iii In the kitchen, Shandy said, “He looked really sick.” “It’s certainly not the flu,” said Josie. She refilled her glass with red wine but Shandy declined. “What do you think is wrong with him?” Josie had an idea but kept it to herself. Neither woman was socially connected enough to be tuned-in to the Hamartin rumor mill, which had buzzed about Emmett’s condition for weeks. No one spoke about Emmett through dinner, but his brief appearance had changed the atmosphere of the evening considerably, as if everyone was aware of a great illness at the top of the stairs that demanded respect and quiet mourning. Arnie had even turned off the tape of The Seven Deadly Sins. The earlier laughter and lively conversation gave way to hushed small talk, and when dinner was over Arnie wouldn’t let Josie do the dishes, so she said goodnight, reminding her former art teacher that she was a morning person who was up at the crack of dawn to paint. Back in the kitchen after seeing Josie off, Shandy said, “I’ll dry if you wash.” “Deal,” said Arnie. They worked silently for a while. Then Arnie said, “I think I need to tell you about Emmett.” Shandy felt her body becoming tense. “He has cancer. It’s in the pancreas and spreading, inoperable, incurable, the worst kind. He was given only a few months to live. When I found out about it, I convinced him to move in with me. Not that I’m running a hospice or anything, but it just seemed wrong for him to be living alone. And I was getting tired of being in this big house all by myself, especially 37

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after I retired. Anyway, to make a long story short, it worked out incredibly well. He seemed to get a second wind, and you’d never know he had cancer at all except for occasional lapses into pain. He’s already lasted much longer than the doctors expected. But today there’s been a definite turn for the worse. So I’m a little apprehensive. You saw how he looked tonight. What did you think?” “He looked really sick,” Shandy said softly. “Yes, he did.” They let the thought sink in. Arnie said, “It’s only fair that you know what you’re getting into. I hope it doesn’t change your mind about staying.” In fact, Shandy was uncomfortable being so close to someone this sick. But she quickly said, “No, I’m really grateful for this.” “Good. Maybe your young energy will do him some good.” “I hope so.”

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CHAPTER THREE In the days ahead, Emmett and Shandy would disagree on how their affair began. Emmett thought it happened this way: Around three in the morning he woke up to pee. The bathroom was at the end of the hallway, past Arnie’s bedroom. Arnie always kept his bedroom door open, and his snoring was loud and vigorous as Emmett passed by on his way to the toilet. Emmett didn’t notice that Shandy’s door was cracked open until he returned. He stood at her open doorway and peeked inside. Moonlight spilled into the room, and from it he could see that the boxes were stacked in a corner, unpacked. Then he saw her naked body on the bed, luminous, almost ghostly, in the pale light. She was stretched out on her back, her hands resting on her belly above the dark shadow of her pubic hair. A single long braid was wrapped around her head like a coiled snake. Emmett stepped into the room. One step, two, a third – and he stopped. His eyes never left her body. She had the most erotic breasts he had ever seen, small with protruding nipples in the shape of a half-sphere as large as a golf ball. Arnie was the painter, not he, but he thought if he had the talent to paint, this moment was something he would want to capture forever because there was something magical, almost otherworldly, about her young nakedness under the illumination of moonlight, something both sexual and innocent, desirous and distant, immediate and eternal. He felt a stirring in his loins that he had not felt in months. Later Emmett would insist that he turned to leave. Shandy would insist that he moved closer into the room, so that he was standing right next to her bed. At any rate, both would agree that she spoke first. “Are you all right?” Emmett jumped, not expecting her to be awake. 39

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She sat up and grabbed a sheet to hide her breasts. She didn’t hide the rest of her body, and in the moonlight her lithe figure reminded him of a ballerina in some exotic pose. “Are you okay?” Shandy asked again. “I’m sorry,” said Emmett. Why didn’t she cover up her pubic hair? It was as if she considered her breasts, not her genitals, her “private parts.” “Can’t you sleep?” Shandy asked. “I went to the bathroom.” “I can’t sleep.” “Arnie’s snoring?” “I can’t turn off my mind.” Emmett knew the feeling. His interior dialogues could act like rude neighbors, keeping him awake for hours. He said, “I was thinking of getting a glass of milk.” “Maybe I’ll have a glass of wine.” For a moment he thought she was going to slide off the bed and walk downstairs nude. But she added, “I’ll find my robe.” “I’ll meet you downstairs.” Shandy entered the kitchen in a short terrycloth bathrobe that barely fell below her crotch. Emmett had set up two places at the coffee bar, a quart of milk at his place, what was left of a half-gallon of red wine at hers, wine glasses at each. “Thank you,” she said, slipping onto the stool as Emmett poured her wine. She smiled but Emmett saw something troubling in her eyes, a deep sadness. He had the feeling she wanted to tell him something that was hard for her to say. He raised his glass of milk and said, “Cheers.” “Cheers.” Their wine glasses touched, making a ringing sound. Again she looked at him sadly. “Is something the matter?” he asked. She looked away, then back again. 40

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Shandy said, “I’m nervous. I’ve never been in this situation before.” “What situation is that?” “You know, how you’re dying of cancer and all. It’s so sad.” Emmett let out a deep breath. “I see. Arnie told you. Well, I don’t think I’m going to keel over tonight, if that’s any relief.” He rapidly finished his milk and stood up. “I wish he hadn’t told you,” he said. Emmett went upstairs and back to bed. Shandy wanted to call him back and apologize. He had enough problems without her making him feel worse. She gulped her wine and headed for the stairs. A moment later Shandy stood in the doorway. Emmett sat up in bed. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said. “It’s alright. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” “You have every right to be angry with me. I feel so awkward. I want to help but I don’t know what to do.” “The only thing to do is to live life one day at a time. It’s a cliché but it’s true.” Shandy stayed in the doorway. Emmett waited for her to say more and when she didn’t, he said, “I’m going back to sleep now.” “I can give you a sedative,” Shandy said. She took a quick breath, surprised at her own audacity. “What do you mean?” She stepped into the room. His room, without the benefit of moonlight, was darker and he could barely make her out. “I can make you feel better,” she said. He didn’t understand what she was getting at until he felt her hands on his stomach. She grasped the elastic waistline of his pajamas. “What are you doing?” 41

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“Just relax. Close your eyes.” Emmett started to say something but stopped. He took a deep breath. He felt her tugging at his pajama bottoms. “Lift up your butt,” she said. He breathed deeply again and did what she said. He closed his eyes. He gasped when he felt her hand on his penis. Then she put him in her mouth, and his pleasure was so intense that he moaned. His penis was twitching with such a rush of desire that he thought he might explode, which in fact he did before he was fully erect, coming with such surprising force that Shandy let out a little cry. She kept him in her mouth for a moment, then released him, kissed his penis, and pulled his pajama bottoms back up. “Goodnight,” she said, and quickly she was gone. Emmett breathed heavily in bed, staring through the darkness for some light by which to understand what had just happened. Later he would say this moment defined the beginning of their affair but Shandy, it turned out, had a very different version of their history.

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CHAPTER FOUR i As far as Shandy was concerned, the sexual moment with Emmett had been spontaneous, a favor granted to a dying old man. She had not gone upstairs with seduction in mind and was as surprised as Emmett by her bold behavior. He’d looked so lonely and fragile on the bed, and she remembered how much he’d been interested in her in school, the only teacher who’d ever told her she was bright enough to get a scholarship to college, and in the doorway she’d felt such a rush of desire to please him that everything else seemed to follow naturally. Still, there was no special meaning attached to it. By morning Shandy gave the incident no thought at all. She stayed in bed until ten, then spent an hour fussing around in her new room, trying to turn it into the right arrangement of art studio and sleeping quarters. She would work near the window, where there was southern exposure and light. An idea for a new Artoon had been bouncing around in her thoughts for several days now. It was time to start sketching it out and see if the idea would blossom. She unbraided her hair and brushed it out. She showered, washed her hair, dried it and brushed it again, then braided it into her signature single pigtail, which fell down her back to her waist. She put on her favorite outfit, faded jeans and a Tshirt over the usual padded bra and was ready to make her appearance. No one was downstairs, so Shandy went outside. She was no stranger to the Woodworth farmhouse. Like all children in Hamartin, she had grown up believing it was haunted. One reason to believe this was that the house was hidden by trees when you passed by on the road, as if terrible secrets were lurking inside. Another was that a strange man, who happened to be the high school art teacher, lived all alone in a two-story house large enough for a family. If you had the angle to see the 43

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house proper, or had the audacity to get close enough, you immediately noticed its odd appearance, unlike any other house in the valley, with a severely pitched roof with two front-facing gables that looked like huge eyes when the afternoon sun caught the windows right. The trees that hid the front of the house from the road were two large maples that had been planted so closely together that now their branches twisted and turned around one another like the limbs of writhing victims. There was more. Along the eastern side of the house was the strangest sight of all, a stand of Weeping Sequoias, the only local examples of the species, which Arnie’s eccentric greatgrandfather had planted. The green tall trees, their curving trunks rising like deformed Greek columns, their branches drooping listlessly, looked like the very image of surrender. Yes, there was every reason for a child to believe the Woodworth house was haunted, and every reason to accept a dare to creep up on it to see for oneself. Shandy later visited the farmhouse in high school when Arnie hosted art class barbecues, and there was no suggestion of depravity anywhere. In fact, she found the house’s eccentricities in design and decoration as charming as her art teacher. Where some folks criticized Arnie for being different, Shandy looked up to him for being an individual. He had been her favorite teacher. Shandy found Arnie in the barn, tossing hay with a pitchfork. The barn, in the shape of an octagon, had a steeply pitched roof with two large openings in front, one for the door and one for the hayloft. Although he was wearing coveralls and work boots, something about Arnie’s movements made him look more like an actor than a farmer. “Well, aren’t you up early,” he said. “I’ve been up for a couple hours,” Shandy said defensively. “I’m just kidding you. I’m not your mother.” 44

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“What are you doing?” “When I was a kid, they were called chores. You want to take a ride later?” Shandy wasn’t often asked to go riding. “I’d love to. Have you had breakfast? I could make scrambled eggs.” “Breakfast was hours ago, dear. It’s almost lunch time.” Arnie tossed aside the pitchfork and joined her in the barn’s broad doorway. “Have you seen Emmett this morning?” he asked. “No.” “I hope he’s feeling better.” Shandy suppressed a smile. She’d made him feel fine last night. “Did you help yourself to coffee?” Arnie asked. “No.” “I always make a big pot in the morning. Emmett usually prefers tea. Either way, you have to fend for yourself around here, Shandy. Don’t expect anyone to wait on you.” “Okay.” “I want to show you something.” They walked out in front of the barn and toward a barbed wire fence that defined the property line. Arnie stopped before reaching it. “I’m building a gazebo right here,” he said. “Fantastic!” “Well, I’m not building it myself. I have a guy coming over to give me an estimate. In fact, I’d expected him by now. I’d better give him a call.” From above and behind them, Emmett called, “Showing her the gazebo?” Shandy looked up and found him looking down at them from his bedroom window.

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ii Had it been a dream? Emmett awoke with more desire to rise and step into the day than he had felt in a very long time, even though only yesterday he barely could drag himself out of bed. Clearly Shandy was the engine that drove his revival. She’d made love to him in a way that had seemed both forbidden and natural. But she’d left before he could make sense of her affection, before he could embrace her, thank her, make love to her in return. Now he wanted to do all of these things. He got up, shaved, showered and dressed. He found himself selecting fresh clothes from the closet, a pair of denim slacks, a Hawaiian shirt because the bright colors fit his mood. He took down a summer straw hat from the closet shelf and set it on the dresser, a reminder to look sharp if he decided to go into town later. He hadn’t been to town in almost a month. It would be good for him to get out of the house. Maybe Shandy would let him buy her afternoon pie at Mom’s Café. He glanced at the photograph of his wife on the bedside table next to the clock. A knot tightened in his stomach. They had married in 1930, when he was a young sailor just beginning his first career, and they’d gone through the Great Depression and the Great War together, sometimes separated for many months at a time, but in all the years of their long marriage, in all their many separations, he had never been intimate with another woman who wasn’t a prostitute and unless he was overseas and drunk. He went to the window and threw open the curtains. The day streamed in like a gift. It already was warm, promising an afternoon temperature over ninety, his kind of day. The older Emmett got, the more he liked hot weather. Below he saw Shandy and Arnie, standing in the area where Arnie talked of building a gazebo. Arnie had his own design in mind, with the floor shaped like an octagon to match the barn. 46

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Emmett opened the window, leaned out and called to them, “Showing her the gazebo?” Arnie called back, “Are you ready for lunch?” “I’m starving!” iii Emmett was setting the dining room table by the time Arnie and Shandy came in. Usually he and Arnie took their lunch at the coffee bar. Seeing the Hawaiian shirt, Arnie broke into a grin. “Are we going to the islands?” he teased. “You never cease to amaze me. It’s nice to see you wearing something besides pajamas.” “I feel really good this morning,” said Emmett. He looked at Shandy, offering a slight smile before she diverted her eyes. “I thought we could have leftover spaghetti sandwiches.” “You ever have a spaghetti sandwich?” Arnie asked Shandy. “I love them.” Arnie said, “You two sit and I’ll assemble.” He went into the adjacent kitchen to prepare lunch. Emmett pulled out a chair for Shandy. She sat down, and he moved around the table to sit across from her. Shandy felt awkward. She was glad he was feeling better, and that she was responsible for it, but she didn’t want him to make a big deal about what had happened last night. She certainly didn’t want Arnie to know about it. “It’s a beautiful day,” Emmett said. He leaned over the table and whispered, “Mum’s the word.” He grinned at her. She looked away. Emmett leaned back in his chair. “So what do you have planned for the day?” he asked. “I’m going horseback riding with Arnie.”

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Emmett glanced toward the kitchen, where Arnie was busy, ignoring them. Why hadn’t she asked him to go horseback riding? Emmett stood up and said, “I’m getting a glass of milk. Care for anything?” “No thank you.” This quickly, Emmett no longer felt like charging into the day at full speed. He recognized that he was jealous, even as he realized how foolish it was for him to feel this way. He had no claims on this girl, who was young enough to be his granddaughter. As Emmett poured himself a glass of milk, Arnie said, “You really do amaze me. Just when I think you’re going down for the count, you rise up like the Sphinx and get a second or third wind or whatever it is, probably a tenth wind by now. I’m really glad you’re feeling better.” Emmett didn’t reply, not even to correct Arnie that he’d meant rise up like the Phoenix. Arnie and Shandy monopolized conversation through lunch, talking about artists and other art matters that Emmett knew nothing about. The more they talked, the more it seemed to him that Arnie was the one Shandy was interested in. Maybe she had done what she’d done as an act of pity. It depressed him to think about it. He volunteered to do the dishes so they could go off on their horseback ride. As all of them were clearing the table, the doorbell rang. Arnie went to the door. In the kitchen, Emmett stared at Shandy and waited for her to return his gaze. When she did, he said quickly, “I don’t need your pity.” “What?” “You heard me. Last night was beautiful. But I don’t need, I don’t want, your damn pity.”

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Shandy didn’t know what to say. An uncomfortable silence was interrupted by Arnie’s return to the kitchen. “The contractor’s here,” he said. “I’m going to need some time to discuss the gazebo with him. Emmett, would you mind going riding with Shandy?” Emmett didn’t know what to say. Shandy asked, “Would you?” “I don’t ride very well,” Emmett admitted. “Neither do I.” Arnie said, “Which means I don’t want you riding out of sight of the house.” “We’ll be careful,” said Shandy. She looked at Emmett and smiled. She didn’t want him to be mad at her, even if she deserved it. Yes, she had pitied him. But she’d only wanted to make him feel better. “We’ll be careful,” Emmett repeated. iv Shandy didn’t realize that the contractor was Bill Richardson, one of her regulars at Tony’s Truck Haven, until they were leading the saddled horses out of the barn. Bill was standing with Arnie some thirty or forty yards away, deep in conversation. He was wearing his usual jeans and white T-shirt, a pack of cigarettes rolled up in one arm as if he thought he was James Dean. Both muscular forearms were covered with tattoos. You couldn’t miss him. Emmett was surprised at how naturally Shandy swung herself up onto the saddle, turning the horse like an expert and heading off around the barn. He awkwardly mounted and yanked at the reins to get his horse to follow her. Bill’s appearance changed Shandy’s mood. She didn’t want to return to the farmhouse until she was sure he was gone. Her work in the parking lot at Tony’s was a secret she wanted to keep to herself. Arnie and Emmett wouldn’t approve, she was sure, and she didn’t want to have to defend herself. 49

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Emmett got more comfortable on his horse and caught up with Shandy. They continued away from the farmhouse, their horses loping side by side along a worn trail at the edge of a pasture. Emmett wanted to talk to her about last night but didn’t know how to begin. He felt ridiculously awkward, like a teenager on a first date. He knew it was stupid to feel like this. He was sixty-six years old, and a young woman almost half-acentury his junior had him tongue-tied. Shandy looked back toward the farmhouse. Arnie and Bill were still visible. Emmett took a deep breath and said, “I was sorry you left so quickly last night.” Shandy looked at him. His eyes were so much younger than everything else in his appearance: the thinning gray hair, the yellowing teeth, the slight paunch, the wrinkled and loosely hanging skin. The ridiculous Hawaiian shirt. His eyes belonged to a frightened boy. “I meant it as a sedative,” she said. “I wanted to help you get to sleep.” “A sedative it was. I wanted to give you one in return.” Shandy kicked the horse into a trot before Emmett could say more. When she galloped away, Emmett let her go without urging his horse to follow. He pulled the reins and the horse stopped. He took a deep breath again. Galloping was scarier than Shandy remembered, and she yanked on the reins. Her horse settled into a walk. She turned to see where Emmett was. Emmett had jerked his horse around to head back. “Wait a minute!” Shandy called. Emmett heard her and stopped. She was returning, and he waited for her. “I want last night to be remembered as a good thing,” she said. “I meant it as a good thing.” 50

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“It was beautiful. I just wanted to make you feel as good as you made me feel.” He couldn’t read her expression. Was she thinking, Fat chance? She probably had a boyfriend. He shouldn’t trap himself into the egotistical assumption that he was special to her in any way. He may be thinking like a young man in pursuit of her, but his body was old, diseased, and dying. What could she possibly see in him? “I don’t want pity,” he said. “I just wanted to make you feel good.” He accepted her sincerity with a nod. After a silence, he asked, “Should we head back?” “I don’t want to go back yet.” She turned her mount around and headed out again, and this time Emmett followed her. v “Bill Richardson says hello,” Arnie told Shandy after the pair had returned from their ride. Both had come into the kitchen for something cold to drink, and Arnie had poured three glasses of iced tea. He had changed out of work clothes into green shorts, a short-sleeved yellow shirt, and sandals. “Bill Richardson,” said Shandy, as if she were trying to place the name. “I hired him to build the gazebo.” “Dark hair?” “And lots of tattoos.” “I think he’s one of my mother’s old boyfriends,” she lied. “He knows you, at any rate.” “She’s had so many, it’s hard to keep track. Thanks for the ride, Emmett.” Shandy promptly left the kitchen to go to her room, taking the iced tea with her. “Good ride?” Arnie asked. “It was okay. You know me and horses.” 51

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“They’re going to start on the gazebo Monday.” “Great.” Outside a car door slammed. Arnie went to the window. “Your better half is here,” he told Emmett. Helen. The last person in the world Emmett felt like seeing right now.

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CHAPTER FIVE i A retired teacher who ran the local library, Helen Madison was town mayor and chairperson of the Hamartin Bicentennial Committee, which also included the rest of the town council: Mac Hudd, the only County Sheriff Deputy to reside full-time in town, and Ned Trafford, the largest property holder in the area, whose holdings included a wheat farm, a cattle ranch, several businesses on Main Street, and several rental houses, properties to which barroom gossipers sometimes added Emily, his younger, pretty wife. Helen had not expected the Bicentennial Committee to meet as often as they had been for the past month, which was weekly. Two unresolved issues had divided their expected unanimity and kept bringing them back to the table. The first was whether or not the city should honor Emmett Hale on the Fourth of July as one of its cherished citizens; the second was whether the city should cancel its traditional holiday fireworks display at Vista Park in order to give the full spotlight to a competing celebration at The Falls, the Cascadia County seat, where fireworks would be set off from a barge in the Columbia River. The award to Emmett was Helen's idea, and she was the only one who still supported it. Helen's initial argument was that Emmett was one of Hamartin's cherished veterans, a man who had risen through the Navy ranks to retire as an officer. Moreover, he had started a second career as a teacher, which he had ended right here at Hamartin High School, from which he himself had graduated half-a-century earlier. Surely here was one of the city's success stories. Ned pointed out that while all of this was true, none of it had to do with good citizenship. In fact, Emmett had joined the Navy right after high school and was scarcely seen for over twenty years after that. Even when his parents were still alive, his visits home had been rare. He'd only come back because his 53

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wife had cancer and had wanted to come home, and he had taught at the high school only for a few years before retiring again. Besides, Emmett may well be a homosexual, or why else would he move in with Arnie Woodworth, a man who flaunted his perverse lifestyle and was a local disgrace. Arnie doesn’t flaunt a thing, Helen countered, and is hardly ever seen in town, which is quite the opposite from making a spectacle of himself. And there was another reason that Emmett moved into the farmhouse. Helen then dealt her trump card. She had learned of Emmett’s cancer from a nurse who worked at the hospital in The Falls, who had sworn her to secrecy. Sharing this now was a breach of confidence, but she had no more tools of persuasion. Emmett has terminal cancer, she told them. If we don't give the award to him this year, it will be too late. Mac seemed on the verge of swaying to Helen's side when Ned repeated that, as terrible as this news was, and as successful as Emmett had been in the Navy and as a teacher, none of this really had a thing to do with local citizenship, which is what the award was supposed to honor. Since returning to Hamartin, Emmett never attended civic functions and, as far as he knew, didn't even belong to a church. Even before his cancer, he was practically a hermit. But he was a teacher, Helen pointed out, influencing every student in his class. Ned countered that Emmett had never chaperoned a high school dance or performed in the faculty talent show or even attended a high school football or basketball game that Ned knew of. He was no better citizen at the high school than he had been in town. Mac decided not to switch his allegiance after all. When they voted again, Helen did the switching in order to make the vote unanimous so they could move on with the meeting. Next on the agenda was the fireworks display. Mac interrupted Helen with a motion to delay discussion until next week when Chief Deputy Paul Garner wanted to meet with 54

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them. Garner, who was Mac's direct boss, kept an apartment in The Falls for convenience and usually spent only weekends in Hamartin with his wife and kids. Garner had announced his candidacy for County Sheriff the week after Sheriff Mallory announced his retirement, the first of four candidates, and the Chief Deputy liked to have his fingers in as many political pies as possible for the publicity. Mac said that the County, through Garner, had a compromise to offer that should settle the matter to the satisfaction of all. The motion to delay was unanimous, which ended the meeting. Mac went back to work, Ned rushed to a late lunch with his banker, and Helen decided to drive out to see how Emmett was doing. ii Emmett went outside and waited for Helen on the porch. She was a big woman, and the simple act of getting out of her car was always a struggle. Emmett looked away as soon as he caught himself staring, and when he looked back Helen was waddling toward the porch. Her gray hair was short and curled, and a blue smock draped over her full-bosomed form, adding the impression of inches to her already ample waistline. Seeing the Hawaiian shirt, Helen laughed and said, “Well, you must be feeling better. You’re wearing nutty shirts again.” “What’s up?” “I just came by to see how you’re feeling. Much better, I take it.” “Yep.” Helen stared at the porch swing as if conjuring up an invitation to sit in it. When none came, she asked, “Aren’t you going to invite me in for coffee?” “Why not?” Emmett led her into the kitchen where Arnie was a step ahead of them, already pouring coffee from the big “party” pot he habitually made in the morning. Arnie liked to drink coffee 55

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off and on all through the day, and the longer it sat, the better. Emmett said he’d have coffee, not tea, as well. “I see the patient is feeling better,” Helen said to Arnie. “He’s never down for long.” Emmett glanced away, looking toward the stairway as if longing to join Shandy upstairs. Helen said, “I know he’s feeling better when he puts on a nutty shirt and starts acting like can’t be bothered with a nursemaid. That’s how he thinks of me now. Isn’t that right?” Emmett noticed that Helen was staring at him. “What?” “I’m only appreciated when he’s feeling bad,” Helen told Arnie. “That’s not true,” Arnie said. “Is it?” Emmett felt like he was being interrogated. “What?” he asked again. “Where are you?” Arnie asked. To Helen, he added, “Maybe he’s playing hard to get.” “Go to hell,” Emmett snapped. “Jesus Christ,” said Arnie. “Where did that come from?” Emmett started to reply, but stopped. He headed for the stairway. Arnie said, “Emmett, come on. I didn’t mean to insult you or whatever the hell you think I did.” Emmett silently climbed the stairs. Arnie shrugged. “He wouldn’t even have invited me in if I hadn’t asked,” said Helen. “Last week when I brought him a piece of carrot cake from Mom’s Café, he begged me not to leave him. Sometimes I feel used.” “It’s hard to say how cancer affects the mind,” Arnie said. He didn’t understand how Emmett thought about Helen any more. He’d heard the rumor that they’d been lovers, getting together shortly after Emmett had retired from the high school. At the same time, apparently their sexual relationship 56

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had ended some time ago. At least Helen never spent the night at the farmhouse, or Emmett at her house, since he’d moved in. They didn’t spend all that much time together, as far as Arnie could tell, and most of that was Helen’s doing, coming over to bring the patient dessert or other surprises. Yes, she did act like a nursemaid most of the time, and Arnie supposed that eventually she’d get on his own nerves, so perhaps she was getting to Emmett as well. Helen said, “Cancer is no excuse for being rude.” Arnie didn’t want to argue. “I don’t know if he’s coming back down,” he said. “I can’t entertain you, Helen, I have chores to do.” “I can take a hint.” She set down her coffee cup. “You can make yourself at home and see if his mood changes.” “No, I have things to do in town. I just came out of my way to cheer him up. I seem to have accomplished the opposite.” Arnie walked the martyr to the door. “I’m sure he’ll be more hospitable tomorrow,” he said, trying to make her feel better. “I won’t be coming over tomorrow.” From the porch Arnie watched Helen maneuver herself into the car. The poor woman seemed larger every time she stopped by. As Helen turned the station wagon around to drive out the long driveway, he came down the steps and headed around the house for the barn to make sure the horses were okay after their morning exercise. iii Emmett stood in the hallway, facing Shandy’s closed door. He stood there for several minutes before he knocked. The door swung open and Shandy said, “Hi.” “Hi.” 57

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“I was wondering if you wanted to go to town.” “I have to pick up my car later.” “Then I could give you a ride.” “That’d be great.” “We could go early and maybe grab a bite to eat.” “We already had lunch.” “We didn’t have dessert. Mom’s sells pie at half-price after two.” Shandy seemed to be thinking about it. She asked, “What time did you want to go?” “Whatever’s convenient for you.” “Maybe in an hour?” “Perfect.” “I’ll meet you downstairs.” “Excellent.” Emmett didn’t turn to leave, and Shandy didn’t close the door. “Was there something else?” she asked. “I really enjoyed the ride.” “Me, too.” “You’re an excellent rider.” “Not really.” “I used to be afraid of horses. Arnie had to drag me onto a horse.” “You did okay.” “Well, I’m much better than I used to be.” “I’ll meet you downstairs in an hour,” said Shandy. When she closed the door, he stared at it as if trying to will it back open again. He walked down the hallway to the bathroom. Apparently Shandy had used it last because the toilet seat was down. He lifted it, unzipped and took a pee. When he was finished, he closed his eyes and began to stroke his penis. He came in no time at all, once again before he was fully erect. After cleaning himself off with a piece of toilet paper and flushing the toilet, he stared at himself in the mirror. He had 58

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kept his weight around 150 for most of his life but now he looked wan and sickly. How could anyone, let alone a pretty young woman like Shandy, find him attractive? Why had she seduced him? He couldn’t remember the last time he had masturbated into the toilet like that. What was this girl doing to him? iv There were three popular meeting places on Main Street: the Hamartin Tavern for those who wanted a beer; Mom’s Café for those who wanted a meal or perhaps coffee and conversation, with or without dessert; and at the edge of town, The Lamplighter Restaurant and Lounge for those who wanted a drink stiffer than beer or wine. If you wanted more excitement than this, you had to drive to Tony’s Truck Haven. Shandy was late coming downstairs, and for a moment Emmett panicked that she had changed her mind. Arnie wasn’t around, which saved Emmett the awkward task of explaining to him why he looked like a teenager being stood up for the prom. After the teasing comments about his Hawaiian shirt, Emmett had exchanged it for a dark blue sports shirt. He also put on the straw hat. At last Shandy appeared, looking sexy in tight jeans and a loose fitting T-shirt. Emmett tried to make out her large nipples pressing against the cloth and was surprised to find no evidence of them. Emmett opened the front door for her, and outside he opened the passenger door of his Chevy for her. His heart was racing, which he regarded with as much self-mockery as he could muster. He knew that in her presence he had the potential to make a total fool of himself. Nothing in his experience prepared him for the giddy drunkenness he felt whenever she was around. If he’d felt like this as a young man, and he must have, he couldn’t remember it. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last book he read. 59

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On the drive to town, Shandy talked on and on about how excited she was to have her own car. It was her first car. She couldn’t believe Craig had given it to her. He was such a sweetheart, she hoped her mother didn’t blow the relationship with him, though she probably would because she expected too much in a man, and her boyfriends always were disappointing her, so she always was starting over again. Her mother never learned that you can’t change a man, you have to accept him the way he is. A man is a very simple animal but also a very stubborn one. The worst thing you can do is to try and change him. Emmett marveled at how strong her opinions about men were, especially considering how young she was. When they were seated in Mom’s Cafe over plates of blueberry pie and ice cream, he said, “You have very strong opinions about men.” Shandy looked up without speaking. He thought he saw a sparkle in her eye. “A simple but stubborn animal,” said Emmett. “Do you think I’m like that?” “We’re all animals,” Shandy said. “That’s partly true. But there’s much more to say about our species than that, don’t you think?” Shandy didn’t reply. Emmett was about to say more when he saw Marg, the “Mom” in Mom’s Café, approaching. He waited for her arrival. “How is everything?” Marg asked. “Delicious,” said Emmett. “Honey?” Shandy said, “It’s great.” “I hear they’re putting you up at the farmhouse.” Before Shandy could respond, Emmett said, “I think we’re ready for our check.” They weren’t finished but it was the first thing that occurred to him to get rid of her. Marg had just demonstrated

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Hamartin’s small-town mentality at its worst. She had to know what everybody else was up to. Marg went to the counter and totaled their ticket, then returned and dropped it on the Formica table without a word and plodded back to the counter. “Oh shit,” Shandy said under her breath. Emmett looked up and saw her eyes dart to the window, then back. She looked upset, almost frightened. Emmett turned his head and there, on the other side of the plate glass window, was Bill Richardson, staring at Shandy with a wide grin. Emmett recognized him as the contractor Arnie had hired, whom he had seen around town but had never met. “Does he want something?” Emmett asked. “Excuse me a minute,” said Shandy. She got up and almost ran to the door. She hurried outside and pulled Bill away from the window. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Shandy wanted to know. Bill put up his hands in mock surrender. “Calm down, girl.” “What do you want?” “Is that any way to treat a regular customer?” “Why were you staring at me?” “You weren’t at Tony’s last night.” “So?” “So maybe I miss you.” Shandy caught her breath. Emmett was watching them. “Look, I can’t talk now,” she said. “You gonna be there tonight?” “Does a bear shit in the woods?” “Okay, I’ll be there around eleven.” As Shandy hurried back into the café, Bill called, “I’m looking forward to it!” Suddenly self-conscious, he glanced around and was relieved to see that no one had heard him.

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“That looked serious,” Emmett said as Shandy settled back into her chair. Shandy ignored him. “I guess it’s none of my business,” Emmett said. “No, it’s fine. He was just over at the Texaco station and my car is ready.” “Then let’s pick it up.” “I can walk over from here.” “I don’t mind—“ “I’ll walk.” She stood up. “Thanks for the pie.” No sooner was Shandy gone than Marg was back. “Don’t you get smitten over someone young enough to be your granddaughter,” she said, picking up the empty plates. “I’m not smitten,” said Emmett. “Looked like it to me.” “You’re mistaking smitten for something else.” “And what might that be?” “Dying,” said Emmett. Marg’s mouth dropped open, and he got the hell out of there before she had a chance to say something else.

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CHAPTER SIX i “Did she say she was coming home for dinner?” Arnie asked. Emmett didn’t know. He’d watched Shandy walk off to pick up her car at the Texaco station and hadn’t seen her since. No doubt she was cruising around the countryside, enjoying the pleasure of having her own wheels. It’s what he would’ve done at her age. “Well,” said Arnie, “I say we eat without her. She’s a big girl, she can help herself to leftovers.” Arnie had made a tuna casserole, and they routinely took their plates to the coffee bar rather than into the dining room. Often they shared dinner without talking. One might read the paper, or watch the news on the portable television. More often each would stay in the shelter of his own thoughts. But tonight Arnie had something to say. “I’m going to Portland next weekend. You’re welcome to come along if you feel up to it.” Emmett said, “What’s in Portland?” “Everything that’s not here,” Arnie laughed. “It’s time to catch up on the galleries. Maybe see a movie or two. My friend Henry would put us up.” Emmett tilted his head one way, then the other. “You have time to think about it,” said Arnie. But Emmett already was thinking of something else: of being alone in the house with Shandy, with Arnie out of town. He wondered if she would welcome being alone in the house as much as he would. Emmett couldn’t understand where she was coming from. What was her relationship to Bill the contractor? Outside in front of the café, Shandy had looked as ferocious as an angry wife. What puzzled Emmett most was that her sexual aggression appeared to have no consequences in her behavior or regard for him. If he didn’t know better, he’d 63

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think he had conjured up the whole thing, some delusion of ecstasy before death. After dinner he took a Dr. Pepper to the front porch, sitting in the swing and trying to hide from himself the fact that he was waiting for her to return. He felt like her father. He supposed this was better than feeling like her grandfather. He got tired of himself after half-an-hour and went back inside. Arnie already had gone downstairs to his basement studio to work. Emmett never knew what he was working on and never asked, though periodically Arnie would bring something upstairs to show him. Arnie was what was called a “photo realist,” which (according to Arnie) some critics didn’t consider real art at all. Art or not, Arnie had earned a significant non-teaching income by painting portraits of bank presidents and company CEOs throughout the Northwest, working only from photographs of them. Arnie’s talent sometimes got him into trouble. Emmett had heard the story in the faculty lunchroom how, a decade ago, before Emmett was hired, Arnie had painted a series of nudes of young boys and exhibited several of them in the annual High School Art Show. The paintings were removed after one night, replaced by his paintings of local scenery, and another notch was added in the art teacher’s belt of notoriety. Emmett took the leather chair in the living room and tried to read the weekly paper from The Falls, which was filled with the small town news and gossip of the area. He found it hard to concentrate on news of bake sales and arrests for drunk driving. Where was Shandy? What was her relationship to the contractor? She wouldn’t have been as angry as she looked, nose-to-nose with him outside the café, unless they were more than casual acquaintances. Were they having a lovers’ spat? Emmett couldn’t dismiss the question from his mind. He didn’t like the idea of Shandy being involved with a character like Bill. Emmett knew almost nothing about him, except that he was some kind of jack-of-all-trades. He was covered with 64

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tattoos, which to Emmett suggested the character of a ruffian, probably a hard-drinking one at that. Not the sort he would want Shandy hanging out with. Now he was thinking like her father again. He was dozing with a book in his lap when she came in. He heard someone in the kitchen and opened his eyes. He sat up and stretched his arms over his head. Shandy was eating leftovers at the coffee bar when Emmett entered the kitchen. “Ruby is so great!” she said. Ruby? Had he missed something? “I’ll give you a ride in her tomorrow.” She named her car Ruby, Emmett thought. And offered him a ride! “I’d love a ride.” “I can’t believe I have wheels! As soon as I get some new work done, and save enough money, I’m moving to San Francisco.” Emmett didn’t like hearing this. He wondered again why this young girl had become so attractive to him. It wasn’t as if he’d never had a blowjob before, though in fact this had become an issue when he was dating Helen shortly after his retirement. Sexual frustration was, in retrospect, the main reason he had broken up with her, which is to say, stopped sleeping with her. Helen was old-fashioned, preferring him to mount her in the missionary position after foreplay of kissing and minor fondling. She didn’t like to receive oral sex, or to give it. Neither had Mary, for that matter. Now that he thought about it, all his previous blowjobs had been from prostitutes – which meant, he had not received one in many years. “How’s the painting coming?” he asked. “I don’t paint, I combine drawing and water colors. I call them Artoons.” Emmett wasn’t sure what she meant but didn’t want to show his ignorance. He watched her eat, feeling more awkward 65

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the longer he lingered in the kitchen. He said, “Well, it’s my bed time.” What is she thinking now? he wondered. She was a complete mystery to him. “Goodnight,” Shandy said. He had a sudden urge to kiss her. What would her reaction be? “Goodnight,” he said. He was in bed, staring at the dark ceiling, when he heard her come upstairs and go into her room. She closed the door. By the time she opened it again, Emmett was asleep and snoring.

ii At ten-thirty Shandy went downstairs and helped herself to some more leftovers. Then she drove Ruby south to the highway junction and pulled into the parking lot at Tony’s Truck Haven. She always parked in the same place, along the edge of the lot lined with thick shrubbery, parking the car parallel to the bushes. She was beyond the reach of the parking lot lights here, and by getting between the car and the shrubbery, she and her clients had some privacy. Their privacy was greatest when a customer chose to sit in the passenger seat, legs angled out the door, so Shandy could position herself between them on her knees, for which purpose she used an old pillow. She also turned out the car’s interior light. Some customers preferred to stand, but even though their heads towered over the roof of the Bug, in the dark shadows there was little danger of being conspicuous. Her routine was to park and wait, and this is what she did tonight. Within fifteen minutes a regular she knew only as Ed came out the back door of the bar, noticed her car, and ambled across the parking lot.

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“I missed you last night,” Ed said. He already had two bills in his hand, which he gave her. Shandy got out, and they walked around the car. She opened the passenger door, pulled the back of the seat forward, reached in and grabbed the pillow off the back seat. She moved aside so Ed could sit down, which he did after undoing his pants and letting them and the boxer shorts drop to his ankles. Shandy put the pillow on the asphalt and dropped to her knees. It was over in a couple minutes. He had come so strongly that she almost gagged but she recovered quickly and spit his come onto the ground by the front tire. On a busy night, there would be a tiny puddle there by the time she finished with her last customer. “Don’t stay away so long,” Ed said, pulling up his pants. He walked to his pickup truck, got in and drove away. Shandy thought she’d heard him whistling. Shandy didn’t recognize the next man who headed toward her. The closer he got, the less she was able to place him. He was a big man, over six-foot and heavy, probably 250 pounds or more. His arms were beefy and hairy, the hair on his head cut close in a crew cut. He swaggered when he walked, as if nothing had better get in his way. Shandy stood behind the car, waiting for him to arrive. She didn’t like strangers coming out alone. Usually a regular accompanied a new man, introducing him and vouching for him. “You must be the girl who sucks dick for a twenty,” the man said when he reached Ruby. “I don’t know you,” said Shandy. “I don’t know you either. So what? You suck cock or not?” Shandy considered her reply. She immediately didn’t like him, and she didn’t trust him either. He looked dangerous, but often the best course to take in such a situation was to suck him off as quickly as possible. 67

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“Who told you about me?” she asked. “Who the fuck doesn’t know about you?” he laughed. “You’re a fucking legend.” Shandy wondered if this was true. It was flattering, in a way, but it also threatened the security of her business. “It’s thirty dollars,” she said. “I was told twenty.” “Price went up this week. Used to be twenty-five.” “Fuck.” “In advance,” she said. He took out his wallet and pulled out a twenty and a ten. “Do you want to sit or stand?” Shandy asked. He wanted to stand, which was fine. What wasn’t fine was that he grabbed the back of her head with both hands, pulling her closer to him. She liked to be in control, and he wasn’t letting her be. The good news was that his dick was short, so there was no danger of gagging, but he also was taking too long to come. She reached up and caressed his balls, and this got him excited enough to make guttural sounds in his throat. Then he came, in a great sudden explosion of release that Shandy quickly spat onto the ground. “What the fuck you just do?” he snapped. “What?” He pulled on her long braid, hurting her. “Why the fuck you spit it out?” “You’re hurting me!” The blow came so quickly, so unexpectedly, that she had no chance to fend it off. He hit her on the left eye with his fist, an under-handed blow since Shandy was still on her knees, and she tumbled back onto the asphalt. Then he started kicking her in the ribs, swearing, and spit on her. Shandy was conscious, but barely. The eye was painful, and she could feel the pulse of her blood in it. But the eye wasn’t as bad as it would have been had he hit her with better leverage. 68

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Later she heard a voice above her. “What the hell happened to you?” Shandy was sitting on the asphalt, leaning against the wheel of the car. She squinted up and recognized Bill Richardson. Her vision was blurry, the tattoos on his arms all running together. He looked like a man with green skin. “Fucking asshole creamed me,” she said just above a whisper. “Who?” “I don’t know him. Some big guy with hairy arms.” “Let me help you up.” He wanted to take her to the hospital in The Falls, but she refused to go. Bill offered to buy her a drink, not here but somewhere down the highway, somewhere quiet, and she refused that, too. “You sure you can drive?” he asked. She was back behind the wheel. “I’ll be fine.” “You’re going to have one hell of a shiner.” This assessment proved to be wrong. By the time she was scrutinizing herself in the bathroom mirror at the farmhouse, her eye was swollen and red but she still could see out of it. It certainly could’ve been much worse, and she hurt more where she’d been kicked than where she’d been hit. Shandy couldn’t remember whether you were supposed to apply heat or cold to a swelling, so she made a facecloth of each and alternately applied them to her face. Emmett appeared in the mirror behind her. “My God,” he said. “What happened?” She wasn’t about to tell him the truth but didn’t know what else to say. She ran into a door? Right. “Let me do that,” Emmett said. He was so sweet. He took her arm and led her slowly to her room. He made her stretch out on the bed on her back. He went downstairs and quickly came back with ice cubes 69

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wrapped in a dishtowel, which he gently applied on her swollen eye. When she reached up to hold the towel, he didn’t withdraw his hand, and for a moment their hands touched and became cold together. “Anything else sore?” he asked. Her ribs, from where she’d been kicked, but Shandy chose not to tell him. “Isn’t this enough?” she tried to kid. “Yes, I think it is.” He withdrew his hand but remained sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down at her with an expression that made her feel cared for and protected. “I’m sorry to cause all this trouble,” she said. “It’s no trouble at all.” He sounded like he meant it. After a moment, Emmett said, “Are you tired?” “Yes.” “Here, let me hold it. You try and sleep.” She didn’t argue with him. Again, briefly, their cold hands touched as he took over holding the wrapped ice against her eye. His other hand gently brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. Shandy felt like a sick child being cared for by a loving father. She closed her eyes. Emmett held the ice until he heard the deep breathing that told him she was asleep. He withdrew the dishtowel and leaned forward, studying her face. He turned out the light and left the door open behind him. In the bathroom, he emptied the ice into the sink and tossed the dishtowel into the hamper. He left both their doors open so he might hear across the hall if she awoke and needed anything. It had felt good to help her, to care for her. Maybe this was what it felt like to have a daughter. Except for the lust part.

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iii Emmett awoke shortly before 6 a.m., needing to pee. On his way back he stopped in front of Shandy’s open door and glanced inside. In the gray light of pre-dawn, he could barely make her out across the room, and he stepped inside to check on her. She was in bed, the bed sheet at her navel, exposing her bare breasts. Her nipples looked like they were in a constant state of excitement, thrusting forward and hard. He moved closer to the bed. He could feel his pulse racing. God, she was beautiful, swollen eye and all. In the gray light, her slim nude figure reminded him of a painting he had seen once, he couldn’t remember where. He wanted to caress her breasts and kiss her nipples. He wanted to stretch out on the bed beside her. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a young woman nude, other than in photographs or paintings, and now he had seen Shandy nude on two occasions. He recalled the young prostitute who went by “the Princess” in Guam but his memory of her was abstract, the memory of a fact, not visceral, the memory of an experience. The time was long past when thoughts of the Princess could make his blood rush. Did Shandy sense his presence? She made a soft, throaty sound, and Emmett thought he saw a slight curl form on her lips, a sly smile. Her right arm moved, coming up from beside her body to move under the bed sheet. It took him a moment to realize that she was masturbating. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was in the middle of some erotic dream, perhaps, and now she was going to satisfy herself. Emmett felt his own desire stir, and it was all he could do not to fondle himself. He wanted to see what she was doing under the sheet. He bent forward slowly, reaching out and gently pulling the sheet down. Her hand was cupped over her pubic hair, one finger, the middle one, stroking gently up and down between the folds of her sex. 71

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Emmett stepped to the foot of the bed. He knelt on the floor and leaned forward onto the mattress, careful not to release his weight onto the bed too suddenly, not wanting to distract her, to interrupt her. He put his face just above her hand, so close he could have kissed her fingertips. He looked like a man in some foreign gesture of prayer. He kissed her hand, then the middle finger and around it, and began licking her vaginal lips, which were spread open like the wings of a moth. Shandy responded with a breathy moan, and in response he let his tongue move more aggressively, sliding down her finger to take its place, and she removed her hand and let him have her sex to himself, and his tongue worked up and down her vagina before finding and settling on the small round sphere of her clitoris, as swollen and taut as a bearing, which he massaged with his tongue and lips. At first Shandy thought this was all part of her dream. Then the sensation between her legs began to change, and she felt something distracting, something out of sync with her fantasy, and she slowly became aware of Emmett at the end of the bed, waking her, going down on her, ruining everything. More fully aware, she realized there was one way to get rid of him, and so she began to moan, then to raise her hips against the distracting pressure of his tongue, to cry out and thrust her legs over his head, then down forcefully against his back. She heard him groan, and then he stopped. It was over. Her fake orgasm had worked – as it always did. No one spoke for what seemed like an hour to Emmett. Perhaps two minutes passed. Emmett said, “Are you all right?” “God,” said Shandy. She made an audible sniff. “That was incredible.” “Do you need a handkerchief?” “I’m taking a shower,” she said. She rolled out of bed and disappeared down the hallway.

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Emmett marveled at how easily he had brought her to orgasm in the gray light of early morning. In the moment of her climax, his own pleasure had been as great as hers. Far from dying, he felt more alive than he had felt in years. In the shower, Shandy stood under a spray of hot water and wondered how long she should stay away to assure that Emmett would be gone when she returned to her bedroom. Taking her time, she soaped her body. In time, one hand slipped between her legs, and she closed her eyes. With less effort than she anticipated, she was able to slip back into the erotic rhythm that Emmett had so rudely interrupted, her middle finger directing the beat, and this time when she cried out it was the sincere response to deep, self-gratifying pleasure.

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CHAPTER SEVEN i After attending services at the Church of Our Crucified Lord, where several congregants had been so overwhelmed by the Spirit that they dropped to their knees and howled like dogs, Chief Deputy Paul Garner stared at himself in the bathroom mirror in his apartment in The Falls. He thrust back his head, gargled with the mouth wash he had been holding for as long as possible, until its tingling sensation had exploded into unbearable burning, and then he spat the blue liquid into the sink. He tried to imagine himself with a shaved head. His crew cut was so short it might make little difference, but there was a principle involved here, shaving his head would be the first step in creating a new image for his campaign for County Sheriff. He would become the Kojak of Cascadia County – except younger and as fit as a linebacker. The second step was to improve his skill at public speaking, especially under duress. To this end he had taken a correspondence course on the subject. One of the exercises had been to rehearse speeches in front of a mirror, which was aimed at building your self-confidence. Look strong and you will speak strongly. Something like that, he couldn’t remember the exact lesson. Garner said to the mirror, “And if a man lie with mankind, as with womankind, both of them have committed abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.” In the mirror, to himself he looked like a man reciting from memory, which was not the image he wanted to project, although this was exactly what he was doing. He wanted the words to flow more naturally, as if they were his own, not a Biblical passage, Leviticus 20:13. He wanted that information to come later as a surprise. He wanted to appear righteous and 74

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spontaneous, creating moral code on the spot. He wanted to look like Paul the apostle, not Paul the Chief Deputy. He tried several times more. He thought he was getting better. Practice makes perfect. The longer passage was more difficult because he hadn’t memorized it quite yet. He still stumbled in places. He gave it a try anyway, reciting to himself in the mirror. “They exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshiped and served created things rather than the Creator – who is forever praised. Amen. “Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural relations for unnatural ones. “In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed indecent acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their perversion. “Furthermore, since they did not think it worthwhile to retain the knowledge of God, he gave them over to a depraved mind, to do what ought not to be done.” Garner grinned at himself. He’d gotten through the entire passage – Romans 1:25-28, the words of the apostle Paul, after whom Garner had been named – without a hitch, although his voice had been hesitant, his conviction weak. But it was a start. He was about to try again when the phone rang. He walked into the living room and picked up the receiver. It was Mac. “I got a complaint to pick up the Anderson girl,” he said. “I can handle it but I wanted to alert you I was bringing her in.” “What’s the complaint?” “Guy says he paid her for a blowjob, and she practically bit his dick off. So he hit her. Then her pimp beat the shit out of him. He’s still in the hospital.” “The Anderson girl. I’m trying to place her.”

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“Shandy Anderson. Nineteen, twenty, skinny as a rail. Bright girl but different.” “Different how?” “Eccentric, I guess. Goes her own way. Not the cheerleader type, not the secretary type, not the raise-kids-andfamily type. Remember the Nude-In in Vista Park five or six years ago?” The Nude-In. Half-a-dozen high school students had skipped school to run around naked in the park. Garner had been one of the arresting deputies. He suspected there had been public fornication, but he couldn’t prove it. Nor could he get unmistakable evidence of drug use. The kids still deserved jail time but one of the girls was the daughter of Ned Trafford, the big shot farmer, who hired a fancy lawyer from Portland that got them all off with a warning. “I remember,” said Garner. “Shandy was one of them. Heather Trafford was the ringleader.” “Her old man got everybody off.” “Right. Anyway, that’s what I mean by Shandy being different. I heard she’s an artist now. Trying to be. To be honest, I can’t picture her turning tricks.” “Pick her up and bring her in. We’ll ask her.” After hanging up, Garner broke into another grin. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. He’d decided to base his campaign for sheriff on Traditional Moral Values. His strategy would be helped considerably if he focused on a particularly immoral element in the county, to which end he’d decided to focus on the lifestyle of Arnie Woodworth, who was the only openly queer man in the region. Woodworth had a short fuse, and Garner wanted to take advantage of it. He needed to find a way to lure Arnie into doing something stupid enough to get arrested. This is why he was rehearsing the Biblical passages against queers, to have them roll off his tongue like irrefutable moral dogma when the time was right. 76

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And now there was a prostitute in the county! He’d heard about whores from Portland working Tony’s Truck Haven from time to time, but by the time the sheriff’s department heard about it, they were long gone. A local prostitute, a Hamartin girl no less, was just what Garner’s campaign for sheriff needed. ii “Would you mind changing the tune?” said Arnie. They were sitting at the coffee bar, reading the Sunday Oregonian, the statewide paper. Emmett realized he’d been staring at the sports page for he didn’t know how long, not reading a thing. Neither had gone to church, putting them in a minority among the citizens of Hamartin. “Excuse me?” “I’m getting tired of hearing the same song.” “I don’t understand,” said Emmett. “The whistling.” “I was whistling?” “What planet are you on this morning?” Emmett smiled. He wasn’t about to tell. But he wasn’t aware that he’d been whistling. He seldom whistled. “What tune was I whistling?” he asked. “I don’t know the name of it. That circus thing, dot-deedotty-dotty-dot-dee-dotty…” “Really?” “Really,” said Arnie. “I take it you’re still feeling better.” “I feel terrific. Incredible.” Arnie studied him. “Don’t you believe me?” Emmett asked. “I believe you.” Emmett looked at the sports page. He didn’t pay attention to sports, why had he picked up this section of the paper? He put it down and sipped his tea. He closed his eyes and easily

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conjured up an image of Shandy’s naked body stretched out on the bed, writhing under the pleasure of his tongue. As Emmett enjoyed his fantasy, Arnie put down one section of the paper and picked up another. He habitually read the morning Oregonian section by section, almost article by article. Arnie savored it like a gourmet breakfast, and it took him an hour to get through it each morning, longer on Sundays. He was still reading when Shandy came downstairs. Emmett was rinsing his cup in the sink. He’d given up on her and was about to go outside to take a walk. Then Shandy bounded into the kitchen with her usual youthful energy, wearing jeans cut off at the thighs and a T-shirt that hid her nipples. Seeing her swollen eye in daylight, Emmett involuntarily gasped. Arnie said, “What on earth happened to you?” “It’s a long story,” said Shandy. Emmett already was pouring her a cup of coffee. “What’s the other guy look like?” Shandy looked puzzled, so Arnie added, “It’s a saying. A joke.” “Oh, right. It was an accident.” Shandy took the cup from Emmett without meeting his eyes. She looked around for the cream and sugar. “There,” Emmett said. Shandy added considerable amounts of both to her coffee. She took the stool next to Arnie at the coffee bar, where Emmett had been sitting. “Seriously,” said Arnie, “you didn’t wreck that car of yours already, did you?” “No!” “And you’re not going to tell me what happened.” “It’s not worth talking about.” Arnie went back to his newspaper. Emmett stayed in the kitchen, feeling awkward, like a novice actor who didn’t know whether or not he’d missed his cue to enter. He could see nothing in her expression or 78

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behavior that even hinted at the intimacy they’d shared only a few hours earlier. “I’m going to take a walk,” he announced. Arnie kept reading. Shandy looked up, and for a moment they made eye contact but Emmett couldn’t read anything in her gaze because he found the swollen eye too distracting. Then she turned away and stared off into the living room. “Shandy, you can join me if you like,” Emmett said. Arnie’s gaze came up now, looking at Emmett with interest. “No thanks,” said Shandy. Emmett could read nothing in her tone. He waited a moment and went outside. He walked behind the barn and stepped through a small gap in the fence. Ahead of him a pasture stretched to the woods that climbed the foothills to Vista Park, through which a horse trail twisted and ran all the way to the summit. Ned Trafford owned the large pasture, and his cattle were scattered all across it, grazing. As Emmett walked, he thought about Shandy. She seemed like two different people, the young woman he twice had had sex with, and the young woman who later sat in the same room with him, regarding him almost as a stranger. Was she playing mind games with him? Or was she just trying to be discrete about their sexual encounters? What worried Emmett most was that their encounters had been accidental, without the promise of more to come. He wanted her again. He wanted her often. She was breathing life back into his dying body, or so it seemed to him. She certainly gave him something to think about besides cancer. Emmett walked halfway across the pasture and headed back. He was coming around the barn when he saw the police car parked in front of the farmhouse. It was a brown County Sheriff car, Hamartin not having its own police department. Sure enough, Mac Hudd, who usually handled local affairs, 79

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was talking to Shandy near the front porch as Arnie stood on the steps and listened. Hudd’s dark brown uniform, which matched the car, looked much too warm for the day. Emmett moved close enough to make his presence known to Mac. They knew one another casually. Mac nodded at Emmett and turned back to Shandy. “I’m going to have to ask you to come with me to the station in The Falls, ma’am.” “All the way to The Falls?” Shandy asked. “I’m afraid so.” Emmett stepped closer, saying, “What’s this about, Mac?” “We just need to question her.” “About what?” “About that shiner, for starters.” “Why can’t you question her here?” “This is not your concern, Emmett.” “It most certainly is.” “Are you saying you have something to do with her injury?” “Of course not.” “Then it’s no concern of yours.” “I’m her guardian. Sort of. I told her mother I’d watch out for her.” Emmett had just blurted it out. He saw Arnie staring at him with both surprise and amusement, as if daring Emmett to live up to the remark. In fact, Emmett had never met Shandy’s mother, at least not when she was sober. She’d shown up drunk at a parent-teacher conference a time or two, loud and loquacious and incomprehensible. After a silence, Mac said, “You can come along if you like.” “Damn right I’ll come along,” said Emmett. The smile Shandy gave him on the short walk to the squad car was worth the spontaneous recklessness of the gesture. The

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officer opened the back door, and Shandy climbed in first, Emmett sliding in beside her. From the porch Arnie called, “I’ll phone my lawyer! I’ll meet you in The Falls!” Far from being worried or upset about sitting like a prisoner behind the wire mesh screen of the squad car, Emmett felt elated. He had done something once again to please Shandy, and this delighted him. He was even more pleased when she put her hand on top of his and held it. She smiled at him again, and if they had been alone Emmett was sure that they would have started to make love. iii They’d been interrogating Shandy for over an hour when Arnie hurried into the station and found Emmett sitting in a waiting room. “My lawyer wasn’t home but I left a message. Where is she?” “They’re still talking to her,” said Emmett. “She shouldn’t be talking without her lawyer present.” Emmett shrugged. He had almost no experience in matters of the law. He’d never even received a parking ticket. Arnie said, “Do you know what it’s about?” “No, do you?” “I’m sure the black eye has something to do with it.” Emmett didn’t respond. “Why the hell did you say you’re her guardian?” “It just came out. I didn’t want her to be hauled off without company, I guess.” Arnie sat down. As soon as he did, a woman in uniform arrived. Arnie immediately stood up again. “Are you with the Anderson girl?” she asked. Emmett bolted up, saying, “I am.” “This way please.”

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Before following the woman down a hallway, Emmett looked at Arnie, who raised his eyebrows. Emmett took it as a sign to be on his guard. The female deputy led him into a small interrogation room. “Wait here,” she said and closed the door. The room was stark and depressing. Three chairs faced a fourth solitary one over a long conference table. An overhead fluorescent light buzzed annoyingly. The door opened, and another deputy entered. Emmett had seen him in town before. “Sit down,” he said. “I’m Chief Deputy Garner.” Emmett took the lone chair, and Garner sat down in the middle chair across from him. “The girl denies being a hooker,” Garner said. A hooker? Was the deputy trying to trick him? Garner asked, “You know anything about that?” “About what?” “Her giving blowjobs in the parking lot at Tony’s Truck Haven.” Tony’s outside of Hamartin? Garner went on. “We got a guy who says she almost bit his dick off, so he hit her. We got another guy beat the shit out of the first guy, but he says he’s not the girl’s pimp. He claims he interrupted what looked like a rape about to happen. It’s one guy’s word against the other. We were hoping you might be able to help us out on this.” “I’m not sure what you mean,” Emmett said quietly. “About her night-time activities. She capable of doing something like this?” “Of course not,” Emmett said in what he hoped was a parental tone. In fact, he had no idea what she was capable of. She was always surprising him.

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Garner said, “Of course you’d say that.” He stood up. “We got no reason to book her, but I’d advise you to tell her we’ll be watching her. She should be a little more careful about the men she hangs around.” Emmett was left to find his own way back to the waiting room. Arnie was thumbing through a magazine and dropped it as soon as he saw Emmett approaching. “What happened?” Arnie asked. “They think she gives blowjobs in Tony’s parking lot.” Arnie laughed. “You think it’s funny?” “I wish it were true. It’d be perfect for Hamartin. Perfect!” They were both thumbing through magazines when Shandy entered the waiting room. Emmett went to her, hoping she’d move forward into his arms, but she maneuvered around him and headed for the door. He followed her outside, with Arnie trailing behind. Arnie drove, Emmett sat shotgun, and Shandy sprawled over the back seat. No one spoke on the drive home. As soon as Arnie parked, Shandy got out and ran into the house. She didn’t come downstairs for the rest of the day, even though Emmett spent much of the time waiting downstairs for her. Emmett and Arnie ate leftovers for dinner at the coffee bar. After the dishes were done, Arnie remained at the coffee bar, paying bills, and Emmett moved to the leather chair in the living room to read. Shandy came downstairs. She was wearing a full-length terrycloth robe and her hair was unbraided and damp, black and shiny, falling down her back. Emmett loved her hair loose like that. He wanted to touch it. Shandy walked straight to Arnie and asked, “Do I still have a room here or what?” Arnie looked up from his checkbook as Emmett came into the kitchen. 83

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“Of course. Your personal life is your own business.” “How else am I supposed to make money in this town?” Shandy asked to no one in particular. “So it’s true?” Arnie said, which is exactly the question Emmett was asking himself. “I suppose you don’t approve.” “Look, honey, I’m an old queen. I’m for anything that makes the local bigots squirm in their idiotic moral code.” “Thanks,” said Shandy, with a laugh that sounded forced. “You don’t have to thank me for anything.” “For being so understanding.” “I don’t understand why you put yourself at risk like that, so don’t presume you know what I think or don’t think.” “Thanks for letting me stay here then,” Shandy said. She faced Emmett. “What are you looking at?” Emmett jumped. “Nothing.” Arnie gathered up the checkbook and bills and went without a word to the dining room table. “You don’t approve, do you?” Shandy asked Emmett. “Can we talk out on the porch?” Shandy followed him outside. He thought they might sit in the swing together but she quickly plopped down on the top step, so he joined her there. “I suppose you never went to a prostitute or anything,” said Shandy. “I have, as a matter of fact.” “So you have a double-standard, right?” “How do you mean?” “Judging me now.” “I’m not judging you. I just want you to be safe.” “Well, I don’t think I’ll go to Tony’s again.” “Good.” There was an awkward silence. Emmett said, “I really like what is happening between us.” 84

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Shandy looked away and said, “I have to figure out how to make money in this stupid town.” Another silence. “I would cherish any time we can spend together,” Emmett told her. “I’m not into this right now. Maybe we can talk tomorrow.” “I’d like that.” She stood up, and he thought she was going to turn to leave. But she bent down and kissed him softly on the cheek. “You’re a very sweet man,” she said. Emmett stayed out on the porch for a long time after Shandy left. He moved to the swing and slowly rocked back and forth, watching the evening turn into night. Only an occasional car passed by on the road out front, and the silence was almost as peaceful as it could be at sea. Returning to Hamartin after living so long in Southern California, he’d forgotten how quiet the world could be, and he and Mary used to drive up to Vista Park late in the day to watch all the lights come on in the valley below. As the sky turned dark, Emmett would point out the constellations, and Mary would never interrupt him, even though he had done the same thing many times before, showing her the Great Northern Triangle and the Dog Star and Scorpio, his own sign, with its red heart named Antares. They could be in silence together for hours at a time, that’s how well matched they were. The few differences they had got expressed in the bedroom – but never in words.

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CHAPTER EIGHT i During his two decades in the Navy, Emmett had visited no more than a dozen prostitutes, and he always felt guilty afterwards. There was one he remembered above all the rest, named the Princess, always with the definite article, as if she were royalty. But she was dirt poor, a sweet girl in her teens whom he had met through her brother, who begged outside the main gate on the base in Guam where Emmett was stationed after the war. The girl, like her brother, was trying to support her family, and Emmett quickly felt so sorry for her, and them, that when sober he brought by sacks of groceries without requiring sex in return. Then he would drink too much, get lonely and maudlin, and seek her out for sexual favors, feeling so guilty the next day that he would bring by groceries again. Emmett never learned the girl’s real name but her family was kind to him, as if he were a suitor. This young girl had given him more sexual pleasure than he had ever experienced before or since – until now, with Shandy. Emmett awoke to voices outside, below his window. He had slept later than usual because he’d been unable to sleep much at all, kept awake through most of the night by a mind busy with thoughts about Shandy. He had surprised himself by not being outraged by her employment at Tony’s; it made, in fact, a certain kind of sense and helped explain her otherwise baffling sexual aggression. When she had granted him a sexual favor, maybe it was more or less a free sample. But what about his favor in return? He knew he had given her pleasure, but this fact seemed to put her on edge. Or maybe that wasn’t it at all. She’d just been beaten up, reason enough to keep inside herself. She also was worried about money, about affording the move to San Francisco. Maybe she wasn’t thinking of him, and the pleasure he had given her, at all.

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Emmett stumbled to the window and parted the curtains. Bill Richardson stood below with Adam Chase, perhaps the worst student Emmett had ever had, and Jason Trafford, Shandy’s friend Heather’s younger brother. Jason had taken an interest in astronomy as early as grade school, and Emmett regretted that the boy wasn’t older so he could have had him in class before he retired. It was a shock, however, to see the boys together because they were so different: Jason, studious and sincere, perhaps one of those rare Hamartin students who would go on to become a scientist; and Adam, a local football and basketball legend but also the high school’s biggest trouble-maker. On the ground around them were shovels and picks and other assorted tools and a piece of small machinery, which Emmett guessed was a portable generator. The gazebo, Emmett remembered. In the hallway, he hesitated before Shandy’s closed door. He strained to hear activity in her room. Nothing. Emmett came downstairs. The kitchen was empty but the big coffee pot was plugged in. Given his drowsiness, it was a morning for coffee, not tea. Emmett poured himself a cup and took it outside, going out the front door and walking around the house. Arnie was watching Bill and the boys work. They were digging in the ground. “They’re here early,” said Emmett. “You’re up late.” Arnie lowered his tone. “You remember Adam?” “Oh, yes.” “Makes me nervous having a punk like him on the property. I’ll be looking over my shoulder all day. He used to paint FAG on my mailbox every Halloween.” “Maybe he’s grown up,” said Emmett. Arnie changed the subject. “Bill asked how Shandy’s eye was doing. How do you suppose he knows about it?” 87

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“You didn’t ask him?” “I didn’t pry, no. But it’s interesting he knows about it already, don’t you think?” Emmett said, “Maybe he saw her this morning.” “She left over an hour ago, before they got here. Maybe he saw her in town.” Of course Shandy was gone, the VW hadn’t been parked in front of the house. It was so new a fixture that Emmett hadn’t missed it, especially with the vehicles of the crew parked out front. “She went to town?” Emmett asked. “Actually I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” Later Emmett went upstairs and stopped at Shandy’s door, hesitated a moment and opened it. He stepped into her room. Already the room looked like it had been lived in for weeks, months. Clothes were scattered everywhere, on the floor and on the bed and on the chair near the window. There were more clothes scattered about than she had had time to wear. Two large posters were on the wall, abstract paintings that looked like a child’s scribbling. An easel next to the window held a large sheet of paper on which a sketch had been started but Emmett couldn’t make any sense out of the lines and shapes. It all looked like doodling to him. He moved to the bed. He picked up a pair of her panties and brought it slowly to his face. The silken cloth was cool on his skin, and he thought he could smell her sex. He thought, My God, what am I doing? He dropped the panties and fled the bedroom. ii Josie refilled Shandy’s coffee cup. They were sitting behind the house in lawn chairs on the small rectangle of cement that Josie called a patio.

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“Thank your lucky stars,” said Josie, “and consider it a message from the gods.” “If it’s a message, it sucks.” “Hello? You could’ve been hurt a lot worse than getting a swollen eye. You could’ve been killed, for Christ’s sake. It happens all the time. And you could be locked up for prostitution. You’re one goddamn lucky girl, Shandy, and if you don’t see that, it’s because you’ve got your head up your ass.” She’d never seen Josie this angry with her. After a silence Shandy said, “It ruins everything.” “No, it gives you a chance to learn from your mistakes without paying as much as you might have. Probably should have.” “I still need money to get to San Francisco.” “Big deal. You can always get a shit job for a couple months. At least you’re not paying much for rent.” A shit job was the last thing Shandy wanted but she didn’t say so. “Tony’s was a stupid idea from day one,” said Josie. “This is depressing to talk about. Can we change the subject?” “Okay. What do you want to talk about?” Shandy shrugged. Then she said, “I had sex with Emmett.” Josie burst out laughing. Recovering, she said, “I’m sorry. You’re always so full of surprises. Was this at Tony’s?” “I don’t mean as a client.” “I see. So how was it? Was he able to get it up?” “I went into his bedroom and gave him a blowjob. He came in about a second.” “He’ll remember you forever,” said Josie. “He doesn’t have forever.” “Right. So you did him a big favor.” “The next day he went down on me.” 89

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“Really? So is this developing into a thing?” “I don’t know.” “Did he get you off?” “It was great,” Shandy lied. But no man had ever gotten Shandy off. The only way she’d ever had an orgasm was by masturbating. “Does he have any money?” Josie asked. Shandy looked surprised by the question. “He’s a dying, lonely old man. If you can give him pleasure, maybe he’s willing to pay for it. And then you solve your problem.” Shandy’s mind was already racing with the possibilities. iii Emmett came downstairs for a cup of tea. He could hear the machinery running behind the house. He wondered how long it would take them to build the gazebo. He wondered where Shandy was and what she was up to. “A penny for your thoughts,” said Arnie, entering the kitchen. “Make that a nickel. Inflation.” “I had sex with Shandy,” Emmett said without preface. Arnie’s expression looked expectant, as if he were waiting for the punch line to a joke. Emmett said, “I’m serious. That’s why everything’s different.” “Wait a minute. When did this orgy take place? I don’t recall feeling the earth move or anything.” “She gave me a blowjob the first night she was here.” “Are you serious? She doesn’t waste any time. Maybe she is a pro.” “Later I returned the favor. She really got off on it.” “Have you fucked her?” “I hate hearing it put that way.” “Did you insert your erect cock into her vagina?” “You think I’m making a joke here?”

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“No, but I do think it’s a bit odd, a bit eccentric. Rather shocking actually. Not shocking, that’s the wrong word. Mindbending. Mind-boggling. In fact, I don’t get it. Nothing personal, but I don’t understand what she sees in you.” “I pleased her very much.” “Cock of the walk. I suppose it does explain a few things. So is she sleeping in your bed now?” “No, we haven’t slept together. It only happened twice.” “Will it happen again?” “I hope so.” Arnie looked over Emmett’s shoulder and through the kitchen window. “You can ask her,” said Arnie, “because she just got back.” Emmett saw the VW pull in beside his Chevy. “Don’t tell her I told you,” he said. “I love sordid secrets.” “There’s something else,” said Emmett. “I’m all ears.” “She’s broke. Don’t you hire models sometimes?” “You want me to paint her?” “Maybe you can hire her for a few sessions. It might help her out.” “I’ll think about it.” “I want her to think it’s your idea,” said Emmett. He saw the exasperation in Arnie’s expression. “What’s the problem?” “There’s no goddamn problem, Emmett. I just need to think about it. I’m going outside to see how the work is going. I’m thrilled you got blown but just don’t rub it in, for God’s sake.” Arnie headed for the back of the house, going out that way in order to miss Shandy coming in. Emmett took a deep breath and waited for her entrance.

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iv As Shandy stepped up onto the porch, Bill Richardson said, “How’s the eye?” She found him leaning against the corner of the house. He shirt was off, and for the first time she saw that tattoos covered his shoulders and chest as well as his arms. He was like the illustrated man she’d read about in a story once. “Doesn’t look as bad as I thought it would,” Bill said. “Does it hurt?” “Not too bad.” He was grinning, which made Shandy nervous. She could guess what was on his mind. “So I heard the county sheriff paid you a visit,” said Bill. “Where’d you hear that?” “Well, I figured it out actually. If he talked to me, surely he was gonna talk to you.” “Why did he talk to you?” “I’m the one who found the guy who did it and beat the shit out of him.” “Really?” “Not that it was hard. A guy who’d punch out a woman is usually a coward at heart.” “Did you hurt him?” “Sent him to the hospital. I think he’s still there.” “Wow.” Shandy could picture what a mismatch it must have been, the muscular Bill against the over-weight asshole who’d hit her. “You can say thank you any time you’re ready,” said Bill. His grin made it clear what kind of thanks he wanted. “I think my days at Tony’s are over,” she said. “Behind the barn will work. You busy now?” For a minute Shandy had thought well of him, the man who had come to her rescue, but now he was acting like any

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other man who thought with his dick. Did Emmett think with his dick or did old age change this particular masculine trait? “I’ve got work to do,” she said and climbed a step to the porch. “Wait a minute.” She did. “From what I gather,” Bill said, “you had yourself a pretty good little business at Tony’s. Shame to have to close it down. I imagine you were making pretty good money.” “I don’t like getting beat up.” “Understood. Maybe what you need is a bodyguard. A manager.” “And that would be you, right?” “I can make sure something like that doesn’t happen again. I already put one guy in the hospital.” “How much would this cost me?” “I’m sure we could work something out.” He was grinning again. Shandy tried to hide her interest in the offer. There was no assurance that she could work out a financial arrangement with Emmett, even if she did muster the courage to ask him for help. Bill said, “And there’s better places you could work out of than Tony’s. I could get you more business than you’d know what to do with.” “I’ll think about it,” Shandy said. She ran into the house. Once she was inside, Shandy hurried to the front window and peeked outside. Bill was still leaning against the house. “Is everything okay?” She jumped. Emmett was standing behind her. “You scared me.” “Is he bothering you?” “No way,” she said. Emmett was nervous in her presence. She could see something close to fear in his eyes. “Is something the matter?” she asked. 93

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“No,” he said. He wasn’t about to admit he was jealous of Bill. “You look mad.” “I don’t feel mad.” Shandy decided to believe him. “Are you busy now?” she asked. “Not particularly.” She leaned close and whispered in his ear, “I want to make love.” Shandy took his hand and brought it to her breast, but all he could feel was the padding of her bra. “I liked how you made me feel,” she said softly. She was formulating her plan: first they would have sex, and then she would bring up her financial situation. He was afraid his voice would crack if he spoke. He took a tentative step toward the stairs, and Shandy smiled seductively and followed. They were at the top of the stars when Arnie came in and saw them. They disappeared down the hallway, holding hands. Arnie stood at the bottom of the staircase for a long moment, staring at the spot of their departure as if he were daring them to return.

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CHAPTER NINE i Emmett, wearing only his robe, looked down at the workers for a few minutes. Shandy was stretched out on the bed, nude. Twice he’d asked her not to cover her breasts with a pillow before she complied. She had the most beautiful breasts he’d ever seen, he told her, especially the permanently erect nipples. Shandy actually blushed. No one had called her abnormal hideous nipples beautiful before. “They’re making amazing progress,” Emmett said at the window. “They’ll be done in no time.” Shandy said, “Bill wants to be my bodyguard.” This quickly, the moment was ruined for him. After their lovemaking, during which each had satisfied the other orally (Shandy faking orgasm again), Emmett was filled with a glow of contentment. Now the mood changed. How could Bill Richardson be a threat to him after such good sex with her? But somehow his spoken name had made it so. “Your bodyguard?” “He already put the guy who hit me in the hospital,” she said. Emmett moved away from the window. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Is Bill one of your customers?” “I thought what I do didn’t bother you.” “I’m just curious.” She studied him. “I don’t have any feelings for Bill,” she said. “I’m glad.” Shandy worried that she was too good an actress, her fake orgasm convincing him that their time together was somehow more important to her than it was, as if he were the best lover she’d ever had. How could he be, when she’d never had a good lover? Her best lover was herself. But Emmett, in fact, was 95

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very different from other men – and boys – she’d had sex with. With Emmett, there was no sense of urgency, no threat of sexual energy erupting into violence. She remembered how gently he had tended to her swollen eye. He seemed more pleased by her pleasure than by his own, which made Shandy feel a little guilty about faking it. She said, “If he’s my bodyguard, then I can go back to work. I need money before I can move to San Francisco. What else am I supposed to do?” It was a hint but Emmett didn’t bite. He said, “It just seems so dangerous. Even with a bodyguard.” Shandy tried a different approach. “I could always go to work as a prostitute in Nevada. Did you know Josie used to be a pro? She even worked at the Mustang Ranch.” “No, I didn’t.” He hoped Shandy wouldn’t notice how alarmed he was by the news. He was aware that Josie had an influence on her. “It’s the world’s oldest profession,” she said. “So they say.” “I’d be safer with a bodyguard than without one.” “What if Bill wants to make love to you as his part of the deal?” Shandy smiled. Now she was getting somewhere. “You’re jealous.” “It’s stupid, isn’t it?” “I think it’s cute.” She took his hand. “I guess most people would think it’s really weird that we’re doing it, wouldn’t they?” “You mean, our age difference.” “What sign are you?” Mary had been an astrology buff. Helen as well. What was it about women and astrology? Emmett said, “Scorpio.” 96

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“A water sign! I’m Cancer. I think that makes us good together. I’ll have to ask Josie, she’s the expert.” “When’s your birthday?” “July second. I’ll be twenty-one.” “Then I’ll have to buy you a birthday drink.” “Josie’s taking me out on the town.” “Of course.” “I mean, I’m sure you can come, too.” He stretched out on the bed beside her, and she put her head on his shoulder. “When do you go to San Francisco?” Emmett asked. “As soon as I can afford it.” “How much do you need?” “At least a thousand. Hopefully more. Heather can put me up till I get settled.” “Maybe I can help.” Shandy waited for him to say more. Emmett said, “Promise me you won’t make a deal with Bill for a few days. I’ll see what I can put together.” “Okay.” Shandy closed her eyes. She actually didn’t feel like she’d had to manipulate him into helping her. She’d simply made the situation clear to him so his own good nature would come forward to the rescue. She had a feeling this was going to work out very well for both of them. ii Arnie was in the kitchen, throwing together something for dinner and wondering if the lovebirds were coming downstairs to join him. Damned if he’d deliver them dinner in bed! He should cook for himself and let them fend for themselves, but he already had thrown together enough stir-fry for an army. He looked up from the sizzling vegetables and saw a car coming down the driveway. When it was close enough to recognize as

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a County Sheriff’s patrol car, Arnie took the frying pan off the burner and headed for the door. Mac got out of the patrol car and saw Arnie waiting for him on the porch. Arnie was wearing some strange kind of magenta jump-suit looking thing, the likes of which Mac had never seen in Cascadia County. “Arnie,” said the deputy, suppressing his amusement. “Mac.” “Is Emmett around?” Arnie hesitated, wondering what to say in place of the truth. Mac said, “I missed your flag last week.” “Pardon me?” “Last Monday was flag day.” “Was it now?” said Arnie. “We like to have as many homes in the county as possible fly a flag. We’re shooting for one hundred percent for the Bicentennial.” “I don’t own a flag.” “Emmett’s a veteran, he must own one.” “I never asked him.” “Well, is he around? I’ll ask him myself.” “He and Shandy are out riding,” Arnie lied. “I see.” Mac paused, as if deciding whether to go on. “I think that the Anderson girl is getting out of control.” “Are you here to arrest her?” “No. Are you defending her?” “I didn’t know she’d been charged with anything.” “She’s been working tricks at Tony’s, Arnie.” “Then why isn’t she in jail?” “It’s true, we just can’t prove it. You putting her up here, you run the risk of getting involved yourself.” “Is that what this is about?”

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“I’m suggesting you try to keep a harness on her. She says she wants to move to San Francisco. The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned.” “I still don’t know what you’re here for.” Mac stared at him. “To tell you to buy a flag,” he said. “The Bicentennial’s right around the corner and we want every house in the county showing the flag. You understand what I’m saying?” “Who’s we?” “We, all of us, the people who live here. Why do you have to be so difficult?” “So I’m un-American if I don’t fly a flag?” “Jesus Christ, Arnie, sometimes I wonder why the hell I ever defend you.” Now it was Arnie’s turn to stare. After a moment he asked, “Why would you have to defend me?” “You know what I mean. Your lifestyle. I like to think that a man’s personal life is his own business, as long as he keeps it to himself, within the walls of his own home, so to speak. But when Shandy starts setting up shop in a public parking lot, that’s a different story. And her living here now gets people talking. They still remember your art show.” His art show! It was Arnie’s proudest moment in Hamartin. The weekend after the high school had banned his photographs of young nude boys, he exhibited them in his own art show at the farmhouse, supported by several artists who rushed from Portland to join in the statement and the fun. No matter that no one came to see them – except Mac, who begged him to close down the show as insurance against trouble. Eventually one of the reporters Arnie had invited, from the weekly in The Falls, showed up, and a story the next week immortalized the show forever and earned Arnie the local wrath he would have been disappointed to miss. Mac said, “You and Emmett keep a tight rein on her until she gets out of town.” 99

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“Well, she’s an adult. She can make her own decisions.” Mac let out a slow breath. He started walking back to his car. Arnie said, “You know a good place to buy a flag?” Mac stopped. He counted to five. “Don’t jerk me around,” said Mac. He kept the rest to himself and got out of there. Arnie came inside to find Shandy in the kitchen, making a pot of tea. “You folks coming down for dinner?” Arnie asked. “It’ll be ready in a jiff.” “Sure.” Shandy poured steaming water over several tea bags in the pot. “Do you do any modeling?” Arnie asked. “Modeling for what?” “Nude modeling. I can pay you two hundred dollars for a couple hours.” Arnie already had calculated how much he could afford to contribute to her cause. “Two hundred! Can we do it tomorrow?” “How about mid-morning?” “That’s fantastic!” There was only small talk through dinner, and not much of this, as if no one knew quite what to say. “Emmett,” Arnie said near the end of the meal, “have you decided about Portland yet?” “I love Portland!” Shandy quickly said. “What about it?” Arnie smiled. He already had figured out that Emmett would love to have the house to himself and the girl, and Arnie wasn’t about to let him have it. There were limits to his charitable feelings about how much pleasure Emmett should enjoy in his final days, especially when Arnie hadn’t been laid in many months. “I’m spending next weekend there,” Arnie told her. 100

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Shandy’s eyes widened, as if waiting for an invitation. Emmett said, “Actually I haven’t decided.” He looked at Shandy, who raised her eyebrows. When Emmett didn’t immediately respond, Shandy asked Arnie, “Can I go?” “Of course,” said Arnie. He smiled at Emmett, who forced a smile in return. Emmett said, “We might as well all go.” Shandy was so excited that she volunteered to do the dishes. Arnie excused himself to his studio, and Emmett followed him to the basement door. “Is something the matter?” Emmett asked. Arnie sighed. How did you speak frankly to a dying man? “You seem upset about something,” Emmett added. “Mac was here. I think they’re going to start spying on the place. If anyone finds out you’re having sex with the girl …” He let Emmett imagine the consequences. “She’s not a minor,” said Emmett. “Doesn’t matter. She’s still young enough to be your granddaughter. Good Christians will call you a pervert. Only they’ll pronounce it pre-vert. Truth be said, the situation is even getting to me. I didn’t like spending the afternoon knowing you were having a sex orgy upstairs. Made me horny.” “I think I’d feel that way if I were you. It is your house.” “Exactly my point.” “I’ll see to it that we start acting more discrete. Like house guests.” “Are you a we already?” “Well, not exactly, but sort of.” “That certainly clears it up.” “I think I’m going to hire her.” “For what?”

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“You know, pay her a weekly salary. So she doesn’t have to go back to Tony’s or find a job, and she can save for San Francisco.” “In other words, like a call girl.” “That sounds so crass. I prefer thinking of it as helping her out.” “Like a concubine.” “It doesn’t feel like that to me.” Arnie laughed. “I’m serious,” said Emmett. Arnie immediately saw how serious he really was. “I’m sorry if I’m cynical,” he said. “Old habits are hard to break.” “I can’t think of anything better I could be doing right now. I feel alive, Arnie. Think about how amazing that is.” “It is amazing.” “Sometimes I wonder if she’s an angel,” said Emmett. “Now that’s going too goddamn far. I have work to do. I hired her, and we’re doing the photo shoot tomorrow.” “That’s great. I’ll be glad to reimburse you for her salary.” “It’s two hundred dollars.” “I’ll go to the bank first thing in the morning.” “I hired her expecting to pay myself.” “It was my idea. Let me pay.” “Have it your way.” Arnie opened the door to the basement. “Thanks, Arnie. For everything.” It almost sounded as if Emmett were saying goodbye, but Arnie had no energy to explore the possibility and hurried down the stairs.

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CHAPTER TEN i Emmett’s financial situation was more than adequate. He received two monthly retirement checks, one from the Navy and one from the Pasadena School District, plus his Social Security and some investment dividends. Given his frugal lifestyle, he had more money than he knew what to do with. With no children or living family, he had struggled over the writing of his will, in the end splitting everything between a Navy charity for widows and the American Red Cross. So Emmett easily could afford to pay Shandy for being his companion – and no one else’s. The question was – how much? He wanted a figure that would impress her and decided on three hundred a week. Even if he lived through the summer and into fall, this amount wouldn’t be something he’d miss. There was certainly no job in Hamartin that would pay her this much, though he supposed she’d do far better at a legal brothel in Nevada. If he had to go higher he would but he’d offer three hundred and see how she reacted. The morning was downright cool, providing an unfortunate break in the normal summer heat. Sitting in the Chevy, Emmett turned on the heater and planned his morning. In The Falls he’d withdraw six hundred in cash from his savings account at Cascadia Bank: two hundred for Arnie for paying Shandy as a model, three hundred for Shandy’s first week in advance if she accepted his offer, and one hundred to keep in his pocket. He felt good having a plan of action and decided to buy Shandy a gift to sweeten the pot. There was only one place in Hamartin in which to buy a romantic gift for a lady and that was Beverly’s Gifts and Sundries, on 4th Avenue off Main Street. Emmett was already in the door before it occurred to him that this wouldn’t do at all, buying a gift here would invite gossip and speculation 103

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about the recipient, the last thing he needed. He’d have a better selection in The Falls anyway. He’d walked into Beverly’s from habit. No sooner had he decided this and turned to leave than he found himself face-to-face with Helen. She loomed before him like a smiling bouncer. “I accept, you sweet man,” she said. “Accept what?” “Don’t play coy with me, Emmett Hale. There is one reason and one reason only for you to come into this shop and that’s to buy a gift by way of apology. And I accept.” He was speechless. Helen was right, the last time he had set foot in Beverly’s, it was to buy her a gift after an argument. Helen said, “I’m going to let you off easy. I’ll settle for coffee and a donut at Mom’s.” Emmett didn’t resist when she took his hand and led him outside and around the corner and up the street to the café. He was in a state of shock, not listening as she rambled on in that high, sing-songy voice of hers that, at moments like this, was as disagreeable as static. They were sitting at a table at the window, the same table where earlier he had marveled that Shandy was sitting across from him, their knees almost touching, in the happy moment soon compromised by Bill Richardson’s appearance on the other side of the glass. “I’m glad you’re back in the world,” Helen said. “You really had me worried there for a minute.” She reached across the table and took his hand, and Emmett didn’t have the heart to pull it away. “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? You can spend the night if you like.” Didn’t she realize they had broken up? Not that they ever were a couple, officially. They had dated and slept together, but there had never been a commitment to fidelity by either one of them. Of course, at their ages, they hardly expected to be

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tempted by competition. At the time, Emmett had felt blessed to have Helen in his life so intimately. “Where are you?” Helen asked. He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t there to buy a gift for you,” he said. Helen looked confused. “Then why were you there?” “I was buying a present for someone else.” Hurt dropped over Helen’s face like a veil. She pulled away her hand and stared out the window at the inactivity on Main Street. “You didn’t have to tell me that,” she said softly. “You could have let me enjoy my delusion that maybe things could be close between us again.” Suddenly she glared at him. “You can be so cruel.” “I don’t mean to be cruel,” he said. “I cherish you as a friend.” Helen managed a bitter laugh. Emmett said, “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.” Helen’s expression revealed no acceptance of the situation. “We’ve been friends for a long time,” he said. “We shouldn’t start lying to each other.” “You’re right. If you weren’t shopping for me, who is she?” Now it was Emmett’s turn to stare out the window. “Do I know her?” He looked at her. “Don’t make me tell you,” he said. “When have I ever been able to make you do anything?” “You know I’ll have to tell you if you insist on knowing. Don’t make me.” “You said we should be truthful with one another.” He saw Marg coming their way, and his eyes told Helen the conversation was on hold. 105

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“Here we go,” said Marg. “This is on the house.” She put a plate of coffee cake in front of each of them. “It’s so nice to see you two sitting together again.” Emmett waited until Marg was out of earshot and lowered his tone just to be sure. “If I tell you, you’ll feel hurt. I don’t want to hurt you.” “What do you think you’ve already done?” “Hurt you more. I think we should change the subject.” They began eating silently. Suddenly Helen looked up and said, “No, I want to know. It can’t be worse than wondering who it is. Is it Alice Armstrong?” Alice was a waitress at The Lamplighter restaurant, a widow in her fifties. Emmett had never had a single lascivious thought about her. Moreover, he rarely set foot inside the place. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again Helen was still sitting across the table from him. “Who is it?” she asked. After a pause, he said, “Shandy.” Helen looked skeptical, then laughed. “Men,” she said under her breath. “You wanted to know.” “Making a fool of yourself, flirting with a girl young enough to be your granddaughter.” “I’m not flirting.” “What do you call it?” “I’m sleeping with her.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it. Helen was very sensitive about sex. Once, on a weekend at the Oregon coast, Emmett had noticed their image in a motel mirror after lovemaking and had remarked that they looked like a couple of beached whales. She never forgot or forgave him for the slander, even though he had hoped to clarify the joke by including himself in the observation. Of course, she was the only one who was fat. Helen stood up. 106

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“Helen, please.” He could see the tears already welling in her eyes as she turned to go. As soon as the door slammed, Marg was at the table like a shot. “What did you do to that poor woman?” “This is not your affair, Marg.” “Helen is my friend, and it is my affair. You’re my friend, too, Emmett Hale, in case you’ve forgotten, and I can’t sit here and watch you make a total fool of yourself without saying something about it. You’ve been damn lucky to have a woman as good as Helen in your life, and I don’t care if you do have cancer, I can’t bite my tongue while you throw Helen away for some mixed-up tramp who, from what I hear, is selling sex over at Tony’s parking lot …” Marg stopped, out of breath. Emmett stood and took out his wallet. “What are you trying to prove?” Marg asked. He dropped a ten-dollar bill onto the table. “Keep the change,” he said. “You can’t tip your way out of this, mister.” He moved around Marg for the door. “That cancer’s in your brain!” Outside he saw Helen wobbling down the street. Her house was on Sixth within walking distance to town. Emmett got into his Chevy and started the engine. He drove only a few miles out of town before he made a U-turn and headed back. He drove to Helen’s house and parked at the curb instead of pulling into the driveway. He turned off the engine but didn’t get out of the car. His fingers gripped the steering wheel. He sat in the car until he noticed that Helen was peering at him from between the front curtains. Then he started the engine and drove off. Once again he caught the road to The Falls.

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ii When Shandy bounded downstairs, ready for the photo shoot, Arnie told her to unbraid her hair. He’d come up with a terrific motif for her: she was going to be Lady Godiva, riding naked on horseback. They could shoot in the woods surrounding Vista Park. Arnie saddled two horses and waited for Shandy outside the barn. Today he was wearing all black, from the beret to the cowboy boots, the Photo Realist as outlaw. Waiting for her, he marveled that the simple act of unbraiding a pigtail could take so long. She arrived full of her usual youthful energy, and they were off. Arnie led the way across the pasture to pick up the trail that rose to Vista Park. About halfway along, he turned the horses into the woods and carefully led the way through thick brush and scruff pine to a clearing. This would do perfectly. He told Shandy to undress while he unsaddled her horse and set up the camera. Around the same time, Chief Deputy Paul Garner was running through the woods. He had the day off, and he’d spent the night with his family in town. He would have gone jogging earlier, as he tried to do every day, but this morning he’d had sex with his wife instead of his usual exercise. Garner was running at an easy pace along a strand of scruff pine when motion off to his right got his attention. He slowed down and looked more closely. He caught a brief glimpse of a horse through the trees. He stopped and maneuvered through the brush toward the movement. He was about fifty yards away when the trees opened up enough to give him a good view, and he was shocked by what he saw. A young woman was riding nude on a horse as Arnie Woodworth snapped photographs of her. As he studied the scene, Garner guessed that the woman was a girl really, a minor, only thirteen or fourteen, with long black hair that fell over one shoulder to cover a small breast. No, she couldn’t be a 108

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child, her nipples were too big. Because her hair was loose, Garner didn’t immediately recognize her as Shandy Anderson, the young woman who had been arrested for prostitution. She was twenty, he remembered. Her slight figure made her look younger. Yes, it definitely was Shandy, the young hooker, and Arnie, the Hamartin queer. What lurid crime was happening out here? Unfortunately Shandy wasn’t a minor, which meant Garner couldn’t arrest Arnie for contributing to her delinquency. But public nudity was also a crime. Garner wasn’t ready to step in and make an arrest, however. He was too curious about what was going on. Perhaps he’d stumbled upon some pornographic ring of some kind, shooting obscene photographs for distribution to Portland and elsewhere. This was a time for investigation, not an arrest – a bigger arrest down the road, such as busting a porno ring, would be quite a feather in his cap and help his campaign for County Sheriff. Garner carefully backtracked to the trail but instead of continuing toward the park, he returned the way he had come. Reaching the county road, he took it to the two-story white house that he knew belonged to Mac Hudd. He found Mac working on his pickup truck in the driveway before beginning his afternoon shift. “Morning, Mac.” Mac looked up and his expression registered surprise and curiosity. “Chief Deputy. What brings you out this way? You been running?” “I’m off duty, Mac. You can call me Paul.” “Paul.” “I was jogging on the trail to the park and ran into that girl you arrested.” “Shandy Anderson?”

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“She was naked as a jaybird, riding a horse bareback and getting her picture took by Arnie Woodworth. Now where do you think he’d sell pictures like that?” “Are you kidding me?” “They might still be up there.” “She was riding a horse naked?” “As the day she was born. Her tits are so small, I thought she was a minor till I noticed her damn nipples. Those golf balls belong on somebody else’s body.” “Goddamn it,” Mac said without explaining the source of his frustration. “I can’t get him for delinquency to a minor. But this looks bigger anyway. I think they’re making pornography. I can imagine what they do in the farmhouse.” “Arnie would say he’s making art,” said Mac. “He wasn’t making art.” “One man’s art is another man’s filth, I guess.” “You saying it’s okay to have naked ladies running around getting their picture took?” “I’m telling you what his defense will be. He’s a photo realist.” “What the hell’s that?” “He paints pictures that look as real as a photograph.” “What’s the point?” “It’s just what he does. He’s pretty famous for it actually. He paints bank presidents.” Garner thought a minute and said, “You believe that girl gave head in Tony’s parking lot?” “Probably.” “I know she did. I think those pictures are for publicity or for selling to pornographic magazines. Obviously this needs looking into.” There was a silence. Mac asked, “You saying you want me to look into it?”

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“Well, since you’re the permanent resident here, maybe you’re the logical one to look into it. Yes, that’s what I’m saying.” “I can do that.” “Don’t give anyone the benefit of the doubt. I got a gut feeling about this. This photo shoot ain’t an isolated happenstance, you see what I’m saying?” “Got it.” “I want to bust this thing wide open.” “Right.” After an awkward pause, Mac asked, “You want a cup of coffee?” “I got to get back. I got some lawn signs at home if you want to pick up some.” “Lawn signs?” “For my campaign. I know you’ll want one, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a few in your car. Never can tell when you find someone who wants one.” “Kind of early to be campaigning, isn’t it?” Garner grinned and said, “Never too early, Mac. You come on over and pick yourself up a sign. Get one to take over to the Woodworth farmhouse while you’re at it.” “You expect Arnie to support you?” “I don’t want his support. You just might learn something from how he responds to the idea.” “I didn’t think of that.” “Well, Sally’s probably wondering where I am.” “Tell her I said hello.” “I’ll do that. You tell Margaret the same.” As Garner jogged off, Margaret came outside and said, “Mac, is everything okay?” “Hunky fucking dory,” he said under his breath and went back to changing his spark plugs.

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iii Emmett found the perfect gift in a small curio shop in The Falls and had it gift-wrapped, which amounted to putting a ribbon on the small jewelry box. He couldn’t wait to see Shandy’s face when she opened it. But no one was home when he returned, even though both cars were there, as well as the two vehicles from the construction crew. A regular parking lot. Emmett, who had forgotten about the photo shoot, assumed Arnie and Shandy were off hiking or horseback riding. He went inside to fix himself a cup of tea. While the water was boiling, he got the idea to hide the jewelry under Shandy’s pillow. He hurried upstairs and settled for hiding it under the bed sheet, so the ribbon wouldn’t get squashed. He was sipping his tea at the coffee bar when the doorbell rang. It was Mac Hudd, and Emmett must have looked upset because Mac immediately said, “You feeling okay, Emmett?” “You surprised me. I didn’t see you drive in. If you’re looking for Shandy, she’s not here.” “I came to see you, actually.” Emmett looked puzzled. “A friendly, man-to-man chat,” said Mac. Emmett invited him in. As Emmett poured from the large coffee urn, Mac took a stool and said, “What are you building in back?” “Arnie’s adding a gazebo.” “A gazebo. No kidding?” Mac didn’t add how odd that seemed to him. What the hell could you do with a gazebo? He wanted to get right to the point. “I was visited by Garner this morning,” he said. “He ran into Arnie and the girl in the woods. She was nude on horseback, and he was taking pictures. Would you happen to know what that’s about?”

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Emmett remembered that Arnie had told him about taking photos of Shandy today. Arnie must be doing something artistic with the assignment. Emmett replied, “I have no idea.” “Garner thinks the worst.” “What’s the worst?” Emmett was almost afraid to ask. Mac said, “Commercial use. Selling the pictures to porno magazines, that sort of thing. Garner thinks Arnie might be involved in some ring of that sort.” “That’s ridiculous.” “That’s what I think.” “Did you tell him?” “Garner doesn’t listen. He gets an idea and he chases it to the bitter end. Especially now that he’s decided to run for Sheriff, something like this is just the sort of thing you can build a campaign on. What I’m telling you is, you can’t draw attention to yourself out here. You can’t give him anything to get excited about. I don’t know what Arnie thinks he was doing this morning, but keep that sort of activity somewhere safer than the woods.” “I’ll tell him.” Both sipped their coffee. “You’re looking a hell of a lot better these days,” said Mac. Emmett had to smile. If he only knew why. “What’s your secret?” “Lucky, I guess,” said Emmett. They both sipped some more. Mac said, “You need to keep Shandy away from Tony’s, too.” “She’s not going to Tony’s. Assuming she ever went in the first place.” “Oh, she went alright.” Emmett didn’t respond. 113

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“Welp,” said Mac, getting up. Emmett stood. “Thanks for coming by,” said Emmett. “Do you have an American flag?” “No. Why?” “I thought you would. We want everybody flying the flag for the Bicentennial. I noticed you had nothing up for Flag Day.” “It’s Arnie’s house,” Emmett said. “That’s really his department.” “I already talked to him about it. I got the idea he didn’t think much of the idea. Maybe you can make sure you get a flag up.” “I think it’s appropriate.” “I respect Arnie,” said Mac. “At least, most of the time. I’ve been defending his lifestyle for a long time, as long as he doesn’t become obnoxious about it. Most people around here think it’s a sin to be a homosexual, you know that, so anything he gets involved with is suspect by definition. But he’s been damn good at being more or less invisible in this community, at least most of the time, and that’s just the way it should be. It sure makes my job a hell of a lot easier. Worst that happens are some pranks out here on Halloween. But that time he had the art exhibit up here, well, there’s no need for that, he can take that sort of thing to Portland or somewhere. That’s a mighty reckless thing he did this morning, and now Garner has his dander up and you folks out here are going to be put under the microscope. You need to be extra careful.” “I appreciate you coming by to tell us,” said Emmett. Watching Mac’s pickup cruise out the long gravel driveway, Emmett concluded that Mac didn’t know about him and Shandy or that, too, would have been cause for alarm. Shandy naked on a horse. Emmett couldn’t wait to see the prints.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN i Arnie was delighted with the photo shoot. The idea of posing Shandy as Lady Godiva had been sheer inspiration, and she added a quality of innocence to the myth by virtue of her visual youthfulness: with dark hair flowing down over the pale skin of a lithe body, she looked thirteen or fourteen, a virginal Godiva. What compromised the visual metaphor was the horse, a retired ranch pony. This Lady Godiva belonged on a sleek thoroughbred, an animal suggesting as much strength and sexuality as Shandy suggested demure innocence. Yet, for the tools at hand, Arnie couldn’t have been more pleased. He posed Shandy nude on the horse, shooting her in profile to hide the bruised eye, or letting her hair seductively drop over that half of her face. When they were done shooting, and Shandy dressed again, Arnie led the way back to the trail, and they followed it up to Vista Park. The park offered the best view in the county, especially westward to the Cascade Range, with Mt. Hood in the far northwestern distance, snow capped on its eastern face even in summer. Decades earlier, one wheat farm after another would have stretched across the rolling hills and valley below them, a golden blanket without interruption, but over time one farmer after another gave up the crop, unable to compete with wheat from the richly volcanic Palouse country to the north, in eastern Washington and northern Idaho, and many local wheat farmers planted alfalfa or cherries or switched to cattle ranching. The landscape was no longer golden but a checkerboard of gold, green and brown. They descended from the park along a different trail, a longer way back, Arnie still leading the way. When they reached the pasture, he let Shandy catch up and when their

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horses were side-by-side he began their first conversation since they’d finished the shoot. “So are you and Emmett becoming an item or what?” he asked. Shandy wasn’t able to hide her discomfort at the question. “It doesn’t matter one way or the other,” said Arnie, “except that when you two spend the afternoon having sex upstairs, I start looking at those boys doing construction in a different way.” Shandy’s expression changed. “Just kidding,” said Arnie. “I guess we look pretty weird together,” said Shandy. “Yes, I confess I’ve been raising my eyebrows a lot lately. Even if he was well, there’s a considerable age difference.” “I keep forgetting he has cancer.” “So does he. That’s why I approve of what you’re doing for him.” “Thank you.” “I just don’t want you to break his heart. He’s more fragile than he looks.” Arnie could see that they’d already talked more on this subject than she preferred, so he spurred his horse and took the lead again. In the barn Shandy helped him unsaddle the horses, then brush them down and lead them into their stalls. When they came out of the barn, Bill was standing nearby, smoking a cigarette, looking like he was waiting for them. As always, his shirt was off and his tattoos glistened in the sun. Behind him, the boys were starting to frame the foundation. “I have a present for you,” Bill told Shandy. Arnie assessed the situation and said, “I’ll be in the house.” Shandy stayed behind. “What present?”

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Bill let the cigarette dangle in his mouth and put both hands behind his back, showing off his muscles. “Which hand?” “The left.” “Wait a minute, there’s a better way to do this. Close your eyes.” “What is it?” “Just close your eyes. I guarantee you’ll like it.” She shot him a doubtful look but closed her eyes anyway and waited. She heard him step toward her, then behind her. He was slipping something over her head. “Open your eyes,” he said. She did, and her bruised eye was covered. She reached up and felt an eye patch. Bill said, “Now that is sexy.” Shandy pulled the eye patch off and inspected it. It was black and made of a soft padded material that felt good on the skin. “Put it back on,” he said. “It looks a hell of a lot better, believe me. It makes you look very mysterious.” “It does?” She put it back on. She liked the idea of looking mysterious. “Go look at yourself in the mirror.” “Okay.” “Have you thought about our deal?” he asked. “I haven’t decided.” “Guys are missing you out there.” “I’ll make a decision soon.” Shandy started trotting toward the house. “You’re welcome!” Bill shouted after her. ii “I’m worried about you,” Arnie said.

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He’d come into the house to find Emmett standing at the back window, staring out at Shandy talking to Bill. Emmett stepped away from the window and looked sheepish. “Remember Cal and how crazy I got? I don’t want Shandy to be your Cal.” Emmett remembered only the rumors and stories of Arnie’s brief torrid love affair with a former student, which had scandalized the high school on Emmett’s first year back. “Don’t fall in love like I did,” Arnie warned. “Love isn’t a very useful word.” “True enough.” “And it really doesn’t describe how I feel,” said Emmett. “The Greeks had three words for love,” said Arnie. “Eros, Fidelia, Agape. Today we’d call them Lust, Friendship and Spiritual Love, or maybe love for a soul mate. It’s the lust that can kill you. I think it’s worse the older you get.” “Worse? I’d call it remarkable.” “When it’s happening, sure. I just don’t want you to set yourself up for a fall. Even if you were healthy, there’s no future in this. I hope you know that.” “Of course I know it.” “Enjoy it for what it is. Enjoy the hell out of it. But nothing more. No expectations.” “Why are we having this conversation? You think I’m going to ask her to marry me or something?” Arnie laughed. “Christ, I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “She’s given you a lot of new energy, and that’s good. Maybe it’s a treatment the hospitals should pick up on.” Emmett’s expression didn’t change. Arnie said, “It’s a joke.” “I got it.” “You didn’t like it.” “I don’t like thinking about hospitals.” 118

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Arnie changed the subject. “I think you’ll like the photos. I can’t wait to see them myself. You want to come down to the dark room with me?” “Garner saw you. Mac came by and told me. He thinks you’re shooting photos for a pornographic magazine.” “Good! The sleazier I am in the eyes of the Gestapo, the better I like it.” “Mac said Garner will be keeping an eye on us from now on. He’s still trying to nab Shandy for prostitution.” “What Shandy does is not my department. And the photo shoot is over. You want to come down and see the results or not?” “I’ll wait till you print them.” Arnie went downstairs, and Emmett stole one last look outside. Shandy was wearing an eye patch. He wandered up to his room. Emmett stretched out on the bed. He wasn’t going to let Shandy go to Tony’s again, or do her trade anywhere else. He was going to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse. He closed his eyes. He monitored his body for pain and felt nothing. What were his cancer cells doing now? Were they so intimidated by his new passionate energy that they had gone into remission? He had to admit that the pain the doctors warned him about, the pain announcing the end was near, was slower to arrive than he had expected. His attitude had been the reason for the recent relapse, and Shandy had improved his attitude considerably. Emmett thought of the three words the Greeks had for love and realized that for the first time in his life he could say he had experienced them all. With Mary he’d had Agape most of all, a true soul mate, a woman so tuned to his own rhythm of living, so sensitive to his moods and dreams, that she felt like family, like ken, in the deepest sense. Mary also had been his best friend, Fidelia, since they had been high school sweethearts. Their almost-forty-year marriage had been solid 119

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and good. It wasn’t perfect. Mary couldn’t have children, and they enjoyed traveling too much to settle down and begin a family by adopting. But Emmett didn’t miss not having children. And then there was sex. Eros. His sex life with Mary was good, he’d always told himself while she was living. They were both sexually inexperienced when they met, and what erotic expression they shared, they learned to speak together, though not very fluently. Despite periodic experimentation in the bedroom, which was never successful, mostly they made love by having intercourse in the missionary position. Only occasionally did Emmett feel like he was missing something, after loneliness in port had driven him to a prostitute, where he’d have sex that was as wild as it was superficial, but his sense of missing something with Mary was always overwhelmed by the deeper guilt of having betrayed her. When his early clumsy attempts to broaden their sex life failed, Emmett stopped bringing what he learned from prostitutes into their bedroom at home. So Emmett had never felt the raw lust with Mary that he had felt with the Princess in Guam or with Shandy now. Of course, everything was different today – in fact, Marg might even be right, the cancer may have invaded his brain, and this new and sudden erotic passion might be a symptom of the disease, a dying man’s last great bellow of sensual release, his last grasp for erotic feeling. Yet even if its source were desperation, this did not negate the great sensual pleasure he felt with Shandy. What was wrong with feeling raw sensual pleasure? Speak of the devil: Shandy stood in the doorway, wearing the eye patch, and said, “What do you think?” “I don’t think your eye is bad enough to need it,” said Emmett. He got to his feet. “Does it make me look like a pirate?”

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“You look too good to be a pirate. I’ve been thinking about you. Where’ve you been?” “I went on a photo shoot with Arnie. What have you been doing?” “I bought you a present.” “Really? I love presents. When do I get it?” “As soon as you take off that thing.” “You’re teasing me.” She removed the eye patch and said, “Where is it?” “It’s closer than you think.” “Not in my car then. In my room!” She rushed across the hallway, and Emmett was right behind her. He stepped into her room to find her picking up the pillow on the bed. Then she turned down the bedspread and found the small jewelry box. Shandy picked it up and faced him. “Open it,” said Emmett. “I’m afraid to. If it’s a ring—“ “It’s not a ring.” “Okay then.” She ripped off the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was a simple necklace, a silver chain holding a silver replica of a crab, the symbol of Cancer. “It’s beautiful,” Shandy said. “How did you know my sign?” “You told me.” “I forgot.” She stepped close enough to kiss him on the cheek. “Help me put it on.” She was patient with him while he fumbled with the chain. He was never very good at such things. When he finally had the necklace secure, she turned and said, “What do you think?” “It’s perfect.” “You’re so sweet.” She kissed him again, on the forehead. “I also have a proposition for you,” said Emmett. 121

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“I can’t right now. I want to get some work done.” “Not that. A job offer.” “What job offer?” “To be my companion. I’ll pay you three hundred dollars a week.” Shandy was speechless. “I’m not sure I understand,” she said. “You stop going to Tony’s. You make love to no one except me.” “You want me to be your concubine,” said Shandy, using a word that had always fascinated her. “My lover. My angel.” “You’d really pay me three hundred a week?” “Yes.” “I can’t believe it.” “You ought to be able to save for your move with no trouble. By the end of the summer, you’d have quite a nest egg.” Shandy was already figuring that she could afford to get out of town a lot sooner than that. “Is it a deal?” Emmett asked. “Can I still go to Portland?” “We’re all going to Portland.” “It’s a deal! I can’t believe how sweet you are.” Again she leaned forward to kiss him, and this time they shared a long deep kiss on the lips. As far as Shandy was concerned, their affair began in earnest at this moment, not with her earlier sexual favor from pity. She was now his concubine, the most bohemian thing she’d ever done in her life. “Umm,” she said, pulling away. “So when does all this officially begin?” Emmett fetched his wallet and handed her three one hundred dollar bills. “Does this answer your question?”

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Shandy couldn’t believe it. She’d made five hundred dollars today! She took his hand and said, “Come see my new Artoon. Then I’m chasing you out so I can finish it.” She led him to the easel at the window, where Emmett found a drawing: A naked young woman with a braid reaching her waist, a young woman with larger breasts than Shandy, was holding an umbrella and walking in what appeared to be a hail storm. But upon closer scrutiny each tiny pellet of hail looked more like a missile, a missile shaped like a tiny penis. The young woman was being bombarded by cocks. Shandy said, “It Doesn’t Rain But It Pours. I love the title.” Emmett didn’t know what to say. He found the drawing disturbing. It suggested a part of Shandy he wasn’t sure he wanted to know about. He didn’t want to know anything that interfered with having sex with her. “It’s thought-provoking,” he said. “Good! Now get out of here so I can figure out how to finish it.”

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CHAPTER TWELVE The first morning Emmett awoke beside Shandy, he spent close to an hour watching her sleep. It was as if the subtle rhythm of her breathing had hypnotized him. Then she stirred, opened her eyes and saw him. They were in her bed, which made the occasion especially meaningful to Emmett. She had asked him to spend the night with her. He felt desired and needed. It didn’t occur to him that, strictly speaking, she was his employee. “Good morning,” she said sleepily. “Good morning.” She closed her eyes. In a moment, she opened them again. “What are you doing?” “Watching you,” said Emmett. “Why?” There was no way he could answer the question. Emmett was not a religious man, not in the church-going sense, but he considered himself a spiritual person. How could you not be spiritual after standing watch in the South Pacific under a blizzard of stars? Watching Shandy sleep was a spiritual experience, though he knew better than to say so. Emmett knew no one – not Arnie, Helen, or Shandy herself – who would not laugh at such a confession. Words somehow trivialized the experience. So he said nothing and smiled. Shandy smiled back, closed her eyes and went back to sleep. What Emmett could not put into words was his sense of wonder at the smooth, tight texture of her skin. She was lying on her side, facing him, the bed sheet at her waist, which exposed her small breasts and at this angle swelled them enough to approximate cleavage. One forearm was angled under them, and Emmett, on his side facing her, put his own arm next to hers, hairy and blemished and as wrinkled as a 124

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worn, over-sized coat. This is what happens to skin, he thought, comparing their arms; this is what results from living; this is what is meant by the expression, Shrivel up and die. This is what is meant by another cliché, Youth is wasted on the young. She surely had no idea how ephemeral, and therefore how miraculous, was the incredible beauty of her pale smooth skin. Soon enough a blemish would appear, and another; soon enough the tight skin would wrinkle and fall over bone like the inept fitting of a drunken tailor. Soon enough Shandy would look as old as Emmett looked. But soon was not now, not today, and Emmett could lie in attentive silence next to the wonder of her youth, which was as radiant and magical as a South Pacific night sky. In the beginning their bargain was about sex more than companionship, and Emmett and Shandy agreed to sleep together each night. As a rule they spent little time together during the day. Shandy, released from the burden of making money, began working in a frenzy, determined to produce as many finished Artoons as possible to take to San Francisco with her. Arnie, too, was hard at work in the basement, working on his new painting of Shandy as Lady Godiva. Emmett spent hours alone, reading, walking and taking long drives. The days were pleasant because he knew he’d spend the night next to Shandy. This expectation was enough to get him through whatever the day might bring. Not that he understood her any better. What kind of mind came up with the idea for a drawing like the one she was working on, a young girl bombarded by a deluge of cocks? Is this how she saw herself? Which one of those dicks falling from the sky like a missile was his own? The questions were endless and led only to confusion. He tried to forget everything about her except her sexual self, the only part of her about which his feelings were absolutely clear. If anything, his lust for her was stronger now than ever.

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On Wednesday afternoon Emmett decided to visit the cemetery, which was just south of town, on the road to Tony’s Truck Haven. The day was even cooler than yesterday, the temperature barely reaching the seventies. Emmett preferred the ninety-degree afternoons that were normal in summer. Mary’s headstone was modest, a small stone engraved with the essentials. It had been a while since he’d visited and the surrounding grass was overrun with weeds and dandelions. He never thought of dandelions as weeds but as wild flowers, and they had spread a yellow blanket in every direction across the graveyard. He thought they were beautiful. He kneeled at Mary’s grave. His own plot was beside hers, a small reserved area in the relentless march of gravestones across the landscape, and he had cheated the odds by not joining her by now. Before his cancer, he had visited her weekly but after his own death warrant, he found the graveyard too immediate, too depressing. He wondered if Mary would have understood his affair with Shandy. It was a hypothetical question: had she been alive, he never would have cheated on her so blatantly, despite dissatisfactions in his sex life that he understood more now than when he was experiencing them. He had not forced the practice of oral sex in their marriage because Mary seemed perfectly satisfied with his periodic mounting of her in the missionary position, and his own sex drive had deteriorated so much with age that sex didn’t seem that important any more. They cuddled every night and this seemed more intimate than sex, it became their primary expression of physical love. How different he felt today. If he let himself get carried away, he could conjure up the touch and smell of Shandy’s sex and the way her clitoris swelled under the wet probing of his tongue. He could conjure up the warm embrace of her lips on his penis. He could drive himself crazy with these memories.

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Look at me, he thought, kneeling at my wife’s grave and lusting after another woman. He fled the graveyard feeling guilty. As he reached his Chevy, another car pulled into the small lot. When the driver got out, Emmett recognized Josie. You couldn’t miss her, a large redheaded woman in a striking purple tye-dye smock. “Hello,” he called. “Hi, Emmett.” She walked his way. “How are you feeling today?” “Not bad. Are your parents buried here?” “Yes. And your wife, right?” “Yes.” “Well, it’s nice running into you.” He watched her a moment, then called, “Josie?” “Yes?” “I wonder if we could talk some time. About Shandy.” She approached him again. “We could do that,” she said. “What are you doing in an hour?” “An hour would work. I appreciate it.” “Want to come by for coffee?” “You’ll have to tell me where you live.” She gave him directions. “An hour, then,” said Emmett. “I appreciate it, Josie.” He thought he saw pity in her smile. An hour later Emmett was parked outside Josie’s cottage, sitting in the car and waiting. She pulled up and got out, waving at him to follow her to the door. As soon as he was inside the cottage, Emmett wanted to leave. What was he thinking of, saying he wanted to talk to Josie? “So tell me about Shandy,” she said. “I really shouldn’t be bothering you.”

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“It’s no bother at all. Shandy is one of my favorite people. She told me about you.” “She did?” “I think what is happening is good. Unusual, and if the locals find out, well, you know what they’ll think. But to me it looks like you’re both being good to one another. In this time and place, you’re right for each other. You can’t expect much more than that in this world.” Emmett didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t expecting support or endorsement. “You’re worried about her, aren’t you?” Josie asked. “I never approved of what’s happening at Tony’s. I never even knew about it until recently.” “She’s not going to do that any more,” said Emmett. He explained the bargain he’d struck with Shandy. He added, “I suppose you take me for an old fool.” “You need as much affection as anybody else.” “Is that what it is, affection?” Josie seemed to be weighing her words. “I’m coming to this from a different direction,” she said. “I used to work at the Mustang Ranch. You’ve heard of it?” “Of course.” “I went into the sex business with a definite goal in mind and when I achieved it, I left. You don’t hear my story very often. No drugs, no being a victim. My story isn’t sordid.” Emmett waited for her to continue. “When I learned what she was doing, I thought of calling some people in Reno in her behalf. It’d be a hell of a lot safer to work there than freelance around here. But she has her independent, stubborn streak, too. I’m not sure she could work for an institution. I’m really glad you relieved the financial pressure on her. Did she tell you when she’ll be leaving?” “Maybe the end of August.” His voice had cracked, and Josie studied him. He looked away. 128

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“Are you falling in love with her?” Josie asked. “No. Well, not how you mean. The Greeks had three words for love.” He repeated, almost word for word, what Arnie had told him about Eros, Fidelia and Agape. “I definitely feel Eros for her.” “We call it lust, don’t we?” “Eros sounds, I don’t know, more refined. More poetic or something. I really don’t feel like a dirty old man.” “That’s the trouble with the world if you ask me,” said Josie. “We’re afraid to admit that we evolved from animals, that there’s still a lot of animal instincts and animal needs in us, and instead of adding human qualities to the animal, to complement our primal nature, we try to dismiss the animal entirely and replace it with so-called human morality. All we do is repress the animal, and every now and then it’s just going to burst up and erupt, like a deep lustful volcano that’s been buried inside us all along. So a man will leave his family and run off with a barmaid and all his friends will say they’re shocked.” Emmett gave this some thought. He said, “The older I get, the less I know about anything.” “Emmett, given your age and your health, you can’t delude yourself into thinking you have a future with her.” “I don’t have a future, period.” “I know. But the heart plays tricks on the mind. You might begin to think that you do.” “I’ve become very good at taking life one day at a time.” “Good.” “You sound like you should be a psychiatrist.” “At the Ranch, I always felt like that was half my job,” she laughed. “More coffee?” “No. I won’t take up any more of your time. You’ve been very helpful.” They stood up. Emmett said, “I felt like I needed to talk about this.” 129

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“I know.” Josie stepped forward and embraced him. In her arms, Emmett felt dwarfed by her size and was breathless when she released him. He said goodbye. Emmett was halfway home before he realized that he hadn’t even mentioned the reason he wanted to talk to Josie in the first place, to ask about Shandy’s art. Did Shandy have any talent? Emmett had no idea. Had Josie seen the drawing Shandy was working on? He couldn’t get the image of a young girl walking under a barrage of cocks out of his mind. The drawing seemed so angry; yet Emmett saw no trace of anger in Shandy, especially not when they made love. Maybe Josie could have explained the drawing to him. He’d have to ask her another day.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN Emmett pulled in front of the farmhouse to find Helen getting into her station wagon. She waited for him to come to her. “Arnie didn’t know where you were,” she said. “What’s up?” “I don’t know what I want,” Helen said. She was close to tears. Emmett told her to get out and join him on the porch swing. When they sat down, the swing tilted Helen’s way. Helen stared at him. She didn’t seem angry or even hurt. She looked fragile, on the verge of a break down. “What would Mary think?” she said. “That’s dirty pool,” said Emmett. “I’m not the one playing dirty pool, mister.” “Mary would have been more upset by you and me sleeping together.” Was that true? He had no idea. He’d said it in defense and, as he usually did on such occasions, immediately regretted saying it. “I’m sorry. I don’t know if that’s true or not. I don’t know what the hell is true any more.” “I think I can understand why you’re doing this,” Helen said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it. I think you’re afraid to die and being with someone so young must be like escaping the inevitable for a little while.” Emmett had no quarrel with this. He wasn’t interested in explanations or motivations. He was only interested in how he felt in the present tense, and right now he was feeling awkward and uncomfortable. Helen said, “I object to the way you’re doing it. Right here in town, in front of God and everyone, with the only young girl in this town who is capable of something like this. Why

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couldn’t you have spent a week in Nevada at one of those brothels?” She looked like she was waiting for an answer. Emmett said, “It’s not like I planned this. I didn’t even start it.” Shandy would not have agreed. “From what I’ve heard,” said Helen, “she’s selling sex in the parking lot at Tony’s. Of all people to get involved with.” “It just happened, Helen. It just happened.” “I want to be your friend,” she said. “I just don’t know what to do.” “You can begin by holding your criticism. I have a right to make my own mistakes. It’s not like I have much time to make many more.” “Seriously, Emmett, how are you feeling? How many pain pills are you taking? Maybe you should see your doctor.” If he communicated a mere fraction of how much better he felt since Shandy had entered his life, he would hurt her more than he’d already managed, so he changed the subject. He lied. “I have an appointment at the end of the month,” he said. “Tell him about Shandy. It’s something he should know about.” His love life was not a doctor’s business, but again Emmett refrained from speaking his mind. There was a long silence. Helen broke it. “Did I ever tell you why Wayne left me? Why he said he divorced me?” Wayne was her ex-husband, whom Emmett had never met, and almost twenty years had passed since their divorce. “Helen, you don’t have to tell me this.” She glared at him, and Emmett couldn’t remember ever seeing such fierce tenacity in her eyes. “I’m talking about something important here.” “Okay, Helen, why did Wayne leave you?”

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“He said because I made him frustrated all the time. You understand what I mean?” Emmett looked away. This was the last thing he wanted to talk about. “Did I frustrate you, too?” Helen asked. Emmett didn’t reply. “I can’t help it if I’m not a very sexual person,” she said. “I always thought there were things that mattered more than sex. Apparently not to most men. Maybe all men. Tell me, Emmett, which is it? What was your sex life with Mary like?” “I’m not going to sit here and discuss my sex life.” “Remember when you called us a couple of beached whales?” Emmett took a deep breath. “That was not meant as a criticism,” he said. “It was meant as a joke.” “Did I laugh?” “No, you cried.” “I can’t help it if sex is a touchy subject with me. I just don’t enjoy it as much as other people do. Does that mean I deserve to be left? Wayne leaves me and you probably did for the same reason.” “I didn’t leave you,” Emmett protested. “What do you call it?” “We just sort of …” “Sort of what?” “We started relating to one another in other ways.” “Because I frustrated you sexually.” He wanted to say that he’d probably been frustrated sexually all his life without even realizing it until Shandy awoke the latent lust in him. Emmett said, “We just changed, Helen. It was nobody’s fault.” There was another silence. “What do you want from me, Helen?” 133

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“I’m afraid to tell you.” “Tell me,” said Emmett. “I’m your friend.” “I want you to make love to me.” Emmett was stunned. This was the last thing he expected her to say. “I can’t do that,” he said. “Then I guess I’ll be on my way.” As she struggled to stand up, he half-expected her to throw herself into his arms and start bawling. But she didn’t look at him. The porch swing tilted Emmett’s way, and he stood up, too. Emmett caught up with her at the top of the steps. He grabbed her arm. “Don’t run off this way,” he said. The expression Emmett saw next was something he’d never read in her face before. She loved him. He assumed she did from time to time, especially during the period of their intimacy, but now he saw a love that was deeper and more intransigent than he’d noticed or imagined before. And the consequences of such love, he knew, intensified her pain. “What do you want me to do, Emmett? What can I possibly offer you now?” Emmett measured his words carefully before speaking. “Let’s back up and put this in perspective. I’m dying, Helen. Whatever I do, whatever you do, time is at a premium here. Even feeling as good as I do right now, we both know I’m not going to make it much longer, certainly not to the end of the year. I probably won’t make it to the end of the summer. What happened with Shandy just happened. She seduced me, is what it amounts to, and I found a part of myself that I hadn’t experienced before, and I’m just going day to day with that, with what feels good to me, and the last thing I want to do is hurt you or anybody else. We’re not a couple, Helen. We haven’t been for months now. We’re also more alike than you realize. In many ways, I’m as much of a prude as you are.” 134

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“Is that what I am? Now at least I know.” “Helen, I’m not calling you any name that I’m not calling myself.” “Well, does the girl know you’re a prude?” Emmett didn’t reply. Helen said, “This is a very small town. People don’t approve of this sort of thing.” “It’s not like I’m all that obvious.” “Emmett Hale.” she said, “Sometimes you’re as naive as a teenager.” He watched the station wagon pull a tail of dust out to the road. In what way was he being naïve? He didn’t know how he could be more discrete than he was being. Emmett found the house empty. Where was everyone? Through the back window he could see Bill and the boys hard at work. The foundation to the gazebo was set and framed, and now they were fitting together the ribs of its floor. He took the stairs down to the basement. Arnie was working on the painting, and Emmett was shocked to learn how large the canvas was. Shandy would end up being over half as large as life. Hearing him, Arnie looked up. “Am I interrupting?” Emmett asked. “I need a break. It’s about time curiosity got the best of you.” Near Arnie’s easel was a long workbench, which was covered with paint tubes and photographs. Arnie picked up a stack of prints and held them out. Emmett saw immediately that they were proof sheets of the photo shoot with Shandy. “There’s a magnifier on the light table,” said Arnie. The photographs, too, were far different from what Emmett expected. He bent over the light table, inspecting each shot on the proof sheet with a cubical magnifier. Emmett saw the Lady Godiva theme immediately and liked it. Originally he had expected a photograph of Shandy just standing there 135

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naked. These photographs communicated far more than nakedness. They were sensual, of course, but they somehow suggested much more than sensuality; they were like miniature works of art, somehow capturing another time and place, a young nude girl defying a kingdom, however it went, even though Emmett knew the photographs had been posed in the woods only a few miles away. Shandy looked archetypal, nudity as defiance, as social protest. Shandy’s expressions reinforced the theme. In several shots she looked directly at the camera and seemed to be saying, If you disapprove of me, then fuck you! “These are amazing,” said Emmett. “This is the one I chose,” said Arnie, pointing to one of the shots. “I like it.” Emmett put down the proof sheets and asked, “What do you think of Shandy’s drawings?” “I like her balls.” “I’m not sure what you mean.” “She has a vision of the world and she expresses it. She visualizes it.” “How would you describe her vision of the world?” Arnie laughed. “I know so little about art,” Emmett admitted. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at something much larger. Our situation.” “Go on.” “As humans. Our need to explain everything in words.” “How else would you explain it?” “Maybe some things are meant to be felt rather than understood.” “Can’t they be both?” “In art, I don’t think so. But if I had to describe a major theme in her work in words, I’d say something like Cocks Rule.” 136

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“Cocks rule,” Emmett repeated. “Look at the world she depicts. She showed me her new drawing: cocks raining down on a girl like hail. Better, like bombs. In her world, cocks are weapons of war.” Did Shandy think his own cock was a weapon of war? The question was absurd, but Emmett kept his opinion to himself and let Arnie go on. “I think she hates men, deep down. I think she’s going to discover she’s a lesbian.” “You say that because you’re gay,” said Emmett. “I say it because she sees sex with men as a war. You don’t experience that with her?” “I most certainly do not. The whole idea is ridiculous.” “Well, I’m just telling you what I see in her drawings. Like I say, it’s not really something you can express with words. How do her drawings make you feel?” Emmett thought a moment. “Sad, I think. Maybe a little depressed.” “I rest my case.” Emmett went over this conversation through what remained of the afternoon as he puttered around the yard, pulling weeds from the front flower beds, then took a walk across the pasture and back. He didn’t pretend to understand Shandy or to know anything about what motivated her to do the things she did, and he certainly didn’t understand her drawings, or even like them much, but it was impossible to fit Arnie’s strange theory about sex as war into the genuine tenderness and ultimate passion with which they made love. He’d have to believe Shandy was the greatest actress on the planet to think otherwise.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN i Shandy was on a roll. No sooner had she finished her Artoon than she started another. The new idea was this: a baseball field, a dad hitting fly balls to a field of boys. By the dad’s side, a pile of baseballs – and each ball is really a naked female doll. Working title, “Dad teaches his boys the American Pastime.” She sketched out the idea quickly but something about it bothered her. She decided to let the concept simmer while she enjoyed the weekend in Portland. Arnie wanted to get away Friday around noon, so they could navigate Portland before the rush-hour traffic began. This was no problem for Emmett, who could be ready to go in a matter of minutes, but Arnie worried about Shandy’s being ready on time, and it became Emmett’s job to make sure she was. In the meantime, Arnie took Bill aside to set down the ground rules while they were gone. Bill would have a key to the basement door so they could use the bathroom down there, but the rest of the house was off-limits. “What do you think, I’m going to rob you?” Bill asked. “Of course not. But I wouldn’t put it past Adam.” Bill considered this. “Well, I’m the one with the key, and when I leave the premises, everyone leaves the premises.” “That’s what I wanted to hear,” said Arnie. “Are you on schedule?” “Oh, yes. But we’re still going to work on Saturday.” “Long as you’re done before the Fourth.” “I’m shooting for the First.” While Arnie talked to Bill, Emmett waited in the hallway upstairs, watching Shandy rush around in her room, trying to decide what to pack. 138

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“We’re only staying two nights,” he reminded her. This information didn’t seem to make the process any easier for her. Later Arnie called up the stairs, “Is everybody ready up there?” “Time to go,” Emmett said. Shandy rushed to him and said, “How does my eye look?” “It looks fine,” he said, which wasn’t quite true. It looked better, not fine. “Maybe I should wear the eye patch.” “You don’t need an eye patch. Now hurry up.” “I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes.” Fifteen passed before Shandy raced down the stairway with her backpack. She wasn’t wearing the eye patch. But she was wearing, Emmett noticed, the Cancer necklace, and this pleased him. Finally they were on their way, looking like a motley trio of tourists. Emmett looked like a yachtsman in light blue slacks with a matching shirt and a dark blue Greek fishing cap. Shandy was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, looking like she still belonged in high school. Arnie resembled a hospital orderly, dressed entirely in white. Even his loafers were white. Not entirely in white after all: his socks were lavender. Arnie drove the van, Emmett rode shotgun, and Shandy had the large back seat to herself. Emmett soon felt out of place. Shandy and Arnie had started the art talk before they were out of Hamartin, and it continued on the drive north to The Falls and after the van turned west on the Interstate to follow the Columbia River to Portland. Arnie did most of the talking, telling Shandy about some of the galleries they were going to visit and about his friend Henry, their host, who was an artist whose interests included work that made a political statement, much as Shandy’s work did. When Shandy took issue with this, Arnie laughed and changed the subject. Emmett stared out the window and let the art talk fade into background noise. Across the river, on the Washington side, a 139

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long freight train was racing them west. Emmett didn’t particularly like Portland, and he already regretted coming, sensing how much of an outcast he would be as Shandy followed Arnie around to gallery after gallery. The only attraction Portland had for Emmett was Powell’s Books, a huge bookstore where he could stock up on military histories and Ross Macdonald mysteries. He would try to persuade the others to go to Powell’s first, so at least he’d have reading material with which to pass the time as Arnie showed Shandy the art world of Portland. He wondered if he and Shandy would be sleeping together. He hoped so. It occurred to him that he must let the host know that he and Shandy were there as a couple. She was his hired companion, after all, his angel of salvation. He must insist that they be allowed to sleep together. It was his last thought before Arnie shook him awake, and Emmett opened his eyes and brought the Portland skyline into focus. ii Emmett took an immediate liking to Henry Pontiac. It was hard not to like Henry: a big man, he was constantly grinning and laughing, with such an intimidating presence that anything but robust fun seemed likely to upset him. Henry made points with Emmett by quickly taking him aside to verify that he and Shandy would be sharing a bed, which, to Emmett’s surprise, had been the bedding arrangement suggested by Arnie. Henry was a veteran and proudly displayed his Army First Sergeant Stripes and service ribbons in a frame over the fireplace, a kind of patriotic pride that was all too rare. Henry still had the look of a warrior, with his great bulk and shaven head and piercing eyes. His white goatee was trimmed, and his muscular body, despite its size, seemed to belong to a much younger man. Arnie had told Emmett that Henry was 60 going on 40, and Emmett believed it.

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Henry lived in a Portland neighborhood known as the Northwest. Emmett had never been in Northwest Portland before and immediately liked the neighborhood better than the other areas of the city he’d visited. Northwest had the feel of a cohesive community, with numerous local taverns and secondhand shops, a drug store and a movie theater, cafes and a 24hour restaurant called Quality Pie. The neighborhood had the feel of being a self-contained little town on the edge of the city. Emmett and Shandy had a private bedroom, which as near as Emmett could tell was otherwise a guest room. This assessment proved to be correct when Henry said that his daughter usually stayed there but was back in a rehab center after relapsing on booze again. Emmett and Shandy decided to unpack later and joined Henry and Arnie in the large living room with hardwood floors and a fireplace. Henry’s apartment was the entire ground floor of a three-story Victorian house. “Arnie’s told me about your drawings,” Henry said to Shandy. “Your sensibility sounds a little like Heinrich Kley’s. Are you familiar with his work?” Emmett, disappointed that the conversation was turning to art so soon, went to the bookcase to see what was there. Shandy admitted she was not familiar with the name. “That’s the one I’ve been trying to think of,” said Arnie. To Shandy he added, “Remember your senior drawing that upset me so much? And I said it reminded me of a German but I couldn’t remember his name?” Shandy didn’t like being compared to anyone but she didn’t say so. “I have a book of Kley’s,” said Henry. He joined Emmett at the bookcase. “What do you like to read?” Henry asked him. “Military history. Mysteries. I’ve read most of Ross Macdonald.” “If you like Greek history, I have a lot on the Trojan War. The top shelf, there.” 141

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Emmett was only interested in U.S. history, mainly of World War II, his war, but he followed Henry’s gesture and stepped to his right. Henry picked out a slim paperback and rejoined the others. “Here it is,” he said, handing the volume to Shandy. “I think you’ll like his work.” “If you do, Powell’s probably has it,” Arnie said. Emmett stepped away from the bookcase and asked, “When are we going to Powell’s?” “Makes no difference to me,” said Arnie. “I’d like to go sooner rather than later,” Emmett said. “I didn’t bring anything to read.” But over an hour passed before they were on their way. Shandy began browsing through the book of drawings, at first with only polite interest, but the more she saw, the more engrossed she became, until finally she exclaimed, “This guy is amazing!” That’s all it took for Henry and Arnie to start telling her all about the German artist, Heinrich Kley. Later Emmett would see for himself what all the fuss was about. Before leaving for Powell’s, Shandy put on the eye patch and asked Henry for an opinion. To Emmett’s disappointment, he loved it, saying it made her look very artistic. Shandy decided to wear it out into public. While Shandy, Arnie and Henry beelined to the bookstore’s art section to look for Kley’s drawings, Emmett went to the mystery section and to his delight found a new novel by Ross Macdonald, called The Drowning Pool. He then asked a clerk to guide him to the military history section, where he browsed for almost an hour. He ended up buying an armload of books, including The Haven-finding Art: a History of Navigation, The Wonderful World of the Sea, and Two Centuries of Sea Power, 1776-1976. He was still browsing when Arnie found him. Arnie had bought Shandy the Kley book as an early birthday present.

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Everyone was ready to go gallery hopping, and Emmett was invited along. If he didn’t want to join them, which he didn’t, Henry would give him the house and apartment keys so he could go back at his leisure. When Emmett said he wasn’t sure if he could find the way, Henry went to the counter and borrowed pen and paper, sketching him a quick map. Outside Powell’s Books, they went their separate directions, the three artists heading for downtown. Emmett watched them go, wondering what to do next. His sack of books was heavy enough that he didn’t want to do more walking than necessary, so he glanced at the scribbled map, got his bearings, and started back to Northwest. By the time Emmett found the apartment house he was perspiring and breathing heavily, even though the mild weather suggested fall more than summer. He thumbed through most of the books he’d purchased before he noticed the volume of Kley’s drawings sitting on the coffee table. He picked it up and opened it. He flipped through the pages, stopping here and there on a drawing that caught his eye, usually by appalling him. When Emmett thought of “art,” he thought of pictures that were pleasant to look at. A painting of a rustic scene, for example. The nude of Shandy. Shandy’s Artoon had disturbed him, and the drawings of Heinrich Kley were even more upsetting. They were grotesque and shocking and appalling. Emmett didn’t know how to define the word “obscene” but he knew it when he saw it, and Kley’s drawings earned the label. In one, titled “The Love Match,” a bride and groom were in fisticuffs at the altar. In another, “Sabotage,” a giant of a devil-looking creature held his hand over the top of a smokestack at a factory, causing all the workers to race outside gagging, gasping for breath. In “Parlor Game” two giant creatures threw football-sized bodies at one another, each with a large pile of dead bodies at his side. And in the drawing that disturbed Emmett the most, “Accordion,” a giant, fat naked

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woman held a string of small human bodies, dangling like fish from a line, and squeezed the bodies together like an accordion. Emmett dropped the slim book. He remembered how excitedly Henry and Arnie talked to Shandy about this artist, how important it all sounded to unschooled ears. The drawings, as far as Emmett was concerned, came from a sick mind. The drawings were grotesque and inhumane. He hoped Shandy didn’t follow Kley’s influence to such extremes. Looking through the Kley book had depressed him. Emmett went into the guest bedroom, stretched out on the bed and tried to nap, and when that didn’t work he tried to read but soon found his mind drifting. More than ever he wished he’d stayed home and let Shandy enjoy her little adventure into Portland alone. Emmett decided to check out the neighborhood. The nearest busy street to Henry’s apartment was Twenty-Third Avenue, and Emmett walked almost a mile up one side, taking his time, before crossing the street to return. He was surprised by how many taverns were in the neighborhood, many with large front windows that let him look inside. Emmett associated drinking in bars and taverns with younger people but most of the customers in the taverns he peered into were older men and women, many looking old enough to be retired. The taverns were the local gathering places, he decided, hangouts for those who had nowhere else to go. He chose a tavern, called Nobby’s, and entered. A baseball game was on the television set above the bar, and half-a-dozen old men stared up at it. Only a few tables in the large establishment were occupied, these by women in nurse’s uniforms. Emmett chose a table by the window and sat down. He didn’t realize how tired he was until he got off his feet. He took a napkin from a basket and wiped his brow. Soon a waitress came over and asked him if he wanted lunch. The question made him realize how hungry he was, so 144

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he picked up the menu and told the waitress to give him a minute. When the waitress looked back at his table, Emmett was bent forward, one side of his face flat against the table. She hurried over. Emmett’s eyes were closed and his mouth open. “Sir? Are you all right?” Emmett didn’t respond. “Sir?” The waitress touched his shoulder and shook him gently. She swung around to the bar and yelled, “Someone call the hospital!” With a hospital right in the neighborhood, it took only fifteen minutes to get Emmett to the emergency room. The crew with the ambulance had found him awake but disoriented and complaining of dizziness. They took no chances and carried him off on a gurney.. By the time a doctor saw him, Emmett was embarrassed for making such a fuss. After it was determined that Emmett was not in any immediate danger or in need of emergency treatment, a male nurse led him to an examination room and left him there. The longer Emmett waited, the more ridiculous the entire situation seemed. But he couldn’t be sure because he had little memory of what had happened. One moment he was sitting at a table at Nobby’s, waiting to order his hamburger, and the next he was surrounded by young men in white clothing, who were treating him like the victim of a terrible misfortune. Then he was put on a gurney and hustled off to the hospital. “What happened to you?” the doctor asked. Emmett cleared his throat. “I over-extended myself,” he said meekly. “In what way?” “I walked from Powell’s, and then around the neighborhood, and it was too much for me.” The doctor looked at him a long time before speaking. “Do you live in the neighborhood?” 145

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“I’m visiting from Hamartin.” “Where’s that?” “South of The Falls.” “So you have somewhere to go, someone to stay with?” “Yes.” “Your blood pressure is high. Has your doctor at home talked about that?” Emmett’s blood pressure had been borderline high most of his life. “Yes,” he said, without explaining further. He wanted out of there. He especially didn’t want any more probing questions. Emmett stood up. “I feel fine now,” he said. “They’re expecting me.” “How far do you have to go?” “Only a couple blocks.” The doctor thought a moment. “We can’t find anything wrong with you,” he said, “except that your blood pressure is a little high. Have you been sick recently?” Emmett decided this was his opportunity to end the matter. “I just got over a bad case of the flu,” he lied. “I guess I’m still weaker than I thought. I don’t walk this much normally.” “You probably should,” said the doctor, “but not until you have your strength back. Be more careful.” “Yes, doctor, I’ll certainly be more careful.” Stepping into the sunshine was like stepping out of prison. Emmett thought of returning to Nobby’s to order his lunch but decided against it. He slowly walked to Henry’s apartment, which was closer to six blocks than two, and let himself in. By the time the others returned from their tour of art galleries, Emmett was snoring in the guest bedroom.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN Emmett opened his eyes to find Shandy staring down at him. The eye patch was off. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Of course.” His voice had a frog in it, and he cleared his throat. “I feel asleep reading. What’s up?” “We’re about to start dinner, and then we’re going to a movie. Taxi Driver is playing.” Emmett had coughed while she was speaking and wasn’t sure what she’d said about a taxi. “You’re taking a taxi?” “It’s a new movie. It’s supposed to be really cool. Are you going to come?” Emmett sat up and tried to gather his thoughts. Had he been dreaming? He was having a hard time bringing his thoughts into focus. “I’ll be out in a minute,” he said. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Emmett remembered being at the hospital. “I’m fine,” he said. When he joined the others, they already were seated around a table off the kitchen. A place had been set for Emmett, and once he identified it he sat down beside Shandy. “You feeling okay?” Arnie asked. Emmett was very tired of the question. He refused to respond. Henry said, “We’re going to see Taxi Driver. You’ll be coming with us, I assume.” Emmett had never heard of this movie everyone seemed so excited about, but he said, “Sure.” Dinner was Chinese food-to-go from a neighborhood restaurant, and there was more than enough for everyone. Emmett liked Chinese food and eating revived him. He also felt less out of place around the dinner table, where talk wasn’t 147

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about art for a change but about the way Portland was changing, and Oregon itself was changing, due to the great influx of population from California. “Beaverton is no longer a suburb of Portland,” said Henry. “It’s a suburb of L.A. And out your way, Riverbend is a suburb of San Francisco.” Riverbend, a hundred mouths south of Hamartin, was the largest town in Central Oregon. “You know, on a Sunday morning in Riverbend, it’s easier to buy the Sunday Chronicle than the Sunday Oregonian. That’s a fact. And it’s all going to get much worse before it gets better, you can count on that.” Shandy said, “What’s wrong with Portland being like LA or Riverbend like San Francisco?” Henry grinned. “Spoken like a young Turk.” Shandy looked puzzled. “When you get to be an old fart,” said Arnie, “you resist change. You appreciate the smaller things and understand that growth isn’t always positive.” Emmett spoke up for the first time. “It’s easy to understand why young people flee a town like Hamartin, though. What does a small town have to offer them? Unless you want to be a farmer or a rancher, what can you do in Cascadia County? Maybe if a town like Riverbend adds a little sophistication from San Francisco, more young people will stay in Central Oregon.” No one had anything to say in response to this, and Emmett wondered if he’d said something wrong. He was trying to let Shandy know that he understood what she’d said, that he was on her side. His comment had stopped the conversation instead, until Henry volunteered to read what the New York Times had to say about Taxi Driver. Emmett didn’t often go to movies, and this should have been his clue, especially after hearing Henry’s review. The last good movies Emmett had seen were From Here to Eternity and 148

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Mr. Roberts, which suggested his tastes. He found Taxi Driver boring in the beginning and later bleak and depressing, and then immoral somehow, or at least perverse in its vision of life. Alone, he would have walked out before the movie was halfway along. Instead he sat next to Shandy in the dark theater, losing concentration on the movie until all he was thinking about was how to hold hands with her. In the end he simply reached over and took her hand. Shandy shot him a glance of reprimand and shushed him. She hadn’t brought her eye patch to the movies, and the darkness made her bruised eye look worse than it was. She glared at him and pulled her hand away. After that Emmett let his thoughts drift off, ignoring the movie and slowly becoming depressed, wishing he had never come to Portland. When the theater lights finally came up, he felt great relief. After the movie Emmett tagged along when all he wanted to do was return home and read before bedtime. They went to a cafe and everyone else talked about the movie, agreeing that it was something special. Shandy especially liked the role of Jodie Foster as the young prostitute, which disturbed Emmett since he thought this part of Shandy’s life had been terminated by his generous allowance. But maybe something like that was in your blood, maybe some young people needed the thrill of living dangerously. Emmett was aware, more than ever, of how little he and Shandy had in common, and this depressed him, too. More and more distractions from sex, from Eros, which he regarded as their bond, seemed to come forward each day. When Emmett started nodding off at the table, Arnie suggested they call it a night. Shandy vehemently disagreed. In fact, she wanted to go dancing. The compromise was reached that Arnie would accompany Emmett home in a taxi, and Henry would show Shandy the hotspots, a few of which might let her in without showing I.D. since she was with Henry. In the cab Arnie said, “You’re not feeling well, are you?” Emmett didn’t reply. 149

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“I can tell something’s wrong,” said Arnie. Emmett didn’t open up until they were home. Arnie had helped himself to Henry’s liquor cabinet, pouring two thin glasses of Grand Marnier. They took them into the living room and sat down. “I feel really out of place,” Emmett said. “I shouldn’t have come.” “Do you want to stop by the V.A.?” “No, it’s not that. I feel fine. I’m just bored and depressed.” “How can I help?” Emmett managed to smile. “When you first told me about this trip, I thought it would leave Shandy and I with the house to ourselves.” “I know you did.” “Then she was excited about coming, so I decided to come as well. I thought maybe it’d be like a weekend in the city together.” “Emmett, if you— “Let me finish. The thing is, we have nothing in common. Not really. We’re not even friends. You’re a closer friend to her than I am, at least you have art in common. All we have is sex.” “Want to trade? Sex looks pretty good when you aren’t getting any,” Arnie said. “I’m not complaining about it. I’m just wondering what the hell it is about me that seems to want more. Why can’t I settle for sex? I realize how lucky I am to have Eros with someone like her. It’s beyond my wildest fantasy. Why don’t I just go with it and leave all the rest alone?” “Because we all need more than sex. We want the whole package – Eros, Fidelia, Agape – with the same person if possible.” “I still feel like a fool.”

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“You, sir, are much too hard on yourself. So what if you’re a fool? Where’s not being a fool going to get you? Is it going to cure your cancer? Is it going to bring world peace?” “You think I’m creating my own problems, don’t you?” “Join the human race.” Emmett said, “Thanks, Arnie. I actually feel better.” “Sometimes this old queen manages to do something right. If what I said helps, fantastic. Now how about a brandy to chase away the sweetness?” “I’m going to read. I’ll see you in the morning.” Emmett changed into pajamas and began to read in bed. A few pages later he reached over and switched out the light. He stirred briefly when Shandy slipped into bed, but when she rolled away to show him her back, he rolled over as well, and each slept near the edge of the bed.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN i Emmett awoke with an erection for the first time in ages. If he’d been dreaming, he couldn’t remember about what. Beside him Shandy slept on her side, her back facing him, and he snuggled up against her and let his erect penis press against her bare buttocks. She had come to bed nude. He pressed again, hoping to signal her that he wanted sex, but all he received was a sleepy groan and retreat, as she scooted away from him. Emmett rolled over and in a moment his erection was gone. Their bodies no longer touched. He couldn’t get back to sleep. An hour later he slipped out of bed and quietly dressed. Henry was already up, sitting at the kitchen table over coffee. A small radio played classical music, its volume so low Emmett could barely hear it. “Another early morning person,” said Henry. He smiled. “Help yourself to coffee.” He gestured to a ceramic pot on the counter. Emmett made due with coffee and sat down across the table. “Usually Arnie’s up by now,” he said. “He is. He went for a walk.” “It looks like a nice neighborhood.” Henry shrugged. “I liked it better in the old days.” “Were you able to get Shandy into a dance club?” “Oh, yes.” Henry’s tone suggested there was a story to tell, and Emmett waited for it. Henry said, “We met an artist. He’s got a one-man show up at Marylhurst College. We thought we’d check it out after the Art Museum. You’re welcome to come, of course. If this isn’t your scene and you’re looking for something else to do, let me suggest Washington Park. There’s the Zoo and the 152

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Japanese Garden. You’re also close to the Pittock Mansion from there.” So the day was already planned, a fact that only increased Emmett’s sense of isolation. Maybe he should rent a car and drive home. Right now, this morning. Henry said, “We invited Brad, the young artist, over for breakfast.” We? Or Shandy invited him? A young artist. Emmett stood up and took his cup to the sink. He poured out the remaining coffee and rinsed the cup. He looked around for a place to put it. “Just leave it on the counter,” said Henry. “A walk sounds good,” Emmett said. A block away from the apartment, he ran into Arnie on his way back. “Good morning,” Arnie said. “She met someone last night. He’s coming over for breakfast.” “Henry told me.” “I didn’t know you had the entire day planned out.” “Emmett, don’t be like this. You knew I was coming to Portland to do the art scene. Shandy’s an artist herself, naturally she wants to come along.” “I should have stayed home.” “But you’re here, so try and make the best of it. Have you seen the zoo?” Emmett forced a laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m perfectly capable of keeping myself busy. I’ll see you later.” Walking on, Emmett had the feeling that Arnie was watching him, but when he turned around to look, Arnie was already climbing the steps onto the porch. Emmett walked farther and longer than he intended. If yesterday’s fainting spell had been caused by over-exertion, he gave no mind to it now. He walked steadily ahead, eyes to the 153

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front, like a man on a mission – only he was going nowhere in particular with no mission in mind. He was moving for the sake of moving. He ended up at Powell’s again, which was closed this early in the morning. Across a busy street was the edge of downtown Portland. He waited for a green light, crossed, and walked on. In a few blocks he was walking by a car rental agency. Through the large bay window he could see a young woman sitting alone behind the counter. He stopped, and only then did he realize how tired he was. He took a deep breath and monitored himself. He didn’t feel light-headed, though he was breathing heavily. He waited until he caught his breath before entering the agency. Half an hour later, Emmett backed a white Ford compact into the closest parking space he could find to the apartment, some two blocks away. The clerk, as if happy to have her first customer on a Saturday morning, had given him a deal: he didn’t have to have the car back until two tomorrow afternoon, and he would be charged only for a day. Moreover, he could return it either here or in The Falls. Now Emmett had options for the day, and his mind explored the possibilities. Everyone was up when he entered the apartment. Henry was at the stove, making hotcakes. Arnie and Shandy watched from the table. As soon as Emmett appeared, Shandy got up and raced to him. To his astonishment, she embraced him and kissed him on the cheek. “I missed you this morning,” she said suggestively. Apparently she didn’t remember groaning at the poke of his penis. “I want to talk to you a minute,” Emmett said. He led her into the living room. “I rented a car,” he told her. “I thought we might take a trip to the coast, maybe even spend the night.”

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He didn’t expect her to accept, and he could tell she was looking for the words to prove him right. “We’re going to the Art Museum today,” she said. “I hear you met an artist last night.” “You’ll meet him. Henry invited him to breakfast.” Shandy studied him. “Is that what this is about?” she asked. “Is what about?” “You’re acting like you’re mad at me for something. Like I’m not spending enough time with you. Nobody said you couldn’t come with us to the galleries, you know. Nobody said you can’t come to the Art Museum or the college or anywhere else we go. You act like you’re banned or something.” “I rented a car, and I’m going to spend the day at the coast . I just want to know if you’re coming with me.” “Is this part of my employment?” “Pardon me?” “Part of earning my salary. Of being your concubine.” He was stunned to hear her say the word with such ferocity.. It made their relationship seem trivial and meaningless. A concubine was not an angel of salvation. “Well?” she asked when his reply wasn’t prompt. “No,” he said. “You can do what you want.” He saw relief in her expression. Shandy moved close to him and said, “I’m really getting so much out of being here. There’s so much art to see. Art is what I do, Emmett. It’s who I am.” “I’m trying to remember that.” “I can give you a blow job before you go,” she said. “No! That’s not what I’m talking about.” Or was it? Driving to the coast alone, he wasn’t sure. Since it had been his idea to hire her, to pay her for sexual favors, why did he act insulted when she offered one? He was still lost in a fantasy that there was something more than a business arrangement that drew them together. After they’d 155

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returned to the kitchen, Shandy taking his hand so that they reappeared like morning lovers making their first appearance, Emmett sat at the table with the others and waited for his breakfast. The artist was supposed to join them, he remembered, but he was late and no one had his phone number to check in on him. Henry decided they should eat anyway, and Emmett could find no clue of disappointment in Shandy’s expression. Midway through breakfast the phone rang, and Henry accepted the artist’s apology for not being able to come over. Yes, they would still meet him at the college gallery in the afternoon. Emmett announced his plans for a trip to the coast right after breakfast, and no one made an effort to stop him. He didn’t know if he’d be spending the night there or not but would call and let them know. Shandy walked him to the rental car. “Maybe we can go to the coast together some other time,” she suggested after they had embraced. “Maybe.” “Don’t be mad at me,” she said. “I’ll make it up to you when we get home.” He wished he’d taken her up on her earlier offer. “I’ll see you tonight or tomorrow,” Emmett said. They pecked on the lips, as automatically as an old married couple, and he was on his way. ii After a Saturday morning run to Vista Park, Garner stopped by Mac’s. He found him mowing the lawn. Garner refused an invitation to come inside for coffee. He had stopped to ask one quick question. “What have you learned?” Garner could tell by the way Mac wouldn’t look him in the eye that the deputy hadn’t learned squat. Mac stammered

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on about the difficulty of finding hard facts in such a case until Garner couldn’t stand listening to him any more. “Have you searched the farmhouse?” he asked. Mac looked surprised by the question. “I’d have to have a search warrant,” he said. Garner said, “Or use a little imagination. Goddamn it, Mac, when are you going to learn there’s more than one way to skin a cat?” Garner started jogging away. Mac called after him, “Get me a search warrant, and I’ll search the place!” Garner ignored him. The Chief Deputy jogged home. He was only inside long enough to shower, change and dodge his wife’s pestering questions about their plans for the weekend. He walked out with the brief explanation, “I have a couple things to take care of.” At the Woodworth farmhouse, Garner parked alongside a pickup and got out. He could hear hammers hitting nails behind the house. He climbed the steps to the porch and rang the doorbell. He knocked on the door. Getting no reply, he walked around to the back of the house. Bill was the first to see him. He put down his hammer and greeted the Chief Deputy. “If you’re looking for the girl, they all went to Portland for the weekend,” Bill said. “Is that so?” “Said they’ll be back Sunday afternoon.” The two boys, Bill’s crew, were putting up the frame of a small building. It had an unusual foundation, shaped with more sides than a pentagon. “What are you building?” Garner asked. “A gazebo.” Garner shook his head. “My feeling exactly,” said Bill, “but I’m getting paid well enough for it.” 157

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One of the boys, Adam, stopped working and went to the house, entering through a back door. Jason kept pounding nails. “You have a key to the house?” Garner asked. “To the basement,” said Bill. “So we can use the john. Beats peeing on the barn.” “I imagine it does. Mind if I use the facilities myself?” “Help yourself.” Bill started hammering again as Garner reached the basement door. Garner entered to find Adam standing at a long table, engrossed in something that he quickly put down when he became aware that he had company. Adam rushed by the Chief Deputy without a word and returned to work. Garner stepped to the long table. It was covered with photographs, prints of the nude photography session he’d interrupted in the woods. On paper, in black and white, the young girl Shandy was considerably more sexy than he remembered her being. Then he saw the painting. It was huge and in color but too unfinished to evaluate its quality, though clearly it was going to be a picture of Shandy nude on the horse, almost life-sized. Although the painting wasn’t finished, there was enough there for Garner to know it was pornographic. He looked around and found the steps to the main floor. He entered the house proper and unlocked the front door. He fetched his camera from the car and returned, going back down to the basement. He took photographs of the painting and of all the evidence on the long table. He picked up one of the photographs and slipped it into the camera bag for evidence. Bill came into the basement. “Everything all right in here?” Bill asked. “We’re doing fine.” Bill lingered, not sure what was going on. He felt vaguely like a house sitter who wasn’t doing his job. Garner lowered the camera and stared at Bill. 158

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“Is there something you want?” Bill said, “Aren’t you supposed to have a search warrant to do something like this?” “You got a problem with what I’m doing?” Bill didn’t like being put on the defensive. Cops always made him nervous. “Not at all. Just wondering.” “I got a search warrant,” Garner lied. “Now do you mind?” “Just came in to use the head,” Bill said. Garner waited until Bill was done and outside again before climbing the stairs. Nothing on the ground floor interested him, so Garner took the stairs to the second floor. The first bedroom he entered was clearly Shandy’s by the pair of panties on the floor near the open doorway. He found evidence here, too. On an easel was an obscene drawing splotched in red as if blood had dripped onto the paper. The drawing depicted small penises dropping out of the sky, raining down on a naked girl holding an umbrella. It was the most perverted, sado-masochistic, disgusting thing Garner had ever seen in his life. He remembered one of the Biblical passages he had put to memory, “Furthermore, since they did not think it worthwhile to retain the knowledge of God, he gave them over to a depraved mind, to do what ought not to be done.” If there was greater evidence of a depraved mind than the drawing, he didn’t know what it was. Garner took pictures of it. Next he found an unfinished drawing of a baseball player batting naked female dolls to kids in the outfield, and he photographed this, too. He moved across the hall. This bedroom was Emmett’s, identified by the military service ribbons framed on the wall. The room was immaculate, a startling contrast to the mess in Shandy’s room. But Garner found nothing of interest here until he opened a drawer on the bed stand and found a pistol. It was loaded. He hesitated a moment. Garner took out his 159

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handkerchief, carefully picked up the pistol, and slipped it into his camera bag. The last bedroom belonged to Arnie. Garner expected to strike pay dirt here but found nothing at all. The room was clean and orderly, like Emmett’s, but even though Garner went through every drawer and looked under every neat pile of clothing, even though he went through both closets item by item and shelf by shelf, the Chief Deputy turned up no pornographic magazines or whips or chains or anything at all that might be considered evidence. When Garner came outside, his search for evidence done, he found Bill leaning on a front fender of his pickup, smoking a cigarette. “Find what you’re looking for?” Bill asked. “More.” “You see that nude painting of Shandy?” “What do you know about that?” “Don’t know anything except that it’s there. Surprised the hell out of me to see it. It’s going to be real as hell when it’s finished, isn’t it? Arnie has quite a talent.” “You like pornography, do you?” Pornography? Is that what the Chief Deputy thought? Bill knew better than to pursue the matter. He said, “I was just admiring the skill.” Bill said nothing more, and Garner said nothing more. Garner got in his patrol car and headed to the station in The Falls to develop the evidence.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

For Emmett, driving to the coast was therapy. His anxiety was lulled by the steady rhythm of the tires over highway and forgotten in the green sweep of scenery as he crossed the mountains and dropped to sea level at the coast. At the coast highway, Emmett branched north for the small town of Candle Beach, between Astoria and Newport, an artsy seacoast village not yet defined by the tastes of tourists. It was a trip he and Mary had made several times in her final months. For Mary, like for Emmett, the ocean provided solace and spiritual comfort, Nature somehow soothing by its incomprehensible vastness. Candle Beach -- with its art galleries and bakery, its small museum and several fine restaurants, and most of all with its long sandy beach stretched alongside spectacular rock formations rising from the sea – here, more than any other place, was a setting in which Mary found peace in her final weeks. Today Emmett was surprised how hard it was to find a parking place. Tourists in great numbers had discovered the village. They filled the sidewalks along the several blocks of shops and restaurants, and he had to drive half-a-mile out of town to park. He walked back to the village and joined the procession along the crowded sidewalk, slowly moving from shop to shop. At the end of town, instead of crossing the street to turn back and window shop the other side, he decided to walk to the beach. The ocean could be heard in the distance like a steady hum. He sat on a rock wall and watched the waves rise and crash. Rock formations jutted out of the water, as if challenging the waves to topple them. Overhead gulls filled the blue sky. No one was swimming in the cold waters of the Pacific, but the beach was filled with people and dogs, moving across the sand one way and back the other. 161

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“Emmett Hale?” The voice belonged to an over-weight woman who was walking a ridiculous-looking poodle. Emmett thought it was a criminal act to shave a dog like that. As she approached, he realized that the woman was pregnant as well as being fat. “Yes?” he said. “Oh my God, I don’t believe it!” said the woman. “I’ve been staring at you, trying to decide if it was really you. I’m Carol Venn. You were my algebra teacher at P.H.S. I’m class of ’61.” He didn’t remember, but he said he did, hoping it would hasten her departure. “I can’t tell you how much you changed my life,” said Carol Venn. Emmett didn’t know how to react. It couldn’t be true. He couldn’t even remember her. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” she suddenly asked. Emmett looked down at the dog, as if the wiggling highstrung animal were his excuse. Carol noticed the look. “My husband will take Fifi. Herbert! It’s him!” Carol called to a man down the way, who was looking up at the seagulls through binoculars. At his side stood a small boy, perhaps five or six. The man lowered the binoculars, took the boy’s hand, and waddled over. He, like his wife, was very overweight. “This is Emmett Hale, my high school algebra teacher in Pasadena,” Carol told her husband. “Herbie Venn,” said the man, offering his hand. “This is Bobby.” Emmett shook Herbie’s hand and smiled at the boy, who crossed his eyes at him. Carol passed her husband the leash. “I’m buying Mr. Hale a cup of coffee.” He had to walk slowly in order for Carol to keep up. They found a small coffee shop on a side street, away from the

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tourist traffic. They took a vacant table. Emmett doubted if Carol could have fitted into a booth. “I’ve often thought about you,” Carol said after they had ordered. “I’ve so much wanted to thank you.” “What did I do?” “You made me believe in myself. You gave me the courage to go on and major in math at college. I ended up working for IBM. I was a programmer until last year. I had to quit for health reasons. But I enjoyed every moment of it, and I never would have thought I could do it if you hadn’t kept reminding me how I had a natural talent for math.” Emmett began to remember her, overweight even then, a troubled girl who didn’t fit in socially but who was one of his better students. “You took trig, too, didn’t you?” Emmett asked. “Oh, yes. I would have taken basket weaving if you were teaching it. I was an Emmett Hale groupy.” He had groupies? Emmett had never heard of such a thing. Even if she were the only one, it was an astounding concept. He said, “Well, I’m glad I was able to help.” “So how about you? How are you doing? Do you live in Oregon or are you up here on vacation?” For some reason, he told her more than he intended to. He told her about moving north after Mary was diagnosed with cancer, about their trips to Candle Beach in her final weeks, about teaching at Hamartin until he retired. He didn’t mention his own health problem. He didn’t mention Shandy. “It must be terrible to lose a spouse,” Carol said. “I don’t know what I’d do without Herbert. I’m selfish, I want to be the first one to go. Are your children here in Oregon?” “We didn’t have children.” “Oh.” She stopped abruptly, as if she were about to add, “I’m sorry.”

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Emmett almost told her about Shandy. He almost told her that it was never too late to be surprised by life. Carol talked next about her health, but Emmett stopped listening. Now and again he would nod as if he were listening, and he kept his eye contact with her, but he was thinking about something she’d said earlier and her voice had become another steady background hum, like the ocean. Emmett was thinking about there being no children in his life. When Mary was alive, he’d never regretted their decision not to raise a family, nor had she as far as he knew, but more than once since her death, and especially after his own diagnosis, he became acutely aware of how alone he was, the termination of a branch of heredity, the end of the line. But his loss was more personal than this. There was so much of the experience of life he had missed by never being a father. Never had he watched a baby take its first step or utter its first miraculous word. He had read no bedtime stories, or been read to in return in the wondrous music of a child’s first mastery of language. There had been no school plays to see or sporting events at which to yell support. He never had the opportunity to show a young son or daughter how a sextant worked or how you could find your location by the stars. Emmett had walked no daughter down the aisle of matrimony and had rocked no grandchild on his knee. Herbie appeared at their table. He was holding the hand of the young boy. “We were going to meet the Johnsons at four,” he reminded his wife. Emmett blinked and came back to the table. He looked out the café window and found the poodle, tied to a pole, staring at them. “I have to get going myself,” he said, standing. Outside the café Carol nearly knocked him over with a sudden, aggressive hug. Again she told him how much he had changed her life. Then she kissed him on the cheek. 164

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They walked off in opposite directions, the Venns toward town and Emmett back to the beach. He walked along the sand for almost an hour. He remembered that he had better make a decision soon, to drive back or to spend the night, because if the latter, he needed a motel room. He walked back to the rental car, noticing along the way that the motels he passed had No Vacancy signs posted. This proved to be the case as well with the motels that stretched along the highway out of town. Candle Beach had been discovered indeed! Apparently there wasn’t an available room in the village. Emmett turned around and drove through the village again, then continued on the coast highway north. He had no plan, no destination. Once again the rhythm of driving eased him into a quiet comfort, into a state close to meditation. When he entered Astoria, he snapped back into more conscious alert and pulled into the first motel he found. The room was inexpensive, perhaps half what a room would have cost him in Candle Beach. It was small but clean, and his view looked out onto the highway. He stretched out, turned on the TV, and quickly fell asleep. When he awoke, over an hour had passed, and he was starving. Emmett walked out to the highway and looked one way and the other. He had several eating possibilities within walking distance. The sun was still up, the luxury of a summer evening, and he walked north along the highway. His first opportunity to eat was at The Sportsman’s Bar and Grill. He entered. Less than an hour later, he came out, his appetite satisfied. But now he was feeling too restless to be in his motel room alone. He kept walking and soon entered the city limits. At eight on a Saturday night, the town was dead. A movie theater and several taverns provided the few opportunities for entertainment. Emmett seldom went to movies, and he didn’t

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shoot pool. He crossed the street and headed back toward the motel. At Al’s Tavern he decided to have a beer, a nightcap, before accepting the fate of his room. He entered and, to his surprise, discovered activity on a small stage at one end of the large room, where a bearded young man stood at a microphone and was reading to a small audience seated at tables close to the performance. Emmett took a distant table and listened. It took him a moment to realize the young man was reading poetry. Apparently he’d stumbled upon a poetry reading. Culture in Astoria! Not that Emmett cared for poetry, though when younger he could recite “Paul Revere’s Ride.” He was impressed that the coastal town had young people interested in this sort of thing. Emmett sipped his beer and listened. The young man stepped down to give his place to a young woman, whose delivery was louder and more shrill, as she read a poem about incest and rape. Apparently Emmett was the only one who was shocked by her language. He was ready to leave and finished his beer. As he was about to open the door, the next reader, another bearded young man, who wore glasses, read two lines that made him stop: “You could be a jukebox. I could be a dime.” Emmett waited to hear more but the short poem was over, and the young man stepped down to applause. Someone yelled out, “Way to go, Marty!” Emmett opened the door. On the walk back to the motel, he couldn’t get the lines out of his head, You could be a jukebox. I could be a dime. Emmett had no idea why the lines appealed to him so much. They were like a line of melody that one hears accidentally, in an elevator or at a dentist’s office or on the radio, and for hours and even days afterward the melody replays in one’s brain, no matter what conscious effort is made to forget it. So it was with

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these two lines of poetry from the bearded poet named Marty on the stage at Al’s Tavern. You could be a jukebox. I could be a dime.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Jason picked up Adam at ten on Saturday night. They frequently got together on Saturday nights through the summer to drive to The Falls, where Adam’s friend bought beer for them, and then to cruise the rolling hills of Cascadia County with country music blaring on the radio. Jason found this musical experience charged with energy and very different from what he experienced at home, where music, if played at all, was classical, his stepfather’s choice, or show tunes, his mother’s choice, but always listened to in respectful silence at low volume. Country music made Jason holler and scream and carry on. He’d never appreciated country music until he started hanging out with Adam, which had begun last summer when Bill first hired them on a summer construction crew together. Now Jason was a big fan of Hank Williams, both senior and junior, and Waylon Jennings and George Strait. He liked to hear songs about wild women and drinking and heartache, the radio of his BMW up full blast, speeding up and down the country roads like a kid on a roller coaster. Jason and Adam were unlikely companions. Jason hadn’t known Adam at school, where Adam was several grades ahead of him even after being set back a year for failing grades, but everyone at school knew Adam by reputation, perhaps the best all-around athlete ever to come out of Hamartin. Adam had led both the football and basketball teams, called the Cougars, to back-to-back 1A championships his sophomore and junior years. But Adam was as wild off the field as on, and by his senior year a series of mishaps with the law had caught up with him. Amidst considerable local controversy, the school principal overruled the football coach and kicked Adam off the football team. Four months later, after a similar ruling in basketball, the County Board of Education tallied a unanimous vote of no confidence and forced the principal to resign. With the principal gone, adjustments were made so Adam could 168

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graduate and have a chance to play college ball. But even with his great athletic skills, Adam couldn’t find a college that would give him a scholarship. Jason was aloof to all this, too focused on his studies and too comfortable in the cave of his room to pay much attention to the world around him. When last summer he ventured into the outside world to apply for and, to his surprise, to get a job on Bill’s construction crew, it was in rebellion against working for his stepfather on the ranch. Jason had no desire to become a rancher, or a businessman, or a wheat farmer, the only kind of work Ned Trafford appeared to admire. Jason was thinking of becoming an astronomer. The notion that he could get paid for looking at the stars, alone under the profound silence of the night sky, appealed to him very much. With these different backgrounds, Jason and Adam might never have spoken a word to one another if Bill hadn’t hired them last summer. Even then, the loud Adam and the quiet Jason seemed unlikely candidates to become friends. But while working together they discovered they got along and, more importantly, each had something to offer the other. Adam needed a tutor to help him pass his College Board Exams so he might get a second chance at college and what he really wanted, a professional football career. Jason needed someone to bring him out of his shell. Last summer they’d started hanging out together almost as an experiment, as if each couldn’t understand his attraction to the other, and they quickly discovered they enjoyed being together, each surprised by what he found in the personality of the other. Jason had expected a dumb jock and learned that Adam was smarter than his reputation and loved it when Jason made jokes that depended on clever puns. Adam discovered that Jason wasn’t a nerd after all, he was just shy, and in fact enjoyed drinking beer and sizing up the chicks as much as any guy. When Bill hired them to help build Arnie’s gazebo, the boys just picked up where

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their relationship had left off last summer after being interrupted by school and Jason’s senior year. They were on their second six-pack when Adam asked Jason to drive to the Woodworth farmhouse. It was past midnight. “What’s to do there?” Jason wanted to know. He’d turned down the radio so they could talk. “I have a surprise for you.” Adam turned up the radio again, his way of saying the conversation was over. Two cars were parked in front of the farmhouse, a Chevy and a VW, everyone having gone to Portland in the van. Jason braked behind the Chevy but let the car idle. “Come on,” Adam said. Jason killed the engine and followed him around to the back of the house. Adam went to a basement window and pushed it open. “I unlatched it Friday,” he said proudly. He bent down to crawl inside. “Adam—,” Jason started but stopped when Adam shot him a glance that read, Don’t be a chicken. Adam dropped into the basement and Jason crawled in behind him. Jason couldn’t see a thing. Adam knocked something to the floor while blindly reaching out for a light. He found a table lamp and turned it on. “Why are we doing this?” Jason asked. “You’ll see.” Adam picked up the paperweight he had knocked off the table and showed it to Jason. “I saw one of these once,” Adam said, “with a babe on it, and when you turned it upside down, all her clothes fell off.” He put the paperweight down and went to the long table covered with photographs. He picked one up. “This is what I wanted to show you.”

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Jason looked at the photograph. It was Shandy naked on a horse, looking like Lady Godiva or something. She didn’t look half as sexy in real life as she looked in the photograph. “I’d fuck her even if she doesn’t have tits,” Adam said. “Look, there’s all kinds of different poses.” Jason was amazed how many different photographs there were, a couple dozen at least, all of Shandy on the horse, naked. “Pick out your favorite,” said Adam. He started rooting through the photographs, setting aside those he really liked. Jason started doing the same thing. “I got mine,” said Adam. Jason was down to two, one a side view with Shandy’s long hair falling down over her breasts, and the other a front view where Shandy’s nipples looked erect. He held up the latter and said he had his favorite. “I’ll be here,” said Adam, “and you be over there.” He pointed to a spot at the end of the long table. “Whoever comes first wins.” “What do you mean?” “You jack off with your picture, and I’ll jack off with mine, and whoever comes first wins.” Before Jason could protest, Adam unzipped his pants and brought out his penis. He cupped it in his hand and began stroking it. Jason noticed he was not circumcised. He also had a bigger penis than he himself had. “Don’t be chicken,” Adam said, sliding his hand back and forth.. Jason hurried to the end of the table. He unzipped and started doing the same thing, staring down at the erect nipples, his eyes narrow, trying to squint himself into erotic concentration. It wasn’t working. He glanced over and saw that Adam’s cock was erect now, longer than the width of Adam’s hand, and Adam was rubbing it with long, quick strokes as his other hand held the photograph close to his face. Jason found 171

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more growing excitement in watching Adam than in looking at the photograph. But he forced himself to look away for fear of being caught. “Ah!” Adam cried out, and Jason looked in time to see him ejaculate completely over the table. Adam exhaled audibly, maneuvered his shrinking cock back into his pants, and zipped up. Then he looked at Jason and grinned. “Fastest gun in the west,” he said. “I’ll wait for you but hurry up.” “I can’t,” said Jason. To his relief, Adam said nothing, and Jason zipped back up. Adam picked up a flashlight on the table and switched it on. “Follow me,” he said. Jason wanted to get the hell out of there, but there was no stopping Adam now. Jason followed him up the basement steps, then up the stairway to the second floor. Adam pointed the flashlight into a bedroom, then stepped across the hallway and did the same thing in the other bedroom, searching the floor. “This be the place,” he said and stepped into Shandy’s room. Adam picked up a pair of panties from the bed and rubbed it over his face. “I can smell her pussy!” he yelled. Jason was about to insist they leave when through the bedroom window he saw a car turn from the road and head for the farmhouse. “Adam, somebody’s coming!” Adam raced to the window and saw the approaching headlights. “Oh, shit!” Adam was so much faster than he was that Jason had a hard time keeping close enough to take advantage of the 172

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flashlight as they raced down the stairs and back down into the basement. Instead of going to the window, Adam raced to the basement door but it was an old door that required a key, inside and out. “The window!” he yelled and beat Jason to it. He handed Jason the flashlight to hold and hoisted himself up and outside. Jason waited a moment, thinking Adam would reach back for the flashlight, and when Adam didn’t, he set it down on the table so it would still provide him with light, and he crawled out the window. He could hear Adam’s footsteps in the distance, racing in the direction of the barn, and as Jason took off to follow him, his foot hit a small sinkhole in the ground, twisting his ankle, and Jason fell to the ground in immediate pain. He called into the darkness, “Adam!” There was no reply. Jason could hear the approaching car engine. His ankle throbbed with pain. He tried to get up but hobbling on one foot wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He dropped to his knees and started crawling frantically toward the gazebo, the skeleton of which loomed in the darkness, the closest obstacle to hide behind. He reached the gazebo in time to catch his breath. A car door slammed. Soon the ray of a flashlight darted forward from the side of the house, and Jason heard footsteps. They moved past the skeleton of the gazebo, past Jason’s still body pressed against sawdust and weeds, and continued in the direction of the barn. Jason wasn’t sure how much time passed before he dared to peek up. The barn light had come on, spilling light across the ground even to the gazebo. Whoever it was was busy doing something in the barn. Jason heard noises that he couldn’t piece together into a comprehensible soundtrack for an action. Then he heard a different kind of noise, as if someone were climbing stairs, and that’s when he peeked up and saw that a man was climbing up a ladder in front of the barn. Jason recognized him.

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He stayed low, hidden by the raised octagon of the gazebo’s floor and by the vertical pillars of its exterior skeleton. With fascination Jason watched the man on the ladder do something so shocking and puzzling to him that over a week would pass before he’d gather enough nerve to tell anyone about it. Until then this was his secret about what he’d seen at the Woodworth barn on Saturday night.

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CHAPTER NINETEEN i On Sunday morning Emmett decided to drive home alone and return the rental car in The Falls. He couldn’t do this without help or he’d be stranded, so he’d first drive to Hamartin and get Shandy to follow him in her VW, then they could return from The Falls together. It also would give them some time alone. His attitude had changed since the impulsive decision to rent a car and drive to the coast, a decision born, he now understood, from feeling sorry for himself, the neglected lover. He realized his mistake had been to come in the first place. Shandy was an artist, and in the light of a new day it made perfect sense that she would be eager to let Arnie show her an urban art scene far richer than the artistic wasteland of Hamartin. Emmett had acted like a spoiled teenager who was not getting enough attention, and he felt like he owed Shandy an apology. He certainly didn’t want to jeopardize their new relationship. He promised himself to change his attitude. Two clichés came to mind: “leave well enough alone;” and “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Yesterday his behavior had violated both. Today he wanted to get back on an even keel with Shandy and be able to enjoy her within the parameters that he himself had defined – and was paying for. Driving from Astoria, he had a long straight shot along the Columbia River to Portland and on to The Falls. The highway sometimes hugged the river and sometimes strayed from it. The freeway traffic through the urban sprawl of Portland was surprisingly light. At The Falls, Emmett turned south and was not surprised to pull into the long driveway and discover he was the first one home. It was past noon, and warm enough to alert him that summer had returned. Emmett entered the kitchen and immediately realized how hungry he was. He thought of going to Mom’s Café but the after-church crowd would be there, and 175

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he didn’t feel like company. He fixed himself a peanut butter sandwich, poured himself a glass of milk, and ate his lunch standing at the kitchen counter. He had been upstairs in his room for perhaps fifteen minutes before he glanced out the window to see how much progress had been made on the gazebo during their absence. More than he would have thought. The gazebo already was taking shape in the skeleton of its frame. Before he moved away from the window, he saw something that stopped him. He shuddered. Someone had painted, in large red letters, the words KILL ALL FAGITS!!! on the front of the barn, right over the broad open doorway. Emmett rushed downstairs and outside to take a closer look. The hateful message was painted in block letters almost two-feet high. His first instinct was to paint over it immediately but he decided he should let Arnie, the object of this hate, see it first. But he had to do something, if only for his own peace of mind. He decided to report it and went inside to call Mac. Margaret told him that Mac was in a meeting all morning, but she’d give him the message to call Emmett right away. As soon as Emmett hung up, he knew this wasn’t soon enough. ii The Hamartin Bicentennial Committee held a lunch meeting at Mom’s Café early Sunday afternoon after services were finished at Hamartin’s three churches: the Methodist, the Catholic and a conservative Christian church. Garner, driving down from The Falls after attending his own church, the Church of Our Sanctified Lord, was the last to arrive. He joined Helen, Mac and Ned in a corner booth, where they were having donuts with their coffees to pacify considerable appetites while they waited. This was the meeting at which Garner would present a proposal for resolving the conflict between the County and Hamartin concerning their respective Bicentennial fireworks exhibits, but Garner, in his excitement about finding 176

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evidence at the farmhouse, almost had forgotten about it. He didn’t expect the meeting to last long since what he had to say was too patriotic and logical to refute. But Helen sensed immediately that Garner’s proposal would solve nothing. Mac had led them all to believe that Garner would be presenting something new, some kind of compromise that would satisfy both parties about their Fourth of July traditions, but as near as Helen could tell as she listened to Garner’s long monologue through lunch, the County still wanted Hamartin to abandon its own fireworks tradition and embrace the larger, more spectacular display at The Falls. Hamartin could send a representative, Garner said with enthusiasm, to join the professional fireworks team the County was hiring from California to run the show. Helen found Garner amusing but she could tell that Ned was barely containing his growing irritation. What amused Helen was Garner’s arrogant confidence, displayed in a tone of voice that elementary school teachers used on their slowest pupils, the deliberate and patient instruction of the wise to those presumed to be too stupid to get the lesson the first time around. When Garner was finished, he stopped and grinned as if thanking everyone for applauding his irrefutable logic. Helen looked at Mac, who looked sheepish and apologetic, realizing that nothing new had been put on the table, and next at Ned, who couldn’t contain himself any longer. “We don’t have to bring in people from California to put off some fireworks,” Ned said, glaring at Garner. “We especially aren’t going to stop a long tradition in order to play second fiddle to people who don’t even live here. I vote for continuing our own fireworks.” Garner turned to Mac as if to signal his junior deputy to rise in his defense. Mac quickly looked to Helen.

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Helen said, “Paul, I see Ned’s point. I hate to see such a long tradition come to an end. We kept up the fireworks during all three wars in my lifetime.” “Exactly,” Ned quickly added. “I don’t see a compromise here,” Helen said. Garner glared at Mac. Mac cleared his throat and said to Garner, “I don’t think Hamartin is a threat to the County show at all. It never was in the past, was it? Why is this different?” “This is the Bicentennial,” said Garner. “It would be a shame to have us pulling in different directions.” “I think we’ll be keeping our own show,” said Ned, turning to Helen for support. Helen said, “That’s two votes, no matter how Mac goes.” “I see,” said Garner. “How do you vote, Mac?” Mac knew he was being put on the spot. Fortunately, his vote didn’t matter. He said, “I think we should all be together on this,” and he would have winked at Helen if he wasn’t afraid of being caught by Garner. “I think you’re all making a great mistake,” Garner said, rising from the table. “I also think your show is going to be a big flop after people hear what we’ll be doing on the river. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Garner turned to leave and almost ran into Emmett. “Emmett?” Helen could tell something was wrong. Emmett said, “The barn’s been vandalized. I think somebody better come take a look.” “What is it?” Mac asked. “Either a prank or a death threat, depending on how you take it.” “A death threat?” Helen repeated. Garner said, “Mac, can you handle this?” He was gone before the junior deputy replied. Mac said, “Let’s go take a look.” 178

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iii “I think Emmett’s pissed at me,” said Shandy. They were climbing into the Coast Range on their way home. Arnie was driving. Arnie said, “Emmett gets moody sometimes. You can’t blame him.” “He wanted me to spend more time with him.” “Actually I think he was looking forward to me going to Portland alone so you two could have the house to yourselves.” “I loved Portland! If he can’t accept that, tough shit.” After a silence she added, “Do you think he fired me?” “I’m not sure what it takes for a woman in your employment to get fired,” Arnie said, trying to disguise the amusement in his voice. “I don’t want to get fired. This is a great gig for me.” “You have to try and remember that Emmett is on a different clock than we are. I don’t know what it would feel like to know your days are numbered, but I think one thing that would happen is that the old cliché about living today like it’s the last day of your life would have special meaning. If you get rejected today, you may not have a tomorrow to make it up.” After a silence, Shandy said, “I wish he liked art.” The remark reminded Arnie how young and naïve she really was. Given their age difference, which was a difference of two generations, Emmett’s ignorance of art was the least obstacle to their compatibility. “I’ll try and make it up to him,” Shandy said after another silence. Arnie didn’t respond. The trip to Portland only whetted Shandy’s appetite for what life would be like once she escaped the prison of Hamartin. And San Francisco would be even more cultured and exotic than Portland. More than ever, Shandy wanted to leave sooner rather than later, and she realized how much her escape depended on keeping in the good graces of Emmett, on 179

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performing her duties and fulfilling her obligations as his concubine, which meant sharing a bed with him each night and keeping him sexually satisfied. As far as she remembered, there had been only one spoken rule – she was not to have sex with anyone else. She didn’t plan to. But it was clear that there were some unspoken rules as well, and one of them had been to give him a lot of attention. She had broken this rule in Portland, letting herself be swept away by her enthusiasm for the art scene and spending all her time with Arnie and Henry. She could have pacified him with sex but hadn’t – a big mistake. Worse, she remembered with some anxiety, she even had rejected his morning advances. Her greatest fear was that she had been fired without knowing it, losing her only source of income, and Shandy was determined to jump Emmett’s bones at the first opportunity and give him some sex he would never forget. After lunch, Shandy stared blankly out the window. Before she knew it they were turning away from the river and heading south toward home. Ex-home. Home to be abandoned as quickly as she could manage it. One thousand dollars, that’s all she needed. She could be out of here before the end of July. It still felt like an eternity. Arnie interrupted her reverie. “What the hell?” They were approaching the farmhouse and ahead of them a patrol car was parked behind Emmett’s yellow Chevy and the white rental Ford. The VW was parked a small distance away. Shandy, who feared that the sheriff may be after her again, hurried inside and got up to her room without seeing anyone, closing the door behind her. Arnie, hearing voices, walked around the house and saw Emmett and Mac standing in front of the barn. For a moment, walking to join them, Arnie didn’t see the graffito in large red letters, KILL ALL FAGITS!!!, but when he did, he felt a rush of anger that took his breath away. “Arnie,” said Mac. 180

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“Who the hell did this?” Arnie asked. “I don’t know. But I’ll be looking into it.” Mac shot an exasperated look at Emmett. Emmett didn’t know what else to do, so he followed Arnie into the barn. Left alone, Mac turned and walked back to his car. In the barn, Arnie was looking through paint cans on a storage shelf. “I’m sorry this happened,” said Emmett. “I was going to paint over it but thought you should see it for yourself.” Suddenly Arnie whirled around, and his eyes were narrow with anger. “Fuck this. I’m not painting over the goddamn thing.” Arnie trotted out of the barn. Emmett heard him yell, “Mac!” and watched him run around the house. Arnie caught Mac just as he was turning around to head out the driveway. “Wait a minute!” Mac waited for Arnie to rush up to the window. “I want you to find out who did this. I intend to press charges.” Mac said, “I’ll do my best.” “You can start by talking to Adam. To Bill and Jason, too, while you’re at it. They all have access here.” “I’ll do that,” said Mac. “I’m not painting over it,” said Arnie. “Why not?” “Two reasons. First, the bigot who did this is going to clean it up. And second, I want to be reminded of the kind of community I live in.” “Arnie, I wish you wouldn’t do that.” “Which part?” “It’s an ugly and hateful thing.” “Exactly. That’s why it stays until the bigot responsible paints over it. He can paint the whole goddamn barn while he’s at it.” 181

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“Like I said, I’ll do my best.” “If it’s not good enough, I’m going to call Portland and report this to the F.B.I.” “The--?” Mac couldn’t even finish. What the hell did the F.B.I. have to do with anything? “This is a federal crime, in case you didn’t know.” Mac didn’t know one way or the other, but he intended to find out. He said, “Give me a chance to do my job.” “Fine. Just do it.” Going inside, Arnie caught Emmett going up the stairs. “I think it was Adam,” Arnie said. Emmett stopped and turned around. “How can you be sure?” “I had him in class. He’s a trouble-maker and a bigot.” “He’s also building the gazebo. Why would he jeopardize his job?” “Why are you defending him?” “I’m not defending anybody. I think you should let Mac do his job.” “Well, don’t think I’m letting this rest.” Arnie headed for the kitchen, and Emmett continued upstairs. Emmett was about to step into his room when he heard Shandy behind him. She had moved from her room into the hallway. “Why were the police here?” she asked. “I’ll show you.” He led the way to the window in his room. Seeing the graffito on the barn, Shandy let out a little cry. “Who would do something like that?” she asked. “I don’t know.” “It makes me feel sick in my stomach.” Emmett turned from the window, and Shandy grabbed his arm. 182

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“I’m sorry about what happened in Portland,” she said. “I know I made you mad.” “No, it was my fault,” said Emmett. “I never should’ve come along.” “I’m glad you were there.” “You needed to see those galleries. I just made everything more stressful. Will you forgive me?” Shandy was about to ask the same question. It was time to make it up to him. “I miss you,” she said. “I want to make love.” Sex was the farthest thing from Emmett’s mind right now. But before he could say anything, Shandy dropped to her knees and reached up to unzip his fly. “Shandy, don’t,” he said. “This won’t hurt a bit,” Shandy teased. “I’m not in the mood.” “You will be.” “We can do this later. Please.” But it was too late. As soon as he felt her mouth, he caught his breath. He thought he might faint. He closed his eyes.

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CHAPTER TWENTY i Garner drove back to The Falls and waited several hours before calling Mac to get a report. He already knew what he planned to do next but wanted to give the impression that he was letting the junior deputy handle affairs in Hamartin, as Mac usually did. In fact, Garner already had taken over the investigation himself, steering it into a direction only he was cognizant of. Mac told him that Arnie threatened to call the F.B.I. “It’s probably just a threat,” said Mac. Garner inhaled deeply to calm down. He said, “The last thing we need is the damn Feds butting into our business.” “I agree.” Garner’s mind was racing. Maybe he should put his plan into gear sooner than he intended. Mac said, “Arnie figures it has to be one of his construction crew. It sounds like something Adam might do. I’m looking into it later today.” “Good, good. What about the media, they get wind of this yet?” “Not unless Arnie calls them.” “Would he do that?” Yes, Mac thought, but he was silent. “Mac?” “Not yet, I don’t think.” Wishful thinking, probably. “Well, keep me posted,” said Garner. Garner decided to sit tight for a day. Mac investigating Adam was a good idea. He should have thought of it himself. ii The first place Mac went was to the Trafford ranch. He wanted to talk to Jason first, since Adam, who was frequently in trouble, was the closest thing he had to a suspect. Jason was 184

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a good kid who hung around with the wrong kind sometimes, like Adam, who (the more Mac thought about it) was the only local person who came to mind who was capable of doing such a thing. Mac parked in the circular driveway that swung around a grassy area as large as a putting green. Six expensive cars were parked along the circumference near the house – twice as many cars as family members, Mac noted. He got out and went to the massive front door. The brick house loomed over him like a fortress. He rang the doorbell, which played Beethoven’s “dum dum de dum.” Emily answered. She was wearing a white terrycloth robe, and at first Mac thought she was nude behind it, having just stepped out of a shower, but she let the robe fall open enough to reveal her bikini. The Traffords had the only home swimming pool in the county. Emily flashed her sexiest grin. “Why, Mac, what a surprise? I hope you were just in the area and didn’t come all the way out here because Jason is in trouble.” “Mrs. Trafford.” “Oh, please. Emily.” They had gone to high school together and for a while had dated. Mac hadn’t been alone with her, standing this close to her, in years, and he was surprised at how attractive he still found her. He said, “Emily, Jason’s not in trouble, but I need to talk to him. Is he home?” “For reasons I don’t understand, yes, he’s in his room studying or some damn thing rather than out chasing girls. He’s already been accepted at Stanford, you’d think he’d take a break.” “Stanford. Impressive.” “What’s the problem?” “No problem. I just need to talk to him.” 185

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“Come in.” She led him into a living room that looked larger than his entire apartment. “When you’re done with him, come back to the pool and have a drink with me.” “I’m on duty.” “Iced tea, then. I’ll be expecting you.” She headed up stairs to fetch her son. Mac ambled over to the mantelpiece above a great stone fireplace. Above him large beams criss-crossed under the high angles of the ceiling. He wondered how much it had cost Trafford to build such an extravagant home. More than Mac could earn in years. Well, if you’ve got it, why not flaunt it? He heard footsteps and turned to find Jason following his mother down the stairs. Emily said, “Any of the back doors will get you to the pool,” and disappeared. Jason limped into the living room. He was tall enough to play basketball but walked in a slouch, as if height were a burden. Jason said, “Mom said you wanted to see me.” “You hurt yourself?” “Sprained my ankle. It’s nothing. What’s going on?” “Your mom told me you’re going to Stanford. Congratulations.” “Yeah, it’s cool.” Mac decided this was enough small talk. “Jason, someone vandalized the Woodworth barn last night. Painted some anti-gay graffiti on the front. Arnie thinks Adam might have done it.” Mac could tell by the change in Jason’s expression that he’d hit the nail on the head. The boy was squirming. For the first time Mac considered the possibility that Jason played a role in the vandalism himself.

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When Jason didn’t reply, Mac said, “You know anything about that?” “We got really drunk Saturday night. To be honest, I can’t remember anything.” “Would Adam do something like that?” Jason shrugged, hardly a character reference. “Anything else you can tell me, Jason?” The boy was still squirming. “Where’s Adam living these days?” Mac asked. “With his mom.” “She still in that trailer out of town?” “I guess.” “Well, if you think of anything, give me a call.” Mac handed Jason his card. “Tell your mother I’ll take a rain check on the iced tea,” he said. There were few trailer homes in Cascadia County, with the exception of a trailer park outside of The Falls. Mac drove to the only trailer in Hamartin, which in fact was parked in a pasture outside the town limits. He found Adam’s mother sitting at a picnic table in front of the trailer, drinking a can of beer. She’d been a pretty girl in high school, Mac remembered, but too much booze and too many husbands had aged her far beyond her years. “Mrs. Chase,” Mac said. “Is Adam around?” “He didn’t come home last night.” Mac could see that her eyes weren’t in focus, a sign of drunkenness. He didn’t expect her to be much help. “I guess he got lucky,” she added. Suddenly she laughed so hard that spit squirted over her lower lip. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Thank you for your time,” Mac said and got the hell out of there. He found Bill in town at the tavern but Bill, too, was too far gone to be helpful. He defended Adam, however, saying 187

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that the boy was really trying to straighten out his life. Bill didn’t believe that he’d risk everything by doing something so stupid as vandalize the very place he worked at. Mac didn’t know what to think. Then he had a crazy idea. The fact that Arnie wasn’t going to paint over the slogan had struck him first as strange – but now as a clue. It was almost as if Arnie welcomed the controversy the vandalism would bring, especially if the media got involved. What if Arnie was responsible for the vandalism himself? Of course, he was out of town, the perfect alibi. But he still could be behind it in some way. As far-fetched as the possibility seemed, Mac took a liking to it. A clue might be to wait and see how quickly the media got involved. Because if they did right away, only Arnie could have alerted them.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE i Emmett opened his eyes to a new day. Shandy, whose head was on his shoulder, was breathing heavily. They were in Emmett’s bed. It was early, before seven, and cool enough that Emmett had closed the window a few hours earlier when he’d gotten up to pee. When the sun rose, the day would warm quickly. Last night’s weather report on the TV news predicted an afternoon in the 90s. Summer was back. Given the disturbing incident of the graffito, yesterday had turned out better than he would have expected. First Shandy had followed him to The Falls so he could return the rental car. After that they drove downriver to Bonneville Dam, where they watched the fish swim through the counting station. Later they had lunch at a roadside cafe. Back at home, Emmett had read, stretched out on Shandy’s bed, while she worked on a new Artoon. He loved being silent in the same room with her. The moment reminded him of how comfortably he and Mary had been able to be together in silence. Shandy spent the night across the hall, in his bed, coming to him after midnight, waking him, and wanting to please him again until he convinced her that her presence beside him through the night would be pleasure enough. From time to time, Emmett awoke to feel her next to him. This feeling was better than sex – at least until morning when, waking first, he went down on her while she was still asleep. Shandy was excited by the time she figured out what was going on. For a moment she tried to go with the feeling of it, letting him continue, rocking gently under the rhythm of his tongue, but when she realized she wasn’t going to make it, she wanted him to stop and therefore she began to rock more violently, and she moaned and faked an orgasm.. She let him embrace her and kiss her and then pulled him up so his penis 189

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dangled over her face. As always, he came in no time at all, before he was fully erect, emitting only a trickle of release. Twice in twelve hours was too much for him. Shandy kissed his belly and rolled away to go back to sleep, satisfied that she was in his good graces again. After a moment Emmett slipped out of bed, feeling like the most contented man in the world. He stepped to the window. The ugly, hateful message on the barn was still there. It ruined his mood. There was so much hate in this world. In his glow of satisfaction, Emmett didn’t hate a soul. He faced the bed. Shandy’s head was on his pillow now, her thin bare shoulders beautiful in the early morning light. He wondered if he’d ever felt the radiant, quiet peace that she suggested right now. At sea, perhaps, standing watch alone under a display of stars so dazzling that he could react only with silent reverence. Looking at Shandy now, the blanket pulled up just enough to hide the subtle curve of a breast, her shoulders stark and bare, he felt overwhelmed by the same awe he’d felt at sea. There was beauty in this world that was beyond comprehension. He could look at her for hours – but he had things to do. He went downstairs and found Arnie sitting at the coffee bar. “Good morning,” said Emmett. “I know what I’m going to do,” Arnie said right off. Emmett pictured Arnie brooding all night for a response to the vandalism. “I’m going to invite Henry and some others over for the weekend. I’m having an art show.” “Oh?” Emmett had no idea where he was going with this. “I’m not taking this sitting down. Would you?” Emmett put on water for tea while he thought about it. “Well?” Arnie wanted to know. “I’d give Mac time to do his job.” “Mac won’t find out anything.” “You could be wrong.” 190

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“Even if I am, I’m still not rolling over to play dead.” “I’m not sure what you mean.” Emmett took a stool. “I’ve been the invisible fag long enough in this town,” said Arnie. “Not all that invisible.” “How often do I go to town – except for groceries?” “I was thinking of your T-shirts.” Sometimes on errands into town, Arnie would wear one of his specially made T-shirts with slogans like Cascadia County Gay Alliance or Farmers for Faggots. “Big deal. Most of the time I mind my own business. I don’t cause any trouble.” Emmett was silent. “I’ve had it. Do you know what day this is?” “Monday.” “What anniversary? June 28th?” “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” said Emmett. “Stonewall,” Arnie said. Arnie seemed to be waiting for a response. All Emmett could think of was Stonewall Jackson, and he wondered what the General had to do with anything. “The Stonewall Rebellion,” said Arnie. “June 28, 1969. Remember it?” The sixties. After a while, all the rebellions blended one into the other, a continuous wail of protest across the land. Emmett said, “Refresh my memory.” “The Stonewall Inn is a gay bar in the Village in New York. Cops were always showing up to harass everybody, of course, but this night something changed. The cops raided the bar, which was normal, and threw everybody out on the street, which was normal, and made a few token arrests, which was normal. What wasn’t normal was that this time the drag queens and the trans-genders and the student queers and the middleaged fags didn’t slither off into the night or passively hang 191

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around to watch. They fought back. They actually fought the police. Drag queens threw their high heels at cops! Can you imagine how beautiful that must’ve been? A crowd formed, someone set a fire, the police called for reinforcements – you get the picture.” Arnie paused a moment. “Stonewall was the birth of Gay Power,” he said. “How can I take this sitting down on the anniversary of Stonewall? I’m going to have a party and an art show and celebrate being queer. Fuck anyone who doesn’t like it. Fuck you if you don’t like it.” “I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” said Emmett. “I’m sorry. I’m a little upset here. I know you’re my friend.” “Good.” “Then why do you look like you don’t approve?” Emmett said, “This seems such a remote place to have an art show.” “It’s not for them! It’s not for the bigots, for God’s sake. It’s a party, it’s for us. It’s a celebration of who we are and what we do. A glorious fag art show!” “So they’ll be other artists here?” “Of course. I did this before, a decade ago. The place turns into a campground, and we all show our work and get ripped and have a great old time. I’m calling Henry right now.” While Arnie made the call, Emmett poured water over a tea bag. He took his cup out onto the front porch. After a while, Arnie joined him. “Henry loves the idea,” he said. “He’s going to see who he can round up on such short notice.” “Sounds like an interesting gathering.” Emmett didn’t sound like he meant it. Arnie said, “If it’s too many people for you, I’ll pay for a motel in The Falls. You can take Shandy with you.” “If it’s an art show, wouldn’t she want to participate?” 192

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“I’m sure she would.” “Then I don’t want to stop her. Art’s going to be her life.” “I think you’re right.” “Is she any good?” “I’m not sure what quote good unquote means. She’s come a long way toward seeing things her own way and communicating that. She’s farther along than I was at her age.” “If I get bothered by the crowd, I’ll take a drive.” “I’m serious about the motel room.” “I’ll keep it in mind.” When Emmett returned to his room, Shandy was still asleep. He stretched out beside her, lying on top of the sheet, and watched her until his eyes got heavy, and he slipped into a nap. ii Jason came to work early Monday morning, hoping that Adam would show up early as well and they could talk about Saturday night before Bill arrived. His ankle was much better, though he still walked with a slight limp. He sat in the shell of the gazebo and waited for someone to arrive. Adam got a lift to work from his mom, and her car was badly out of tune, you couldn’t miss its backfiring. But what Jason heard first was the approaching purr of Bill’s pickup. A door slammed, and Bill yelled for help to unload some lumber. As they carried the boards to the gazebo, Bill said he had another trip to make to The Falls for supplies. He looked at his watch and noted that Adam was late. He told Jason to get started on the walls, and he’d be back as soon as he could. It was almost nine before Jason heard the Chase car sputtering toward the farmhouse. In a moment Adam sauntered to the gazebo, looking like a young man without a care in the world. “Hey!” Adam greeted Jason. “Where’s the boss man?”

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Jason balanced the board he was carrying against a vertical beam. He slipped off his work gloves. Adam approached close enough to slap Jason on the arm. “Fastest gun in the west,” he winked and grinned. “What the hell happened to you?” Jason’s question sounded like a hiss. “Fuck, man, I didn’t stop running till I was at the trailer. If I could’ve run like that in school, I’d’ve set some records big time.” “I was worried about you.” “I take care of myself, man. I expect anybody else to do the same. What’d you do, get caught or something?” “I didn’t get caught,” said Jason. Adam’s back was to the barn. Over his shoulder Jason could see the large red letters of the graffito. Jason said, “Look at the barn.” Adam twirled around, making a football move, but as soon as he saw the graffito he became as still as a statue. “Holy shit,” he said under his breath. He whirled back to Jason. “Who the hell did that?” Jason knew the answer to that question but he wasn’t ready to share it. He shrugged, and let Adam make the interpretation. Adam swung around so he was facing the barn again. He stared up at the graffito and then exclaimed, “Fuck! Man, I don’t believe this.” “What?” “Somebody, probably the sheriff, is going to think I had something to do with this.” “Why do you say that?” “I used to paint fag on the mailbox out front. I did that every Halloween for about five years. I was just a kid, for Christ sake, but somebody for sure’s gonna decide that if I can do that as a kid, well, I can just do this as an adult. I’ll bet you

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a week’s wages the sheriff is interrogating me before the day’s out.” “I’ll tell them you were with me,” said Jason. “You’d do that?” “Of course I’d do it. It’s true.” “Do you think it was the guy we saw driving in?” Adam asked. Jason hesitated a moment. Then he said, “I don’t know who did it.” The matter dropped until Bill returned. He came back to the gazebo and started to say something when the large red letters on the barn caught his eye. His mouth dropped open. Bill moved closer to the barn. Jason and Adam exchanged a glance and kept working. Arnie came out the back door of the house. “Nice friendly place we live, isn’t it?” he told Bill’s back. Bill said, “There’s good and bad everywhere, Arnie.” “Hamartin seems to have been dealt more than its share of bigots.” “If you feel that way, you should move.” “That sounds like something a bigot would say.” The remark made Bill angry. He caught himself before he said something he’d regret. He took a deep breath. “I just hope they catch the son-of-a-bitch,” Bill said. He went into the barn and came out with the ladder. He leaned it against the front of the barn, its high end resting under the graffito. “What do you think you’re doing?” Arnie asked. “I’m going to paint over it.” “Like hell.” “You want to do it yourself, fine.” “I’m keeping it up.” Bill looked at him like he hadn’t heard right. “You’re keeping it up.” “As a reminder. A memento. An artifact.” 195

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“Well, it’s your barn, isn’t it? If you’ll excuse me, I have a gazebo to finish.” As Bill passed by, Arnie said, “You can put the ladder away.” Bill held back an obscenity and said, “Why not?” “Today’s the anniversary of Stonewall,” said Arnie. “That’s great.” Bill wondered what the hell Stonewall Jackson had to do with anything and carried the ladder back into the barn.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO i When Emmett awoke, he was in an empty bed. Shandy wasn’t in her room across the hall, so he went downstairs. No one was around, but he could hear hammering out back. He stepped to the back window and saw Jason and Adam working on the gazebo. They were beginning to put up the walls. Behind them, at the barn, Arnie and Bill were engaged in what appeared to be a heated conversation. A ladder leaned against the barn, under the hateful graffito, and Arnie was doing most of the talking. Emmett stepped back from the window. He didn’t want to get involved in whatever was going on out there. He trusted Mac to find out who had done this. If you couldn’t trust your lawmen, who could you trust? At the same time, Emmett had a notion that things were going to get worse before they got better, helped along considerably by Arnie’s determination to drive home his point about bigotry in Hamartin. The thing was, Emmett had never heard anyone put Arnie down because of his homosexuality. It seemed to Emmett that local folks went out of their way to mind their own business and expected Arnie to do the same. Sometimes Arnie could be his own worst enemy. The door to the basement opened, and Shandy appeared. She was carrying several photographs. “Good morning,” Emmett said. “Hi.” “What are you up to?” “I’m going to mount these. We’re having an art show.” The photographs were some of her nudes on horseback. Emmett wondered how Arnie was coming with the painting. “Will you be showing your drawings?” he asked. “Of course.” She climbed the stairs.

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Through the window, Emmett saw Bill carrying the ladder back into the barn. Arnie was heading for the house. Emmett waited for him at the coffee bar. “Bill was getting ready to paint over it,” Arnie explained. “I stopped him just in time.” “I’m sure he was just trying to help.” “Hiding the evidence accomplishes nothing. Besides, I’ve decided to turn it into a work of art.” “I’m not sure I understand.” “Mixed-media, environmental. Art and political statement at the same time. I’ve got a couple concepts I’ve been thinking about.” Emmett had no idea what he was talking about. He said, “Shandy’s really excited.” “She’s an artist, she should be.” Arnie poured himself coffee. “I may be wrong about Adam,” he said. “Oh?” “I’ve been watching him. He doesn’t look guilty, and I don’t think he’s that good an actor. Now I’m wondering about Jason. He’s acting guilty as hell. I just can’t imagine the boy doing something like that.” “Neither can I.” Arnie went downstairs, and Emmett moved back to the window. Watching the boys work, he couldn’t tell who looked guilty and who didn’t. He stayed at the window until Bill noticed him, then Emmett fell back out of sight as if caught in the act of doing something forbidden. How quickly his mood could change. Emmett was feeling like a spectator again, the way he had felt in Portland, both getting in the way of and being separated from the new energy in the house as Arnie and Shandy prepared for the art exhibit. Emmett decided to go into town. He stopped at Mom’s Café. He took his tea at a table in the back corner, but this didn’t stop Marg from joining him as soon as she had a free moment. 198

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She sat down across the table, leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Isn’t it terrible what happened?” Emmett agreed that of course it was terrible. “Some folks are saying Adam did it,” said Marg. “He’s the one who’s usually in trouble around here, but I don’t think he’d do something like this. Do you?” “I have no idea.” Marg started to say something else and stopped. His tone had been gruff, and he supposed she was going to say something about a burr in his butt, but she got up silently and returned to the counter. Emmett was relieved to be alone. He didn’t understand what had happened at the barn, the act of vandalism seemed to come without context, and he certainly wasn’t joining the speculation about the perpetrator. Left to his own devices, Emmett would paint over the graffito himself, to get rid of it as quickly as possible. He thought Arnie was asking for trouble not to do the same. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice Helen until she was sitting down across from him. “I heard what happened,” she said. The whole town must know. The speed with which news spread through Hamartin never ceased to amaze him. “I have no idea who did it,” he said. “Why? I guess what I’m really asking is, why now?” Emmett didn’t know. “Has Arnie been on his high horse about anything?” Helen asked. Emmett stared at her. “This is not about Arnie.” “I didn’t say it was. But you know how he gets sometimes.” “How?” “Like he’s going out of his way to upset everybody.” “I haven’t seen that side of him,” he lied. He’d seen it just this morning. 199

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“Maybe his art show was before you started teaching here. That was something.” “I’m glad you remember it because there’s going to be another one.” As soon as he said it, Emmett regretted letting her know. “He’s doing another art show?” Emmett looked away but Helen didn’t let him off the hook. “When?” Emmett moved his head one-way and the other, as if speech escaped him. “Not this weekend,” said Helen. “Not during the Bicentennial, for God’s sake.” Something in his look told her she had guessed correctly, and she said, “That’s just what we need around here.” She put one hand on the table to lift herself up. Emmett feared that the table was going to collapse under her weight. “Helen, keep me out of this,” Emmett said as Helen wobbled away. She walked out the door without replying. Fifteen minutes later Emmett stood outside the café, wondering what to do with his day. He was still restless and decided to take a drive. Halfway to The Falls, he turned around and headed back. Before reaching town he veered off the highway to take a winding road to the high school. Cascadia County High School was in the foothills west of town, a recent modern school that served all the small towns within a fifteen mile radius of Hamartin. It had replaced a handful of smaller, local schools. The new high school, in fact, had become an emblem of regional pride, another way that the county area south of The Falls, the county seat, defined and exhibited its independence. It also unified south county in a way it had never been unified before, eliminating previous cross-town rivalries in football, for example, and replacing them with a larger, somehow more-important rivalry with The 200

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Falls and all the growing modern sprawl this trade center on the Columbia River and the Interstate came to represent. Emmett parked in the lot facing the Administration Building but didn’t get out. He didn’t know why he’d driven here. Maybe because the high school still gave him pleasant memories. He had enjoyed teaching here, although he missed the faster minds of his students in California. It wasn’t that the kids were smarter there but that they lived a faster lifestyle and there was a mental consequence of that. The classroom experience in California had been livelier and more challenging. He was glad he’d come back to Hamartin for the end of his teaching career, not the beginning, or he might never have known what he had missed. But maybe this judgment was rash. Look at Shandy, as complex as any young woman he had ever met, apparently with considerable artistic talent even if he didn’t understand her drawings. Art and math were not incompatible talents. Emmett still regretted not convincing her to go to college as a math or science major. All this, his teaching career, seemed so long ago. An earlier existence, on a different planet. Mary was alive, and the routine of his day was built around her, around the rhythms of their life together. Then she was taken from him, and for a period of time, everything fell apart. Thank God he was able to take an early retirement, he didn’t think he would have been able to continue teaching until 65. He was like a ship that had had its anchor uprooted and was drifting aimlessly across a vast sea. In this sense, news of his cancer almost came as a relief because then, for the first time since Mary’s death, he suddenly felt rooted again, secure in the clarity of his mortality. He was not afraid to die. On the contrary, the explicit certainty of death exalted each daily moment of living. He would rise in the morning with purpose, telling himself, Today I am alive, I have one more day to live and this is no small thing. How shall I spend it? But eventually his attitude changed, and his daily 201

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rhythm became boring in its repetition, and he became listless, waiting to die. And then Shandy slipped into his bedroom to offer him a sedative. She had transformed his life, yes, but the nature of the transformation seemed to be changing. At first she had awakened lust in him, a sexual energy he had not felt in years. But once he had satisfied her in return, once he had witnessed the mysterious waves of her own orgasm, reminded again of the primal differences between the sexes; once he had experienced sex from the perspective of his aging, dying, shriveled self; after all this, his lust somehow became something deeper than lust, something more spiritual than lust. In some way he could not describe, or even entirely make sense of, his physical attraction to her went beyond the promised pleasures of the body. It was as if Shandy satisfied some deep spiritual need in him. The angel as concubine. The concubine as angel. He already could hear Arnie’s guffaw at such a fantastic notion. Which is why he wouldn’t share even a hint of it. And what would Shandy make of it all? Maybe it would frighten her or maybe she would laugh at him, too, which is why he would never bring it up to her either. So here he was, sitting in the high school parking lot, thinking thoughts too ridiculous to share with anyone. Maybe he did have cancer of the brain.

ii Shandy was drawing when she heard a tap on the door. She cussed under her breath. Emmett stood patiently in the hallway. The door opened. He knew by her expression that he’d interrupted her and said quickly, “Is this a bad time?” Shandy surprised him. She said, “Come on in.” 202

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She went to the easel. “This is going to be one of my best Artoons,” she said. He walked slowly to the drawing and studied it. It looked like a baseball game using female dolls for balls. He found it grotesque. “What did you want?” Shandy asked. “If this is a bad time…” “I was about to take a break anyway.” There was an awkward silence. “Are you okay?” she asked. Emmett let out a quick laugh. “I haven’t been okay for a long time. I think since Mary died. But actually that’s what I wanted to talk about because you’ve made me a hell of a lot better than I’ve been in ages. I know I don’t appreciate art and all that, and if I did we’d have a lot more in common, and could do more things together, but I just want you to know how much I value the time I get to spend with you.” He stopped and felt foolish. This wasn’t the tone he wanted. He sounded weak. “I know,” Shandy said. “I don’t think you do, really. This isn’t a criticism. I think it has to do with the different generations, with getting old, with – I might as well say it – dying.” Shandy was silent. She looked over his shoulder into the hallway, as if gesturing for him to leave. She didn’t like talking about his condition. “Do you think of me as someone who is dying?” Emmett asked. Shandy said, “No, I try not to think about it.” “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about it. I know you appreciate the money I’m giving you, God knows you earn it, as far as I’m concerned, but I still want to do something more for you.”

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Her expression changed. She wondered what he was getting at. “This is going to sound a little bizarre maybe, so please let me finish before you say no or however it is you’re going to react.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I was thinking we should get married.” He paused. Shandy didn’t laugh so he continued. “I guess that’s it,” he said. “I’m asking you to marry me.” “I don’t know what to say.” “Let me tell you why I think you should say yes. I have a damn good retirement income, from two different sources, and as my widow, you’d continue to get benefits. You’d have a steady income for life. I would think that’s something an artist could use. I don’t know all that much about it, but I assume it’s hard for an artist to make a living.” Shandy was amazed. “You’re serious?” “Of course I’m serious.” “Do I have to decide right now?” “Of course not. But soon. Given my situation.” “This may be the nicest thing anyone has ever offered me.” “Good. Give it some thought.” “Don’t you have kids to give your money to?” “We never had kids. We always planned to adopt but somehow never got around to it. I don’t have a legacy, so to speak. Giving everything to you would be a little like having a daughter.” “You think of me as a daughter?” “Not when, you know—” “I never slept with my father,” she blurted out. “I didn’t mean to imply that you did.” “He died in Vietnam.” “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

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“I didn’t know him very well. He drove truck. He wasn’t home much.” “I see.” “Mom always had boyfriends on the side. Then he went in the Army and was killed. He was the first one in Hamartin killed in the war.” “I should’ve known that.” “It doesn’t matter.” “It does matter – because I’ve upset you.” “Don’t think of me as your daughter. It makes everything too weird.” “Well, there’s certainly nothing strange about leaving everything to your concubine. It’s a very long tradition.” He’d wanted to lighten the moment with the remark but could see he hadn’t succeeded. Whatever wonder and gratitude had lit up her expression when she first understood what he was offering her was gone now. Instead she looked confused and a little irritated. They spoke at the same time: “I need to--” “I’ll let you--” Emmett was the first to recover. “I’ll let you get back to work.” Back in his room, he feared he’d tainted his gift to her, perhaps enough so that she would reject it. He hoped not. After all, what did she have to lose? And he had so much to gain.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE i Helen took her civic duties seriously but never had felt the professional stress of recent weeks. First there was the fireworks controversy between Hamartin and The Falls. No sooner was this settled to her satisfaction – Hamartin would do what it always had done and set off its own fireworks – than she learned that Arnie refused to paint over the hate slogan on his barn. Moreover, according to Emmett, he was planning another one of his controversial art shows – on the very day of the Bicentennial! Helen knew her neighbors well enough to be sure that many people would be outraged when they learned of these developments. A few, exchanging opinions in the tavern or the cocktail lounge, might well threaten to take the matter into their own hands. Helen easily could picture a mob of intoxicated enthusiasts driving their pickups in a convoy to the farmhouse to paint over the graffito themselves. She wanted to stop this possibility in its tracks, for which purpose she drove to the farmhouse to talk to Arnie herself. She figured she was one of the few people in town to whom he would listen at least. It was evening but still warm. The sky had faded from intense blue to a cooler and more subtle shade as evening, her favorite time of day, approached. Driving in the long gravel driveway, she saw the Chevy and the van – and a VW bug, which belonged to Shandy, or so she’d been told by someone at the cafe. Helen realized she might run into the girl, a possibility that only added to her stress. She didn’t want to have anything to do with the girl. She didn’t want to revisit the pain she’d felt when Emmett told her of his affair with this tramp. She didn’t understand male lust and how it could make Emmett, who was usually the perfect gentleman, do such selfish, hurtful things as his recent behavior toward her. She didn’t trust what she might say to Shandy in some spontaneous exclamation of all her pentup frustration and unhappiness. 206

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Helen sat in the car a moment, wondering what to do. She reminded herself that she was here on a professional mission, not a personal one. She took a deep breath. Then she saw Emmett come onto the porch. With difficulty, she pushed and lifted herself out of the station wagon. “And to what do we owe this nice surprise?” he asked. This was the last thing she expected to hear. He sounded glad to see her. Emmett was glad to see her. He was aware that he’d damaged their friendship, and he wanted to do what he could to repair it. His marriage proposal to Shandy had had a settling effect on him, as if he were adding a period to an important narrative in his life, and he wanted to tie up whatever other loose ends he’d left unraveled. “Is Arnie home?” Helen asked, believing full well that he was. “Down in his studio, I think. Shall I get him?” “Please.” “Come in and have some coffee.” “I’ll wait in back. I want to see the barn.” “Aha. Then you aren’t here to see me.” She didn’t say what she was thinking, Why would I want to see you after what you put me through? “I’ll get him,” said Emmett. Helen walked around the house to the barn. There it was, in large red letters, KILL ALL FAGITS!!!, as hateful as it was illiterate. Literacy, unfortunately, didn’t eliminate very many suspects in Hamartin. She doubted if many residents knew how to spell faggot correctly. While Helen waited at the barn, Emmett went downstairs. Arnie was at one of the long tables, staring into space. He didn’t appear to be working on anything. “Helen’s here to see you.” “Jesus Christ,” said Arnie. “The goddamn self-appointed town peacemaker.” 207

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“Yes, I did get that impression.” “I wish you’d’ve told her I was out.” “The van’s here.” “I could be out riding. Is she waiting upstairs?” “At the barn.” “Oh, Christ.” Arnie took the basement door out, and Emmett went back upstairs. He’d been reading in the living room when he’d heard Helen’s car pull up. He returned to his book. “Hello, Helen,” said Arnie as he approached the barn. “No, I’m not painting over it. I’m saving that chore for the bigot who did it.” “Not a bad idea,” said Helen. “How can I help you?” “I just wanted to see for myself. Arnie, you know how people get in this town. If there isn’t talk in the tavern at this very moment about coming out here to paint over it themselves, I don’t know my neighbors.” Arnie laughed. “I didn’t think of that.” “Then you’ll paint over it?” “Of course not. It’s all the more reason to keep it up.” “I don’t understand.” “It’s an emblem of the under-belly of our little backcountry paradise, don’t you think? It reminds us what kind of town we live in.” “That’s not fair,” said Helen. “Most people in Hamartin have known about you for years and haven’t caused any fuss about it, even if they did disapprove, which I’m sure most do. Live and let live, Arnie. What else would keep you here for so long?” “What keeps me here is my financial situation,” he said. “I can’t afford to leave.” “I don’t believe that for a minute. You could sell out to Ned any time you want, you know he’d jump at it. You could 208

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move to Portland or to San Francisco, for that matter. You’d make a nice little bundle on this place since you own it free and clear. You stay here because you like it. It’s your home.” “Okay,” said Arnie, “I’ll admit it. I like it here.” “Then why not try to get along?” “I didn’t say I like the people. I like the scenery. I like the privacy. I like being able to take a ride whenever I want. I like living here as an artist. I get a ton of work done.” “What about your neighbors?” “They leave me alone, mostly, and I leave them alone. When I need people, I go to Portland.” “You’re not leaving them alone now.” “I’m not doing a thing to them now! This is my property. If I don’t want to paint the barn, who says I have to?” “By leaving it up, you insult the town. It’s an emblem, you said so yourself. You insult the town and all the people who live in it.” “They’re bigots, Helen. Ninety-percent of them are, you know that yourself.” She wasn’t getting anywhere, and she realized there was no way to change his mind. One point for Arnie, one match to go. Helen said, “What’s this I hear about an art show on the Fourth of July?” “This fucking town. What’s Garner do, have bugs planted in all the bushes?” “Garner didn’t tell me.” “Who then?” “That’s confidential.” “Yes, I’m doing an art show. No, there is no way you can talk me out of it. Are we done now?” “We’re done,” Helen said curtly. She walked around to the front of the house. She wondered where Emmett was. Helen wished she could be more understanding about his obsession for Shandy Anderson. 209

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Maybe what appeared to be lust was really evidence of mental deterioration. It was one thing to see someone’s health fade while they were bedridden in the hospital, but quite another to witness deterioration as a kind of behavioral insanity. Emmett’s affair with Shandy also would outrage many of her neighbors when they got wind of it. Marg, who knew almost everything that happened in town, was already well aware of Emmett’s infatuation but perhaps didn’t yet know, or accept, that Emmett actually was having sex with the girl. Helen knew many people who would be outraged by their age difference, which suggested a sinful liaison between grandfather and granddaughter. Others, especially the regular’s at Tony’s Truck Haven, would get riled up because Emmett was getting for free what they had had to pay for. Men! Helen sat in the car for five minutes before starting the engine, waiting to see if Emmett was going to come out to talk to her. She wanted an apology or a confession that what he’d said wasn’t true, he was just flirting with the girl. Flirting she could understand. Shandy’s presence made him feel young. But why would she go to bed with him? What was in it for her? Unless he was actually paying her. Helen didn’t knock on the door for two reasons: for fear that Shandy might answer and because the act would be too forward, as if she were begging to see him. As much as she valued his friendship, she wasn’t going to go begging for it. While Helen waited, Emmett continued reading. He heard Shandy come downstairs. “Taking a break?” he asked. “You need anything at the store?” “Not really. Would you like to take a drive?” “I’m out of shampoo. I’ll be right back.” Helen’s jaw tightened when she saw the girl come out onto the porch. Shandy stopped momentarily when she noticed Helen sitting in the station wagon, staring as if she were trying

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to recognize her. Helen looked away. When she looked back, the girl was bending down into the VW. Emmett watched this scene from the front window, careful not to be seen. As soon as the VW reached the front road, Helen started her engine. Emmett felt an urge to rush outside and stop her before she left, so they might talk and settle what he considered to be an unfortunate misunderstanding. But then he heard the sound of tires turning on gravel, his muscles relaxed, and he sat back down to resume his reading. ii Bill came out of the tavern to find Shandy’s VW parked in front of the Hamartin Market & Mercantile. He headed up the street. In front of the market was a wooden bench. On the bench was its fixture, Mr. Smith, sitting with his cane upright between his legs, clutched by each of his knurled hands. His hair was white and his skin so pale it looked as thin as tissue paper. “How are you today, Mr. Smith!” Bill shouted. The old man was practically deaf. In response Mr. Smith chuckled to himself and bobbed his head up and down. “Beautiful summer day!” Bill shouted. Mr. Smith opened his mouth and closed it, once, twice, three times. If language came out of the mouth, it was too quiet for Bill to hear. Shandy came out of the store, carrying a small sack of her purchases. “Long time, no see,” Bill said. “Not so long.” Shandy opened Ruby’s passenger door and put the bag on the seat. “Got time for a cup of coffee?” Bill asked. “Not really.” “Ice cream soda? Root beer float? It’s on me.” 211

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“I’m going over to see Josie.” “That sounds cool. You give Josie my best. I always regretted not being a customer of hers.” “Very funny,” said Shandy. “Hoped it was.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Miss not being a customer of yours, is what I’m saying. Did you think about my offer?” “I’m not in that business any more.” “Really? You can turn down all that income, just like that? I thought you were saving to go to San Francisco.” “I have a new source of income.” “You got a job? Not making what you were making.” “Yes, a job, making more than I was.” “Really?” He tried to find a hint of teasing in her expression. “I have the best job in the world,” Shandy said. She slid behind the wheel and closed the door. The window was down, and Bill squatted so their faces were level. “What job is that?” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” “Try me.” Shandy hesitated, made a decision, and said, “I’m Emmett’s concubine.” Bill burst into laughter. “The Florence Nightingale of the sex trade!” he said. “It’s the best sex I’ve ever had,” she lied, “and I get paid very well for it. I’m never going to Tony’s again.” Shandy started up the VW. As she pulled into Main Street, Bill called, “Glad everything turned out!” On the bench in front of the market, Mr. Smith started tapping his cane up and down on the pavement. “You okay, Mr. Smith!” Bill shouted. Mr. Smith kept tapping the cane. “Good seeing you, Mr. Smith!” Bill decided it was time for another beer and beelined it back to the tavern. 212

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Shandy was a block away before she let her grin loose. She felt so powerful! What worried her about marrying Emmett was that this very feeling of power would be compromised. Not only that, if she married him, she’d become a widow very soon. Who needed it? If he wanted to give her money, why didn’t he just do it? Why go through all the rigmarole of marrying her? iii “Because he’s lonely,” said Josie. They were sipping white wine on Josie’s miniature patio. “I was so totally shocked,” Shandy said. “Does he love you?” “Love never came up. He wants me to get all his benefits. He says as his wife, his widow, I’d get his Navy and teacher benefits for as long as I live.” “My God.” “Pretty incredible, isn’t it?” “I’ll say. What did you tell him?” “That I had to think about it. But can you think of any reason to say no?” “Did he say why he wants to help you?” “Because he thinks of me as a daughter or something. That part’s really weird.” “Do you think of him as a father?” “No!” Josie smiled and said, “Good.” After a silence, during which they both sipped wine, Shandy asked, “What should I do?” “Let’s think about the disadvantages. What if a miracle happened, and he lived another year or more? Could you stand living with him that long?” “I don’t know. I guess so. I mean, we didn’t talk about moving to San Francisco together or anything.”

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“Maybe you’d better find out what being married to him really means. What he expects, how it changes the arrangement you have now.” “I’m afraid I’ll feel less powerful. I’ve never felt so much in control of my life as I do now. I don’t want to lose that.” “See there,” said Josie. “But maybe it just means he wants to give me all his money because I was nice to him and he doesn’t have anyone else to give it to.” “Which is like winning the lottery, young lady. But you need to double-check what the specific situation of being married means to him.” “Good idea.” Josie raised her glass. “Why the hell didn’t some eccentric old man ever walk into my life?” she wondered aloud. “To your good fortune.” “Good fortune,” said Shandy, and they clinked their wine glasses together. iv Emmett was on the living room floor, flat on his back, legs bent, knees raised. He felt exhausted, as if he’d just run a great distance. What he had done is topple to the floor from his chair. He’d been reading when without warning a firecracker exploded in the pit of his stomach. He doubled over in pain, dropping the book and grabbing his belly with both arms, and he lost his balance and fell to the floor. He lay on his side, his body burning, writhing, moaning, and as quickly as it had come, the pain subsided and vanished, leaving him sweating and exhausted. He rolled onto his back and brought his feet closer to his body. This is how Shandy found him. “Emmett, are you all right?” He saw her staring down at him, looking worried. He wondered how long she had been there. He wondered how much she had seen. 214

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“I’m fine,” he managed to say. “Are you sure?” Should he try to sit up? He didn’t want to fail and worry her even more. He wanted to get rid of her first, sit up second. “I’m fine,” he said again. “Would you get me a cup of coffee?” “I’d be happy to make you tea.” “Coffee is fine. I’m fine.” She looked down at him without moving, as if reconsidering his request, then made a move to go. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” he said. He discovered that sitting up was easier than he had feared. To stand, he first rocked forward to his knees, then used his arms to raise his body and brought his legs under his chest to obtain leverage. He rose to his feet. Shandy had poured two cups of coffee and was waiting for him at the coffee bar. She still looked worried. “I was afraid something had happened,” she said as Emmett took a stool. “I was doing exercises,” he lied. “I think I over-extended myself.” “Be careful.” He smiled, to show her that he was fine now. “Have you thought about my proposal?” Emmett asked, anything to change the subject. “That’s all I’ve been thinking about.” “And?” “I don’t know, Emmett. It’s the sweetest thing that’s ever happened to me.” She stopped, and Emmett added, “But?” “Marriage seems so …” She didn’t know the word. Like a prison, although she was hesitant to say so. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “I really do appreciate how much you want to help me out financially.” Hint, hint. 215

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“I have an idea,” said Emmett. “You should be getting ready for the art show, not worrying about this. So why don’t we take a few days next week and drive to Reno? We can gamble a little, enjoy the change of scenery, see a show, and if you decide you want to do it, fine, we’re in the heart of wedding chapel country, and if you don’t, that’s fine as well. You won’t break my heart if you say no, Shandy. It’s important that you understand that.” “Why are you so sweet? Is this a generation thing?” It’s probably a dying thing, he thought. He shrugged as if he had no opinion on the matter. Shandy went upstairs to get back to work. Emmett moved through the rest of the day with his senses on alert, waiting for something to happen, fearing another catastrophic eruption in his body, the cruel reminder of his condition, the cancer cells setting off their own Bicentennial fireworks, letting him know who was boss, lest he get too carried away about the good turn his life had taken. It was as if his body had decided to send him a message to remind him of something that, in his recent lust and pleasure and happiness, he had forgotten: Biology rules.

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PART TWO

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Emmett continued to receive new messages from his body. They did not come first thing in the morning, as he expected, but later in the day; his early mornings were the best time of the day, waking up beside Shandy, watching her sleep with a sense of wonder as strong as ever, finally slipping out of bed to shave and shower, then dressing to go downstairs and begin the day. But no sooner had he started the day with tea and conversation with Arnie and later sitting down with a book than he began to feel tired, as if a long day were winding down. This wasn’t the kind of weariness that came from lack of sleep. He felt light-headed and weak, and he felt an intermittent fire in his belly. His body was telling him something, and Emmett knew damn well what it was. Arnie noticed the change as well. On Thursday morning, the third day in a row that Emmett had noticed the change in his body, Arnie asked, “What’s the matter?” Emmett didn’t want to get into it. “I can see that something’s wrong,” said Arnie. “Have you talked to your doctor lately?” Emmett sighed. “Maybe there’s too much excitement around here for me,” he said. “My offer still stands about the motel.” Emmett already had decided to spend the holiday weekend away from crowds and fireworks. Now he decided to spend it away from artists and art shows as well. Arnie said, “The gazebo should be finished today or tomorrow. I thought we’d have dinner in it tonight.” Arnie drifted out of focus, and Emmett blinked.

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“Damn it,” said Arnie. “If you don’t get your ass to the doctor, I’ll take you myself.” “I’ll see him today,” Emmett said. Later he looked in the bathroom mirror for a clue to the change he was feeling but found nothing. He looked like what he was, a dying old man. Shandy wandered sleepily into the bathroom, wearing a robe, ready for her morning shower. “Good morning,” she said. “Morning.” Shandy yawned. “I stayed up too late.” She leaned over and turned on the water. Emmett was swept over by a sudden wave of sadness. Her nearness now only emphasized how little time they had together. He fled the bathroom. Downstairs Emmett phoned his lawyer in The Falls and told him how he wanted his will changed. He insisted on coming in today to sign it. He told his lawyer he was feeling fine but was going away for the holidays. He needed to take care of this before he left. Next Emmett phoned his doctor. Yes, it was an emergency, he told the nurse. Emmett wasn’t even sure he could drive to The Falls without ending up in a ditch. His dizziness came and went and came again, in an irregular rhythm. His belly flared up and subsided. He found it harder and harder to concentrate, to move from one moment to the next as a conscious being. He suddenly would find himself in the kitchen or the bathroom or his room, looking around, wondering what he was doing there. He needed someone to drive him to The Falls, and Arnie and Shandy were busy preparing for the art show. Emmett drove to town to find Helen. Flags were everywhere: there wasn’t a business on Main Street that wasn’t displaying one. Emmett made a note to pick up a flag for the farmhouse on his way home. 220

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He found Helen in the library. She was at her desk, across from which sat a man taking notes in a small spiral notebook. Emmett went back outside to wait. Quicker than he expected, Helen came out. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you,” she said. “I need someone to take me to The Falls.” Helen studied him. He didn’t look well. “Are you alright?” “A little light-headed, is all,” Emmett said, which was the smallest part of the truth. “I don’t trust myself to drive that far. I have an appointment at three with my lawyer and at four with the doctor.” Helen looked at her watch. “I’ll pick you up at the café at two. You’re sure you’re okay?” He assured her he was and let her get back to business. In the café, however, Marg was quick to tell him the latest gossip, which was about Helen’s visitor. “All he’s going to do is give Hamartin a bad reputation,” Marg told him. The visitor in town was a reporter from the newspaper in Riverbend, which was in Juniper County to the south. News of the hate slogan on the barn had stretched beyond the county, and as soon as the reporter published his story, it would stretch farther still. Riverbend was filled with wealthy executives from San Francisco who had built vacation and retirement homes “in God’s country,” which meant that whatever happened in Central Oregon on Thursday was sure to be a topic of conversation at a cocktail party in the Bay Area the next week, if not by the weekend. Emmett let Marg’s energetic drone of opinion wash over him like a hot wind. He couldn’t focus on anything, let alone gossip that really didn’t interest him. He had no idea how much time had passed when he looked up to find Helen standing at his table. 221

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“Are you ready?” Helen talked so much on the drive that he found it difficult to keep up with what she was saying. At least she wasn’t blabbering about him and Shandy. She was concerned about the newspaper reporter being in town. Emmett stared out at the scenery. Then Helen said, “We have a little time to kill.” Emmett noticed that they already were in The Falls. They were at a stoplight. “Feel like coffee?” she asked. When they were seated with their coffee at a sidewalk table, Emmett blurted out, in response to one too many inquiries about how he was feeling, “I’m almost at the end, okay? Is that good enough for you? Can you leave me alone now?” The hostility of his tone took Helen aback. She looked away, and when she looked back at him she saw tears in his eyes. She reached for his hand across the table but he pulled it away. “I’m fine,” he said, although this was one time she hadn’t asked. “I just have to take care of a few things.” “What things?” He had thought of telling her everything. Once or twice on the drive, when his mind cleared enough to hold the thought, he’d considered telling Helen about his decision to leave his money to Shandy. He wondered if she would understand why he would do this and agree that it was a wonderful thing to do. “I have to sign my will,” he said. “You haven’t made a will until now?” “I changed it.” “Oh?” He knew she wanted to know more but he’d lost the energy to confide in her. He wanted to sign what he had to sign and skip the doctor and get home and climb into bed. 222

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They finished their coffee in silence. The lawyer’s office was within walking distance, so Helen told him she’d wait at the cafe. His lawyer, too, tried to engage Emmett in talk about his health, but Emmett replied in curt monosyllables that communicated nothing and made it clear he was there to sign the papers and leave. Back at the table, Emmett said, “The doctor has an emergency. I had to reschedule.” It was a lie, of course. “You can’t see your doctor?” “He has an emergency. I made an appointment for next week.” “Can’t you see another doctor?” “Goddamn it, Helen, just stay out of it! Take me home.” What Emmett had decided was that once at the doctor’s office, he might never be released. He might be rushed to a hospital. He wasn’t going to let them dictate the conditions or rhythm of his departure. He’d made his decision how to die months ago, and he damn well was sticking to the plan. On the drive back to Hamartin, Emmett took a deep breath and said, “I’m doing the right thing.” “Okay,” said Helen. Emmett said, “The thing about dying is, you realize how little you’ve actually contributed to this world.” Helen looked at him before replying. “You’ve influenced more students than you realize. Changed a few lives in the bargain.” “I meant not having children.” But Helen may be right, he thought. He recalled the chance meeting with his former student at the coast, Carol Venn, and how she had gushed with gratitude over all she had learned from him in class. He had changed her life, she said. He had given her self-confidence. Wasn’t this worth something?

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“Does this have something to do with your will?” Helen asked. “I’m giving everything I have to Shandy.” Helen started to speak but stopped. They drove a few miles in silence. Emmett said, “You don’t approve, do you?” “It’s not for me to say who you leave your money to.” “I asked her to marry me.” “What?” Helen looked like she didn’t believe him, that she thought he was pulling her leg. Emmett said, “I’m serious. Why not? As my widow she’d get a lot of benefits from the Navy, including my retirement. She’s an artist, she can use all the financial help she can get.” “I see.” “You don’t approve.” “Did she give you an answer?” “We’re going to Reno next week. Not to marry necessarily. On a little vacation. We’ll see what happens.” “My God, Emmett...” Helen couldn’t find the words to finish. “It makes me feel good. What’s wrong with that?” “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, Mr. Hale.” He didn’t believe she meant it. She looked like she was angry with him. Emmett had so little understanding of women. What on earth had he said that could upset her? There was nothing personal, relating to her, in what he was doing. Unless she expected to be in his will. What clue had he ever given her to believe this? “Why are you so upset?” he asked as they entered Hamartin. “I’m not upset.” “You look upset.” “I’m not upset!”

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His car was parked in front of the café, and she dropped him off there. He invited her in for another coffee but she declined. He presumed she wanted to be alone as quickly as possible so she could start crying or throwing things or whatever it would be, but he still had no idea what he’d done. When she was out of sight, Emmett walked up the street to Hamartin Market & Mercantile. Mr. Smith was sitting on his bench. “Hello, Mr. Smith!” Emmett shouted. The old man recognized who it was and broke into a wide grin. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it!” Mr. Smith spoke, but so quietly Emmett could barely hear him. “You rascal.” “What did you say, Mr. Smith!” Mr. Smith said, “You have a queer way of dying, young man.” “I’m just doing the best I can, Mr. Smith!” “Does she have a sister?” asked Mr. Smith. “Good seeing you, Mr. Smith!” In the store Emmett picked out a small American flag with a mount so he could fly it from his bedroom window. That way he’d be doing his civic duty and making sure the farmhouse wasn’t an embarrassing statistic to the county. Coming outside, Emmett passed the bench without acknowledging Mr. Smith. The old man said something but Emmett couldn’t decipher it. It probably was just as well. Mac had parked beside Emmett’s Chevy in front of the café. He saw Emmett approaching and waited for him. Emmett held up the small sack and said, “One American flag.” “Good. Buy you a cup of coffee?” “You can buy me a cup of tea.” Inside Mac got right to the point. 225

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“I want to run something by you,” he told Emmett. “Tell me if you think it flies.” Mac spoke in low tones and often glanced toward the counter to make sure Marg wasn’t eavesdropping. He told Emmett his idea that Arnie may have painted the graffito himself in order to give the town bad press. When Mac was done, Emmett said, “Impossible. First of all, there’s been no press about it.” Which was true today, of course, but only until the reporter who talked to Helen published his story in the Riverbend daily. There also was Arnie’s press release about the art show, but it was Emmett’s understanding that this was sent to the media in Portland, a different matter entirely. He assumed Mac didn’t know about the art show yet. He would find out soon enough, but Emmett wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. “I expected something to be in the weekly yesterday,” Mac said. The small paper in The Falls published every Wednesday. Emmett said, “I thought Adam was the prime suspect.” Mac had caught up with Adam on Tuesday after work. He’d spent almost an hour with the boy, who had convinced him he was innocent by not denying his agreement with the sentiment of the slogan. It was clear Adam hated homosexuals and was not thrilled to be doing a job for one, but he also seemed to be making an effort to stay out of trouble. He told Mac that Jason had been tutoring him so he could pass the College Entrance exam and go somewhere to play football. He also told Mac the same story about Saturday night, that the two boys had been cruising and drinking. When Mac let Adam go, he was satisfied the boy hadn’t done it. “I don’t think he did it,” said Mac. “How well do you know Jason?” “It couldn’t be Jason.” “Jason acts more guilty than Adam.” 226

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“No, it’s not in his character.” After a moment, Mac said, “I hear rumors you’re keeping Shandy out of trouble.” Emmett hesitated, wondering how much to say. Finally he said, “She’s behaving, if that’s what you mean.” Mac grinned. “Emmett, is she why you’ve been feeling better?” “You don’t want to see me feeling better?” “Of course I do. I just don’t want to see you …” “See me what?” “Taken advantage of.” “Believe me, whatever is going on is going on of my own free will.” Mac changed the subject, and Emmett got the idea that this was what the deputy wanted to talk about all along. “Emmett, is anything planned for the holidays out there?” “I’m going out of town for the holidays.” “Oh?” Emmett didn’t take the bait. “Any place special?” “Visiting friends,” Emmett said. “Sorry to hear that. I’m hoping for a big turnout at the park for the fireworks. We’re sort of in competition with the county show on the river. You won’t be going to that one, will you?” “I don’t think I’ll be seeing any fireworks.” “I see. Why’s that?” “I like to avoid crowds. Mac, I’m putting the flag out my bedroom window. Just so you know. You won’t be able to see it from the front of the house but don’t think we’re not patriotic.” “Arnie won’t let you put it in front?” “I haven’t asked him. But you know Arnie.” “Indeed. Why do I have a feeling he’s up to something?” 227

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Did Mac know about the art show? Emmett couldn’t decide. Emmett said, “Sometimes Arnie’s manner is suspicious by nature.” “Which feeds Garner’s conspiracy theory. He’s looking for an issue to run his campaign on. So what’s going on with those photos Arnie took of Shandy? I assume he’s doing a painting of her.” “It’s done and it’s beautiful.” When Arnie had shown him the painting, Emmett stood before it in awe. Arnie had captured Shandy’s youthful sexuality perfectly. In the painting Shandy looked both desirous and unobtainable at the same time, like a symbol, an icon, of something greater than herself. Woman as Erotic Mystery, the Eternal Tease. The Angel as Concubine. Emmett’s angel of salvation, to whom he was going to bequest his most substantial assets. Mac said, “I figured it was something innocent like that.” “Thanks for the tea.” Both men slid back their chairs and stood. “Nice to see you looking so well,” said Mac. “Whatever arrangement you have with Shandy, it looks like good medicine.” “If I were younger, I’d patent it and put it in a bottle.” Mac smiled. “Take care,” he said. Mac took the bill to the register, and Emmett headed for the door. Emmett sat in his car without starting the engine, thinking. When Mac came out and saw him, the deputy hesitated, as if considering whether or not to come over to the window, but he only nodded, then got into the patrol car and drove off. Emmett still sat behind the wheel.

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When his mind was made up, Emmett turned the key, and the Chevy roared to life. He drove down the street and around the corner. He pulled into Helen’s driveway and stopped. For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer the door. When she did, she looked as if she’d been crying. “Helen,” he said, without moving from the porch, “I’m the best friend you have in this town. Don’t act this way.” “And what way is that?” “Like a lovelorn teenager.” “Look who’s talking!” Emmett said, “I’m doing the best I can. Shandy and I are two adults, and whatever we do is nobody’s damn business. We’re not hurting anybody.” “You just don’t get it, do you?” she said. “Who are we hurting?” Helen looked away in disbelief. “I know there’s a gossip mill in this town,” said Emmett. “But you should know better than to get involved with that. You’re my friend, for God’s sake.” Helen looked unconvinced to hear it. “Well, it’s true,” said Emmett. “I’ve known you longer and better than anyone in this town. I don’t have all that many friends anyway. I don’t want to lose the best one I have, especially over some stupid misunderstanding. You know as well as I do that our romantic involvement didn’t work out so well. At least we tried. We gave it a shot. And we were friends afterwards, too, until all of a sudden you’re jealous of something you actually don’t even understand. I’m not marrying Shandy because I love her, I’m marrying her because I want to help her out. What the hell’s wrong with that? It’s not as if we’re going to go riding into the sunset. I’m not even sure I’ll be here long enough to get to the altar. I’m just asking for a little slack here. Give me the benefit of the doubt. I wouldn’t be doing any of this if it didn’t make me feel good doing it. I don’t have all that much time to feel good about anything, so don’t 229

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get on my back for the little good that I find in what life is left for me.” Emmett exhaled audibly. He looked physically exhausted by the long speech. For a long time, no one spoke. Helen said, “Do you want to come in for tea?” “No thanks. I just wanted to get this off my chest.” He was halfway to the car when Helen said, “Thank you, Emmett.” He looked back and found her smiling. He smiled back. “I’ll give you a call later,” he said, which indeed he would do but under circumstances he could not have predicted.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE i Garner had to admit that, as theories went, it was farfetched, but that wasn’t really the point. It was plausible, which meant he would be justified in making Vista Park a crime scene and restricting its use. It wasn’t his fault that the timing conflicted with the scheduled holiday fireworks. The good residents of Hamartin would just have to see the river fireworks at The Falls instead, for which purpose – to demonstrate his sincere concern for the unfortunate situation – Garner would provide county buses to shuttle folks there and back. This wouldn’t be a problem since his brother was the county dispatcher. What made Garner’s theory plausible was evidence. First, there was Garner’s own knowledge as an eyewitness of the photo shoot. But there was much more. Not only did he have a photograph of illegal nudity in the park but he had Emmett’s pistol, which Garner would say was found at the scene, suggesting that the girl, Shandy Anderson, was forced to pose nude against her will. The pistol was registered to Emmett Hale, of course, but Garner didn’t believe the dying old man was involved in the illegal activity. He believed that Arnie Woodworth, whom Garner had witnessed to be the photographer, had taken the gun from Emmett’s room. In other words, Vista Park was being used as the setting for illegal and obscene nude photographs, for making pornography, and the model had been forced to pose at gunpoint. Garner would close down Vista Park as a crime scene so it could be sealed for more evidence. Just in time for the Fourth. Garner wanted to talk to Shandy Anderson again as soon as possible. Damn, he wished she were a minor, but she wasn’t, which meant he had to apply some leverage to get her to realize what would be in her best interest. Garner planned to close the park late Saturday afternoon, which would make any legal 231

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intervention by the Fourth all but impossible, and he wanted to get Shandy on his side before then. The trick was how to bring her around without anyone at the farmhouse knowing. In this regard, good fortune fell into his lap. Late Thursday afternoon he was cruising Main Street in Hamartin when Garner saw the girl’s VW parked in front of the market. He parked across the street and waited for her to come out. When she did, he made a broad U-turn to her and rolled down the window on the passenger’s side. “Get in,” Garner told her. “Am I under arrest?” “Not yet. Get in.” “Can I put my groceries in the car?” He let her put the sack in the back seat of the VW. She got into the patrol car, and he sped away. “Where are we going?” Shandy asked. “To Vista Park.” “Why?” “You’ll see.” Shandy had no idea what was going on but she knew whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. She wondered if he thought she was still working at Tony’s parking lot. She almost told him she wasn’t but then remembered that she’d never admitted doing it in the first place. She kept quiet until he parked at one end of the park, away from the view down into the valley. Garner shut off the engine. Shandy said, “Maybe I should get a lawyer.” “I was hoping you’d cooperate. I’m not really interested in arresting you. I’m interested in Arnie Woodworth.” “Why?” There was a manila envelope on the seat between them. Garner picked it up, took out a photograph and dropped it in Shandy’s lap. Shandy looked down and recognized it immediately. She wondered how he got it. 232

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Garner said, “Public nudity is illegal.” “We weren’t in public.” “You were within the boundaries of Vista Park, which is a public facility.” “We were in the woods. Nobody could see us.” “I saw you.” Shandy didn’t believe him. If he’d seen them, why didn’t he arrest them? “I think I need a lawyer,” she said. “All I need from you are two things. One, verify that Arnie was the photographer. Two, testify that you were there against your will.” “I wasn’t there against my will.” “Sure you were.” She started to speak and stopped. She looked away, out the window. She looked back and said, “We weren’t even in the park. We were below, in the woods. It’s private property.” “The woods are part of the park. Shandy, I know you want to get out of town and go to San Francisco or wherever it is. You don’t want to spend a couple years in jail instead, do you? Like I said, I’m not interested in you at all. I want Arnie. You can help me get him and help yourself in the bargain.” “No way,” she said. Garner studied her. He decided to go the next step. “Get out of the car,” he said. “What for?” “So I can put cuffs on you.” “Why?” “I told you. Illegal public nudity. If I find out these pictures are selling in the porno shops in Portland, you’re in deep shit, young lady.” “He’s painting me. He works from photographs.” “So what? You don’t think he can make some good bucks on the side, selling them in Portland?” 233

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She hadn’t thought of this, but she couldn’t imagine Arnie doing it. “I want a lawyer,” she said again. “You get a phone call from the jail. Get out of the car so I can cuff you.” “Wait a minute.” Her mind was racing around a confusion of contrary thoughts. She didn’t want to cooperate but she didn’t want to go to jail either. She wished she’d taken the money she had – still over four hundred dollars – and gotten the hell out of Hamartin. “You changing your mind?” Garner asked. “Why are you doing this? Somebody threatened to kill him. You should be solving that, not doing this.” “That was vandalism. This is obscenity.” Shandy thought what was written on the barn was obscene, not her modeling nude, but she knew better than to say so. She already was formulating a way to wiggle her way out of this. “When would I have to testify?” she asked, trying to put in her tone the suggestion that she may be changing her mind. “I’m not sure. Next week maybe.” After the Fourth. Shandy took care to hide her sense of relief. Garner said, “Being cooperative would sure help you get out of town quicker.” “He really didn’t force me,” Shandy said. “He paid me very well.” “How much?” She was afraid to tell him. But if she lied, should she go higher or lower? Garner said, “You can help me here. What I really want to know is who he sold the pictures to in Portland.” Shandy still refused to believe that Arnie had done this. At the same time, she saw her opportunity to avoid jail. 234

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“Maybe I can suggest we take some more,” she said. “Then I could keep track of them through the whole process.” Garner studied her. It wasn’t a bad idea at all, but he wondered if the girl was serious or just trying to talk her way out of a difficult situation. For the moment, it might not matter. He had no intention of taking her to jail today because that would put his hand on the table too soon. He was trying to scare her, and he knew he’d succeeded. His first goal was to close down the park so the fireworks would have to be cancelled. He could decide on the best strategy for going after Arnie early next week, on Tuesday or Wednesday, after the Bicentennial hoopla settled down. He said, “If you mean that, it’s one hell of an idea. I’m just wondering if I can trust you.” “I want to get out of here as soon as possible.” She was able to say this with conviction because it was the truth. “Okay,” said Garner. “Here’s what we’ll do.” He told her to hang loose through the holiday weekend. They would meet early next week and make a plan. She would arrange for another nude photo session and keep her eyes and ears open regarding Arnie’s business dealings. At the same time, Garner would put a tail on Arnie. Hopefully he would lead them to his buyer. When Garner returned Shandy to her VW, she got out without a word. She waited until he had driven away before starting up the engine. Suddenly she felt great relief. She drove straight to Josie’s to tell her what had happened.

ii The reporter caught up with Arnie in the afternoon. He drove to the farm house, parked and knocked on the front door.

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Arnie had just come up from the basement when he heard the knock. “I’m Tom Allen from the Riverbend Journal,” said the young man on the porch. He had the rumpled look of a graduate student, wearing a wrinkled tweed sports coat, jeans and sneakers. The temperature had dipped into the 70s, almost justifying the jacket. The reporter had a camera bag slung over his shoulder like a purse. Arnie knew what he was here for. “You want to see the graffito?” “Yes, if I could.” Bill and the boys were staining the gazebo for protection from the weather. The project would be complete later this afternoon. At the barn the reporter looked up at the graffito and made no reaction other than, “Unbelievable.” He took the camera out of its case. “Help yourself,” said Arnie. The young man gave no sign of understanding this comment on his manners. The reporter took a few pictures. “And you discovered this when? Yesterday?” “Last Sunday.” The reporter stopped what he was doing. “Last Sunday?” “That’s right.” “I thought you would’ve painted it over by now.” “I’m keeping it up for the festival,” said Arnie. He was improvising. “What festival is that?” “The First Annual Hamartin Festival of Gay Arts.” The reporter stared at him, as if waiting for more. “Where does this happen?” the reporter asked. “Right here, over the holiday weekend.” “The city is sponsoring this?” Arnie laughed. 236

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“What do you think?” “Let me make sure I have this right. You’re having a festival of gay artists over the holiday weekend and plan to do this every year. Will it be right here?” “Exactly. See, I built a gazebo just for the occasion.” The reporter was scribbling away in a spiral notebook, and Arnie was having the time of his life, telling him that he was not surprised that something like this could happen in a small town like Hamartin, which was comfortable in its oldfashioned ways and closed-minded to ideas that challenged them. Tom Allen asked about Arnie’s background but Arnie gave him only the briefest sketch. He didn’t want any personal publicity. He wanted it printed in the newspaper that Hamartin was having a festival of gay arts. That’s what he wanted to see in print – and wanted the locals to see in print.

iii When the gazebo was stained against the weather, Bill and his crew started to clean up. They hauled all their tools and equipment to the front of the farmhouse, then began raking up the scraps and sawdust, putting them into large cans. They were in a good mood, a well-paying job finished before deadline. On the barn the graffito loomed over them as before but somehow it no longer seemed ominous, if they noticed it at all. Its status had changed from outrage to blight, more of a nuisance than a symbol of hate, rather like a weed-infested lot in a neighborhood of manicured lawns. You wished it wasn’t there but what could you do about it? As they were finishing up, Mac stared at the graffito and said, “How big do you think those letters are? Two feet? Three?” “Something like that,” said Adam. “Make a guess. In inches.” 237

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“Shit, I don’t know.” “Jason?” Jason studied the graffito and said, “My guesstimate is sixteen inches.” Emmett appeared, passing by on his way for a walk. “The gazebo looks really nice,” he said. “Emmett,” said Mac. “How large do you think the letters on the barn are?” “They’re all different sizes.” “The K. How big is the K? We have a little pool going, and then I’m going to climb up there and measure it.” “You don’t have to climb up there to measure it,” said Emmett. “There’s a much easier way.” “Of course you do. How the hell can you measure it from down here?” Jason blurted out, “He’s right!” Emmett listened with interest as Jason continued. The boy had the unmistakable enthusiasm of a future scientist. “All you have to do is step away a known distance from the barn and use a sextant to find the angle to the top of the K. Multiply by the tangent of the angle, and that’s how high off the ground it is. Then you do the same thing for the bottom of the K. You subtract this from the first, and that’s how high the letter is. Mr. Hale, you have a sextant, right? We could do it right now.” Emmett applauded, very impressed. “Jason starts Stanford in September,” said Adam, sounding like a proud older brother. Bill had no idea what Jason was talking about but he’d heard enough to say, “Okay, guys, break’s over. Let’s clean this place up and hit the road. They want to have dinner in the gazebo tonight.” Emmett went on his walk. When he returned, Jason was the only one there. He’d volunteered to do the final touchup, so no one would have to come back tomorrow. Adam consequently had caught his ride home with Bill. 238

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“You showed an impressive knowledge of trigonometry and navigation,” Emmett told Jason. “I remembered the talk you gave in my sixth grade class. You brought in the sextant and showed us how you could measure the height of trees with it. Nobody understood what you were talking about, including the teacher. But I was fascinated. It sounded like magic, figuring it out without actually measuring it.” “Navigation is kind of magical at that. When I was in the Navy, I loved going out onto the bridge at night with my sextant. Here we were in the middle of a vast ocean, no land to be seen anywhere, and by fixing the position of a star, I could figure out exactly where we were. Exactly! I found great solace in that, great peace. Without that kind of security, I think the ocean would be a frightful place. Always take time to shoot the stars around you, Jason. Always take the time to find out exactly where you are.” With this Emmett headed for the back door of the farmhouse, and Jason didn’t get back to work until the door closed behind him. iv They had dinner on a folding table in the gazebo. The workers were gone by the time Shandy returned, though it was not yet five. Arnie was bringing folding chairs up from the basement, and she helped him. Emmett was stretched out in the hammock, coming awake after a short nap. Shandy waited until after dinner to tell them what had happened. They were sipping champagne to celebrate the gazebo. Their reactions were polar opposites: Emmett looked despondent, as if their jail sentences were already determined, and Arnie laughed until tears came to his eyes. “I’m a porno king!” Arnie cried. “Why didn’t I think of that?” 239

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“I had to pretend to go along,” said Shandy, “or he would have arrested me.” “Thank you,” said Arnie. Emmett said, “Maybe you should cancel the art show.” “Are you crazy? This is all the more reason to have it!” Emmett glanced at Shandy and was relieved to find that her defiance was less secure. Her expression suggested at least a hint of worry. Arnie said to Shandy, as if noticing the same worry, “I saw something like this coming. I asked my lawyer to be here. I’m prepared for whatever they dish out.” Emmett still didn’t understand what Arnie thought he was proving by being defiant. However, he had no energy to argue the matter, which would be a hopeless endeavor. Arnie’s act of defiance was set in stone as solid as the gazebo’s foundation. While Shandy and Arnie cleared the table and did the dishes, Emmett took out the yellow pages and started calling motels. Everyone in the vicinity was booked for the holiday. Finally he found a vacancy in a motel on the way to Portland, just outside of Hood River. He booked it for three nights, starting Friday. Too much was happening at once. His body was still sending him periodic warning signs – the light-headedness, the fire in his belly – though he managed to seduce the pain with pills. He took pills through the day, being sure to do so surreptitiously in the bathroom. He also was losing his sense of time, another way he felt out of balance. At one moment he would look up from what he thought was a long period of reading to discover that only a few minutes had passed; at another, he would discover over an hour had passed, not the few minutes he comprehended. Time had joined his body in a conspiracy against him. Emmett wondered if he’d even make it through the weekend.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX i At some early hour of Friday morning, Emmett became aware that Shandy was in bed beside him. She had come to his room while he was sleeping. The thought was comforting, and he took it back into slumber. Later, when the room was gray with the dawn, Emmett awoke with an erection. He and Shandy were butt-to-butt, and Emmett rolled over, letting his phallus brush against her backside. He did this half-consciously, making no demand. Shandy, aroused in a dream, thought for a moment that this was part of the movie playing in her head. Then she realized where she was, and she understood that Emmett was aroused as he rarely was. She rolled over and saw that his eyes were closed. She reached down and touched his erection. She had never felt his penis this hard before. Emmett moaned in pleasure. When he opened his eyes, Shandy was moving on top of him, one hand on his shoulder to roll him onto his back, and she straddled him and guided his phallus into her. She closed her eyes and started rocking gently back and forth. Her hair was unbraided and one portion fell forward over a breast. Emmett reached up and rubbed the soft hair against the contours of her body and felt her hard nipple through the hair. Shandy was rocking faster now, and Emmett reached up with his other hand to bring the rest of her hair around to fall over the other breast. He loved the feel of her breasts and nipples this way, through the soft gloves of her hair. He could sense his own sexual release rising up as if from the ends of his toes. Suddenly Shandy stopped moving. Emmett, who had let her lead the way, started humping his hips under her but Shandy commanded, “Don’t move!” in an almost desperate 241

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hiss of instruction. A hand went to her crotch and began rubbing just above his penis. Sometimes, in her excitement, her hand brushed against him there, and it was all he could do not to cry out in pleasure. Emmett concentrated on being still. Shandy was masturbating with him inside her, and this excited him. But it was becoming more and more difficult to keep still, not to buck in response to his own rising desire. Then his orgasm slipped away from him but instead of going with it, letting himself explode, he held his breath, as if trying to suck it back within the skin of his desire. He gasped for air. Suddenly Shandy cried out, as if his release was her cue. It was a different cry from when he went down on her, sounding more involuntary somehow, more spontaneous, and Shandy’s face contorted into an expression almost suggesting pain. When she opened her eyes, she was looking straight at him. For a moment their eyes locked. Emmett felt hypnotized, unable to look away. He had never seen an expression like the one he saw on Shandy now, her face intense with astonishment and wonder, fear and vulnerability. He felt as if her eyes were leading him directly to her soul. Shandy fell over him, her chest resting on his, and the intense moment was broken. They were silent for a long time. Emmett spoke first. “Happy birthday,” he said. Shandy’s reply was muffled on his chest. “It is today, isn’t it?” Shandy changed her position and said, “I’m finally a legal person.” “You could be a jukebox, I could be a dime,” Emmett said. “Did you just make that up?” “It’s from a poem written by someone named Marty.” “I love it. I could be a jukebox, you could be a dime.”

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Emmett started to tell her the story of the poetry reading in Astoria when his stomach exploded. He flinched in pain but managed not to cry out. But Shandy had seen enough. “What?” she asked, rising up. “Nothing.” He moved one leg, a hint, and Shandy rolled off him. Emmett swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The worst of the pain seemed to be over. “I got a motel for the long weekend,” he said, trying to act natural. “How come?” “I’m not big on crowds. I’ll be back Monday.” “Where’s your motel?” “I couldn’t find a room closer than Hood River.” “You’ll miss my birthday party.” “We just had a birthday party.” She scooted toward him and kissed the back of his neck. “That was really nice,” she said. Emmett didn’t have the vocabulary to describe how wonderful it had been. At the moment when their eyes were locked and he felt as if he were looking into the deepest corner of her being, into her very soul, he knew he had never felt closer to another human being before. It was as if they were, if only for an instant, connected in some profound primal way that made their bodies indistinguishable; it was as if they were one and the same being, connected by the tunnel of their mutual intensity. When Emmett didn’t reply, Shandy wrapped her arms around him and asked, “Are you sure you’re alright?” “I’ve never been better.” Which was true from one perspective but not from another. “I need some more sleep,” said Shandy. “You have a big day today.” “I wish you’d be here.” 243

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“Once all the guests get here, you’ll hardly miss me.” “Maybe I’ll come visit you in Hood River.” “That would be nice. I’ll leave the address and phone number before I leave.” He stood up. Immediately he wished he hadn’t. He felt so dizzy he thought he might fall but he refused to sit quickly down because he didn’t want to alarm her. He stood, struggling to keep his balance. “Emmett?” “I’m fine,” he said and took a tentative step. His head cleared. “I’m taking a shower.” By the time he was dressing, with Shandy already back to sleep in his bed, he felt better. In his mind’s eye he could still see the incredible wonder in Shandy’s expression, and he realized this was the memory of her that he wanted to be his last. ii Since it was the Friday before the holiday weekend, Emmett decided to take care of some business before he drove to Hood River. There was a growing urgency now in everything he did. His attitude of “one day at a time” was rapidly becoming “one hour at a time.” Everything that mattered had to be done sooner rather than later. He drove to town and parked on Main Street. At the drugstore he couldn’t find a birthday card he liked, so he drove to The Falls to a store with a larger selection. While he was in town, he went to the Cascadia Bank. Emmett withdrew three thousand dollars, getting it in one-hundred dollar bills. At a counter at the bank, he opened the birthday card. The cover showed Cupid hovering over a birthday cake. Looking at it now, he wondered what impulse had driven him to buy this card above all others. Well, he didn’t want to take the time to select another. He opened the card and stared at the blank page, pen in hand, trying to decide what to write. Giving up, he 244

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scribbled, “Thanks for everything” but was immediately dissatisfied with how impersonal and automatic it sounded. This, too, would have to do. He slipped the thirty one-hundred dollar bills into the card, put the card in the envelope and sealed it. He printed the word SHANDY on the fat envelope, then slipped it into the inside pocket of his summer sports coat. When he returned to the farmhouse, no one was around. He saw Shandy and Arnie out his bedroom window, standing between the gazebo and the barn. They seemed to be deep in discussion. Emmett packed a small suitcase with several changes of clothes, his toiletries, a few books. He was eager to leave. At the back window downstairs he saw Shandy and Arnie still busy with whatever plans they were making for the art show. He knew he should go outside and say goodbye but he had no energy for it. He worried that he looked as bad as he felt. He didn’t want to upset anyone. He took out the birthday card and stared at it. He dropped it onto the dining room table and immediately picked it up again. He climbed the stairs and stepped into Shandy’s room. He put the envelope under her pillow. Downstairs he again looked out the back window. He remembered that he’d promised Shandy that he would leave her information about his motel room in Hood River. But now he no longer wanted to see her. He didn’t want to compromise the memory of their early morning, their last time together, their last communication, his visitation to her soul. He didn’t want to chance losing this memory for an unpleasant one. He felt strangely relaxed, despite the fire in his belly. He went into the kitchen, drew a glass of water from the faucet, and took two pain pills. He hoped he had enough pills for the long weekend. If he didn’t, there was nothing he could do about it now. Outside he put the suitcase in the trunk, not in the backseat, an old habit from his Navy days when much of his 245

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travel was in strange cities and foreign countries. He sat in the car for a long moment before starting the engine, as if allowing time for them to come around the house and see him off, to exchange goodbyes despite his determination to avoid them. But no one appeared, so Emmett started the engine.

iii Shandy moved through the morning of her birthday as if through a dream. When she woke up the second time, she was alone in Emmett’s bed. She remembered making love – or had the experience been an erotic dream? Her orgasm had been more intense than she’d experienced in a long time, but it was not like her to find release in the presence of someone else. Shandy found sexual company inhibiting – and yet she realized, as her mind stretched awake into the new day, that her lovemaking with Emmett had been real, and she had shared with him something she had never shared with anyone, her genuine orgasm. Maybe this happened because she was halfawake, and he had seduced her in the middle of an erotic dream. Or maybe because she was learning to trust Emmett as she’d trusted no male in her past. But why Emmett, an old man dying of cancer? Perhaps it was precisely because he was dying, and ultimately safe, because he was a temporary partner who made no demands on her. He wanted to marry her, she remembered. She couldn’t see herself saying yes, despite the financial advantages. Marriage looked to her like surrender, a compromise in her values of independence and self-reliance. Yet there were possibilities between them she had never imagined, as evidenced by their lovemaking this morning. There had been something almost cosmic in the mutual intensity of their pleasure. She remembered looking into his eyes and thinking he was about to cry. She might cry herself,

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for which reason she fell forward onto his chest to hide her tears. But this had broken the spell, and the tears never came. The memory of sex had faded by the time Shandy showered and washed her hair. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she looked for change in her image, evidence of turning twenty-one, and found none. Maybe she should make the change herself. What could she do to celebrate official adulthood? The answer occurred to her later, while she was brushing out her hair. Cut it short. Think of all the time she would save. Something to think about. Shandy came downstairs and found no one in the kitchen. The phone rang, and she answered the kitchen extension. It was Heather, who immediately sang Happy Birthday to her. “How does it feel to be legal?” Heather asked after the song. “It’s too early to know.” “Are you going out to get drunk tonight?” Shandy said, “Of course,” although this presently held little appeal to her. “Drink a few for me.” “I will. So are you in a play or what?” “I read for Virginia Woolf, the girl, but the dingbat director cast somebody else.” “You’ll probably play the lead when you’re older. How’s …” Shandy forgot her new boyfriend’s name. “I’m sorry, I forget his name.” “Duncan. Wrong question. We haven’t been getting along.” “What’s wrong?” “He’s a guy, is what’s wrong. I talk to somebody, an actor friend or something, and Duncan thinks I’m screwing the guy. Listen, I hear him coming down the stairs. I’ve got to run. I just wanted to be the first to wish you a happy birthday.” The second, Shandy thought, and not nearly as sweet. 247

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She said, “I’m really glad you called.” “You’re still moving here, right?” “Before the summer’s over.” “Fantastic. I can’t wait.” Shandy poured coffee and sat alone at the coffee bar. She didn’t want to stay with Heather if she wasn’t getting along with her boyfriend. She hated being in the middle of things like that. At the same time, with limited funds, she’d need all the freebies in room and board she could get, and Heather was the only person she knew in San Francisco. There was something else that worried Shandy about staying with Heather. It had been on her mind from the beginning but she’d dismissed it when moving to San Francisco still seemed more like a dream than a possibility. Heather was a person who liked to be in control, of everyone and everything, and once Shandy was in her clutches, Heather would be making a lot of the choices that Shandy should be making for herself. This, in fact, had been the basis of their friendship from the beginning, Heather the leader and Shandy the follower. It had been Shandy’s idea to stage a Nude-In in Vista Park, but after she shared the idea with Heather, Heather took it over, and the next thing Shandy knew she was being invited to participate in an organized if small protest that had been her idea in the first place. After everyone had gotten busted but then let off with a warning, the school was abuzz about “Heather’s Nude-In,” and Heather became this daring bohemian wild woman. Not that Shandy wanted that kind of publicity. It just seemed like she should’ve gotten some credit for thinking up the idea in the first place. And there was something else. Sometimes she thought Heather was in love with her. Or maybe in lust with her. This was based on something that had happened at the Nude-In. Before the cops came, as the four girls and five guys were undressing, all looking extraordinarily modest considering the event at hand, Shandy and Heather stood together under a large 248

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oak tree, carefully removing their clothes item by item, folding each and arranging it on a blanket. When both were down to their underwear, Heather leaned close to Shandy and whispered, “I want to lie naked with you.” Then she gave one of Shandy’s breasts a little squeeze and who knows what might have happened next if one of the guys hadn’t started screaming because he’d been bitten on the butt by a bee. This advance, if that’s what it was, never happened again, nor did either of them bring the incident up. But there it was, something that had happened, and Shandy sometimes wondered if Heather were playing a mind game with her, which she was perfectly capable of doing, or expressing lesbian attraction, or what. But that wouldn’t make Heather a lesbian, it would make her a bisexual because Heather had been sleeping with boys since she’d been thirteen and sharing every experience with Shandy. Shandy felt no attraction to women. When she had a sexual fantasy, there was always a cock in there somewhere. Although most people would look at Shandy’s Artoon of a bombardment of cock-missiles and find it disturbing, even terrifying, to Shandy the image was not without its erotic appeal. Not that she had a hidden desire to be gang-raped or anything. Shandy abhorred violence of any kind. But when it came to fantasies, you had no choice, you just took in whatever your unconscious was going to throw at you, and the only question was whether or not you had the courage to go along for the ride.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN i Emmett settled into his motel room outside Hood River. To his delight, he had a perfect view of the Columbia River. The motel was set atop a hill above the Interstate, and all the units in the long building had windows and decks looking down at the great river. Emmett put a chair out there and decided it was the perfect spot to read. The unit had a small refrigerator, a hot plate and a coffee maker. In the cupboards were plastic plates and real silverware, two pots and a frying pan. He decided he needed supplies. He’d as soon fix his own meals here as venture out into the world. He had no desire to be among people. He crossed the Interstate and took the old highway into Hood River and found a market. He bought a box of tea bags, cans of chili and stew, a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter, some salami and cheese, bottles of orange and grapefruit juice, and a six-pack of beer. The supermarket was in a mini-mall, and Emmett next went to the liquor store and bought pints of vodka and bourbon. By the time he’d carried everything into his room, he looked as if he planned to stay for weeks. The day was beautiful but not warm enough for him. The river stretched out to each horizon, a deeper blue than the sky but just as tranquil. Emmett was glad he was here and not in the middle of the mayhem at the farmhouse. He decided to have a drink but couldn’t decide what he wanted. Maybe he should just have a beer but he felt like something stronger. He could make a screwdriver or a greyhound, neither of which he’d had in recent memory. He decided on the latter and was happy to find ice cubes in the small freezer compartment of the refrigerator. He sipped his drink out on the deck, watching the river. The hills over on the Washington side were checkered golden and brown. A freight train passed along the tracks at the 250

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Washington shoreline, and Emmett counted 147 cars. He went inside and mixed himself another greyhound, noting it should be his last. He wasn’t really a drinking man. With the second drink came thoughts of Shandy. He wondered if he’d be dead by now if she hadn’t bounded into his life. Probably. He remembered how he could not even bear to get out of bed in the morning. She had tapped in him a lust so long dormant that its energy had given him a short, new lease on life. How do you repay someone for such a gift? Money seemed inadequate, though he well knew how much she could use it and how thankful she would be to get it. Well, let her have it, all of it, or at least as much of it as he could direct her way. There would be no marriage, he knew that now. Emmett accepted that this was the end. He didn’t expect to last the weekend. Once again he recalled the intensity of the morning moment when their eyes locked. He wondered how she had felt about it. Did she experience the same sense of looking into his very soul? The same intensity? The same mystery? Or was this all his own doing, some kind of solitary hallucination? Or even some kind of madness related to impending death? He didn’t care what it was, it was the single moment with her that he remembered more than any other, the most intense feeling of connection, however brief, however true or false, that he’d ever experienced. He couldn’t remember experiencing a moment like that with Mary. He couldn’t remember experiencing a moment like that with the Princess. There were no other candidates. He could feel the two drinks. He put on water for tea. While the water trickled through the machine, he took a book onto the deck and tried to read. He quickly gave up. He stared out at the river. The sun caught a car windshield on the Washington side and flashed a sharp ray of light, as if someone were sending out a signal of distress. Emmett closed his eyes

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and would have fallen asleep had his body not tilted and jolted him awake just before he fell out of the chair. Inside he didn’t make tea. Tea could wait. He stretched out on the bed. He felt little pain, which meant the pills were working. He closed his eyes. ii By the time Josie walked around the house to find the crowd at the gazebo, the party was well underway. Shandy saw her right away and darted over to greet her. “You look sober,” Josie said. “I had one glass of wine and switched to iced tea,” said Shandy. She leaned close to her mentor and confided, “I really don’t enjoy drinking that much.” She stepped away and resumed a normal tone. “Isn’t the gazebo fabulous? Come on, I’ll introduce you.” Shandy was more gregarious than Josie had ever seen her before. Perhaps it was because she was twenty-one, an artist among artists, relishing the joy of this special day, the Big Two-One. Josie had met some of the artists from Portland in the past, at gatherings here when she was still Arnie’s student: Henry, who had never liked her landscapes; and Cal, who had; Gregory and Albert, an effeminate couple both of whom were sculptors, their bold structures radiating with masculinity. Others Josie was meeting for the first time, and their names passed by without notice. Josie was impressed that Shandy remembered everyone’s name. This, too, was a side of her that she hadn’t seen before. For the first time Josie realized how well Shandy would do in the art community of a large city. Shandy showed little interest in going birthday barhopping, which had been the plan. After introducing Josie around, she had darted off again, like an active host going out of her way to accommodate the guests. Josie climbed into the gazebo, where the liquor table was, and poured herself a glass 252

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of wine. The gazebo seemed out of place, too modern a structure for such a fine old farmhouse. But clearly it was serving its party purpose. Shandy joined Josie in the gazebo. “I’m ready when you are,” she said. “Really? You look like you’re having too good a time to go.” “This is only the first afternoon of a long weekend,” said Shandy. “Everybody will be here when I get back. They’re barbecuing later but I’m kind of starving now. I thought we could eat early, if that’s all right.” “If you’re ready, so am I,” said Josie. The Friday crowd at The Lamplighter began to gather in mid-afternoon and was in full swing when Shandy and Josie walked into the bar shortly after five. The crowd was ninety percent male, most wearing the regional uniform of jeans and boots (cowboy or work) and either a cowboy hat or baseball cap. Shirts showed more variety, from blue work shirts to snapbutton western shirts in plain or loud designs. A handful of men wore dress shirts and ties, and these were usually salesmen on the road and their ties were loose at the collars to fit in. The bar was crowded and noisy and full of smoke. Shandy and Josie stood inside the doorway, as if weighing the wisdom of entering such a den of male dominance, and Josie spoke first. “Do you want to eat in the restaurant?” “That sounds like a good idea,” said Shandy. It was too early for the restaurant to be full. Even the sign at the cash register said, “Seat Yourself.” Josie led the way to a booth at a window overlooking Main Street. Josie ordered a Scotch and soda but Shandy declined saying, “I want to be asked to show my I.D. in the bar. We’ll go in for a drink after we eat.” As soon as the waitress was gone, Josie asked, “You decide about the proposal?” 253

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“We’re going to Reno next week.” Josie’s eyes narrowed.. “Just a vacation,” said Shandy. “I still don’t know what to do. He really cares for me. It’s incredible. I don’t know if it’s because he’s so much older or because he has cancer or what, but he’s the only man I’ve ever been with who doesn’t make me feel like I’m his personal property. He’s just so easy to be with, or not to be with. I’m not sure I understand why he wants to marry me. I guess I’ll play it by ear when I’m in Reno.” “Maybe he’s so grateful that he wants to set you up for life,” Josie said. “It’s hard to imagine someone doing that.” “I’ve heard of crazy old men leaving a fortune to hookers in their wills. That happened to a friend of mine at the Mustang Ranch. But to get the benefits of a wife, that’s a new one.” The waitress brought Josie’s drink and took their order. When the waitress was gone, Shandy said, “I don’t feel older at all. I thought twenty-one would be a bigger deal.” “It would be if you were more of a drinker.” “I don’t like being drunk.” These proved to be the proverbial “famous last words.” In the bar after dinner, which was even more crowded and noisy than earlier, they lucked out and found a couple leaving just as they entered and managed to grab their small table. The waitress asked Shandy for her I.D. right away, which at least gave official credence to the ritual of Shandy’s being there, and when the waitress saw it was her birthday she asked if Shandy wanted a free Long Island Iced Tea, which was the bar’s birthday ritual. Bring it on, Shandy said, trying to get in the spirit of things. “You be careful with that,” Josie warned, “because it’s potent as hell.” It didn’t taste potent at all. The mixture of gin, rum, tequila, vodka, triple sec and sour, with cola for color and a slice of lemon for garnish, presented the tastiest alcoholic 254

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beverage that Shandy had ever tried. She wanted the recipe, but all Josie knew was that it had lots of different kinds of booze in it. The drink went down as easily as legitimate iced tea and, despite Josie’s warnings, Shandy did not take care to nurse it. She soon ordered a second. By the time their fresh drinks came, Shandy had reached the giggly stage of intoxication. Comments along the bar from guys who couldn’t miss her loud laughter were variations of the cliché, “she’s feeling no pain.” But others watched Shandy with frowns of disapproval. They’d heard the rumors about her, first selling sex at Tony’s and now taking advantage of Hale, the retired teacher dying of cancer, using sex as her weapon and probably taking the poor old guy for all he was worth. This was stooping low even for a tramp. It was enough to make you want to do something to put a stop to it. Not that Emmett Hale was a pillar of society, but there were moral principles at stake here. If you let Sin go unchallenged, then Sin would consume everything in its path. Is that how it went? Something like that. No one could remember the exact Biblical passage. But others gave Shandy more benefit of the doubt. They didn’t give credence to the rumors and even if a part of them were true, look at the poor girl’s background, it’s a wonder she’s not worse than she is. When the waitress told them it was Shandy’s twenty-first birthday, several bought her a drink, until three over-turned glasses marched across the table to mark the drinks Shandy had coming. Josie protested that Shandy would be lucky to finish her second Long Island Iced Tea, let alone a third, fourth and fifth, and Josie herself had switched to beer because she was driving, but the waitress winked and explained to Shandy, “Honey, I work tomorrow night, too, and if you come in then I can give you a rain-check on these here birthday drinks because I already collected for them,” and she winked again as she bounded off to wait on another customer. Midway through the second drink, Shandy, feeling goofy and a little dizzy, glanced over to the next table and thought she 255

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recognized the big guy who was grinning at her. She turned to tell Josie and found her mentor getting to her feet. “I don’t want to leave yet,” Shandy said, slurring her words. “I’m going to the john and then I’m taking you home.” Shandy watched Josie move into the crowd. When she turned back, the big guy at the next table was standing next to her. He sat down in Josie’s chair. “I think we got off on the wrong foot last time,” he said. His fat hand was suspended over the table. “Let’s shake to a new start.” Where had she seen him before? “It’s not polite to refuse an apology,” the big guy said. Shandy touched his fat hand and he grabbed hers, squeezing it. Shandy pulled her hand back, and he squeezed it one last hard time before letting go. “So I hear it’s your birthday,” he said. “You gonna be working later? I’ll give you fifty instead of thirty. A birthday tip.” Shandy squinted at him. Then it came to her where she remembered him from, and she felt sick. Of course. If she weren’t drunk, she’d have recognized him right away. She looked around for Josie, feeling the flush of panic rising up her body. “Or if not tonight, if you’re taking the day off, some other time,” the big guy said. He got to his feet. “I just wanted to make sure there was no hard feelings.” He moved off. Shandy looked around in panic and found Josie approaching. She tried to get to her feet but lost her balance and plopped back down into her chair. “Whoa,” said Josie. “I think it’s time to get you home.” “It’s him,” said Shandy. “Who?” “It’s him. There.” 256

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But she couldn’t find him. Three strangers were sitting down at the adjacent table, and the big guy had disappeared. “I want to leave,” Shandy said. “Sit there a minute,” said Josie. She put two one-dollar bills under Shandy’s half-full drink for a tip. “Come on.” She helped Shandy to her feet. In the parking lot, Shandy said, “It was him.” “Who?” “The asshole who hit me.” “He was at the bar?” “At the next table.” “You’re sure?” “It’s him.” Shandy passed out in the car on the drive home. Josie had to recruit Arnie and Henry to help get her upstairs and into bed.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT i On Saturday morning Emmett lay in bed, monitoring his body. He was confused because he felt better than he expected to feel. He had prepared himself to die, to embrace the crescendo of pain that would come with his final moments, fortified with pain pills and liquor, and in the end he would … but he had forgotten to pack the gun. He had forgotten to bring his pistol! Well, he’d have to go back and get it. Or would he? What kind of tricks was his body playing on him, giving him clues that the end was near and then taking them all back? Today, the day before Independence Day, he was feeling perfectly fine. He didn’t have to take a pain pill this morning. Later Emmett was reading on the deck and sipping tea. He was relaxed, enjoying the quiet and the view of the river, reading for a moment and then not, looking up from the page to follow a river bird in the sky or a freight train across the river, then reading a bit more, and stopping again. He felt at peace with himself. Suddenly a jab of pain in his gut was strong enough to double him over. He gasped for air. He stayed in this position, bent forward over his book, until the pain loosened its grip. He stumbled into the bathroom and took four pain pills. He stretched out on the bed and waited for the pills to take effect. When they did, he thought again of the gun. If the end was going to happen sooner rather than later, he definitely needed the gun. The problem was, he wasn’t sure he could drive. A stab like the one just now on the deck, if he were driving, might cause him to lose control of the car. Emmett hemmed and hawed in a dialogue with himself before deciding what to do. He mixed himself a screwdriver and took it to the small desk. He scooted the phone close enough to read the directions for making a long distance call, then phoned the farmhouse. 258

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“Hello?” Emmett didn’t recognize the voice. “I’d like to speak to Arnie.” “Just a minute.” Emmett sipped his drink, waiting. “This is Arnie.” “It’s Emmett.” “Good morning! Are you in Hood River?” “Yes. Arnie, I need a big favor. It’s very important.” “What is it?” “When I tell you, I don’t want an argument. I don’t want you to comment at all or give me an opinion or anything like that. I just want you to tell me if you’ll do it. You have to do it.” “Are you alright?” “Just listen and tell me if you’ll do it.” There was a silence. Arnie said, “Emmett, what is it?” Emmett cleared his throat and took a sip. “I’m getting close. I can feel it. I’ve got a plan, I’ve had a plan all along, but I forgot to bring the most important part of instigating it. In my room, in the drawer of the table next to my bed, is a pistol. I need it but I don’t think I can drive safely to come over and get it. I need you to bring it to me.” Emmett could hear Arnie’s breathing. “Will you do that for me?” Emmett asked. “Of course I will. What’s your motel and room number?” Emmett told him. “I should be there within the hour.” Twenty minutes later the phone rang. Emmett had moved to the table near the sliding door window. He slowly moved across the room and answered it on the fourth ring. “Hello?” “Emmett, there’s no pistol in the drawer.” “There has to be.” 259

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“I even looked in your chest of drawers and the closet. I can’t find a pistol anywhere.” “I don’t understand.” After a pause, Arnie said, “I can try and find one for you. I do respect what you need to do.” “Let me think about it and call you back.” Emmett hung up without waiting for a reply. Where could his gun be? Losing it was like losing your wallet with all its documentation that established your identity. With no gun at hand, he’d discarded in an instant all the hours and weeks of planning, all his energy directed toward ending his life in a way more dignified than the terrible “treatment” he had suffered through with Mary. He needed a gun, that’s all there was to it. He dialed the farmhouse again. Arnie answered. “Please do what you can,” Emmett said. “I need a gun.” “Is there anything else I can do? How are you feeling?” “I’ll be fine.” “Let me get back to you when I find out something.” “Thanks, Arnie.” Emmett stood up. He felt better, nothing worse in his gut than the suggestion of indigestion. He went back out onto the deck. He sat down and froze, as if expecting a stab of pain. In a moment he relaxed. He breathed deeply and found comfort in the thought that everything still could turn out exactly as he planned. Was that too much to ask? He continued to breathe deeply, trying to relax. There was no need to panic. He was still very much in control. He still had much to be thankful for. He wondered if Shandy had found the card yet. He imagined her screaming for joy when she opened it to find the money. His good deed, his first step toward leaving a legacy. Things could be so much worse for him. He still had his faculties, still was in control of what happened to him. No need to panic. Focus on the immediate, on the small things. What a beautiful day. What a beautiful river. What a beautiful bird in the sky. Is that a blue 260

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heron on the bank? What a beautiful bird. What a beautiful life. Everything would be perfect if he had a gun. ii Shandy enjoyed the buzz brought on by a couple glasses of wine but in general avoided getting drunk because she wanted to be in control of her thoughts and behavior at all times. Nonetheless she’d managed to drink to excess several times in her twenty-one years, and she knew what a hangover was. But nothing in her experience prepared her for this. When her mind let her know she was conscious, she couldn’t open her eyes. She had to raise her eyebrows and stretch her brow to work her eyelids loose. Her next sensation was that her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth, as if during the night someone had poured rubber cement in there. It was harder to get her mouth moving than her eyes open. She ached all over and saying, as she would have said about her previous hangovers, “My head hurts,” would have been inadequate to describe the feeling. “My space hurts” would have been closer. Pain seemed to surround her like her own personal atmosphere. She wanted nothing more than to stand under the blast of a shower but it took considerable time and effort for her mind to move her body in this direction. Later, staring into the foggy mirror, she noticed something strange. At first she couldn’t place it. She wiped the mirror with a towel and stared some more. Her hair. It was different. It was short! Her signature long pigtail was missing! Shandy had no idea what had happened to her pigtail. Her memory of the night before ended with her first Long Island Iced Tea. She remembered how little like an alcoholic drink it tasted, rather good actually, and how quickly she drank it. What on earth was in it? She remembered Josie being there and later being in Josie’s car as the outside world was spinning all around her.

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Then she remembered something else. The man who had hit her in the parking lot at Tony’s. He was standing by her table, lurking over her like a great predatory bird. Shandy stepped away from the mirror, and the memory vanished. She reached up and felt the stub of her pigtail. Where was it? What had happened? Shandy learned the answer to the first question soon enough. An hour later, after managing to comb out what was left of her hair into something short of disaster, and getting dressed, she ventured downstairs with trepidation to see what clues awaited her. She sluggishly entered the kitchen to find Henry grinning and holding up her pigtail. “Are you looking for this?” The pigtail looked less like something that was missing from her head than an object with its own identity, like a strand of rope. “Where did you find it?” she asked. “In the bathroom, where you left it. Arnie found it this morning. I think it’s the best birthday present you could have given yourself. You look much more mature without it. You do, however, need some touching up. Gregory wants to make a deal with you.” Shandy, who had no idea what he was getting at, said, “He does?” “He’s a hairdresser, in case you don’t remember,” said Henry. “Or maybe he never told you. At any rate, he’ll give you a trim in exchange for using this in a wall sculpture.” Henry lifted the pigtail higher, then dropped it down again. Shandy moved to the coffee pot without replying. “Unless you have plans to use it in your own work,” Henry said. “Do you?” “No, I just draw.” “That’s what I thought. Gregory does first-class work, by the way. He’ll do your legacy of girlhood proud. He’d be here 262

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pleading his case himself but he’s actually very shy. What do you think?” Shandy sipped her coffee. “He’s a hairdresser?” “The best. There’s a waiting list for him in Portland.” Arnie came into the kitchen. “You look wonderful,” he said. “Let me amend that: your hair looks great short. You, on the other hand, look like something the cat drug in. What were you drinking last night?” “Long Island Ice Tea,” Shandy said, her voice breaking. She coughed to clear her throat. “Well, no wonder,” said Arnie. Henry said, “I told her Gregory wants to trade her for a trim.” “A professional trim would really fix you up,” said Arnie. Both of them were staring at her. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll tell Gregory,” said Henry, and he was gone. Arnie said, “You mother called this morning to wish you a happy birthday. She sounded like she was feeling no pain.” “Did she leave a number?” “She was calling from a pay phone. Collect.” “I’m sorry. I’ll reimburse you.” “Don’t worry about it.” The phone rang. “Excuse me,” said Arnie. “Hello?” Shandy felt as if she were eavesdropping and took her coffee to the front porch. There were more cars parked out front than she remembered, and she wondered how many artists would be in the art show. She must have been quite a spectacle coming home last night. She couldn’t remember any of it. She couldn’t remember getting up in the middle of the night to pee, looking at herself in the mirror, and without forethought finding the scissors in a cabinet and clipping off 263

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her pigtail. Had she remembered, she would have seen herself staring at its severed limpness for a long time before letting it drop to the floor. Shandy came back inside for a refill. Arnie and Henry stood near the entrance into the living room, speaking in hushed tones. Their moods were different, something had changed, but Shandy didn’t inquire what had happened. She refilled her coffee cup and took it upstairs. She still needed to mount her Artoons for the art show. She planned nothing more fancy than a cardboard frame, something she could make with the materials at hand. She was still thinking about this when she heard something across the hallway. Arnie was in Emmett’s room. She saw him going through the drawers in the dresser. Shandy stepped to the doorway and said, “Did Emmett forget something?” Arnie jolted up as if caught in a criminal act. “Yes, he did,” he said. She watched as he moved from the dresser to the closet. “What are you looking for?” Arnie didn’t reply. He stepped back from the closet and looked around the room, as if double-checking that he had looked everywhere. “Is something the matter?” Shandy asked. Arnie looked at her, and she could see that the answer was yes. “What is it?” “Did you see him before he left?” “I saw him in the morning, but he left without saying goodbye. Why? What’s going on?” “I suppose you might as well know.” “Know what?”

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Shandy felt her body tighten, as if it already knew the answer and it was only her conscious mind that hadn’t gotten the news. Arnie said, “Apparently he thinks it’s just about over.” “What do you mean?” “Shandy, you know what I mean.” He took a step toward her and said, “Excuse me.” Shandy moved aside, so Arnie could come into the hallway. “I’ll let you know when I learn more,” he said. She watched him go down the hallway to the stairs. Back in her bedroom, Shandy fell down on the bed, grabbing the pillow to embrace it. She saw an envelope on the bed, which had been under the pillow. She knew immediately it was from Emmett, and the sweetness of the surprise made her want to cry. She picked up the envelope. It was as fat as a package. A birthday present was in the card. She opened the envelope. When she slipped out the card, it opened up from the pressure of its contents. Shandy couldn’t believe what she was looking at. The card was stuffed with one-hundred dollar bills, more than she’d ever seen in her life. She spread them out like a deck of cards. This was moving money and more. He was so sweet to her! Then she remembered what Arnie had said, Apparently he thinks it’s just about over. She saw his note on the card for the first time, Thanks for everything. It sounded like goodbye. She felt a rush of contrary impulses. She wanted to go to him, to thank him, to do whatever she could do for him. But she also wanted to run, to take the money and get out of Hamartin, pack and head south to San Francisco as soon as possible, today, at this moment. Everything was too complicated. As she usually did when faced with indecision, Shandy thought of Josie. Downstairs Shandy found Arnie hanging up the phone. 265

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“There’s no change,” he told her. She’d hidden the money under her mattress. Should she tell him about it? “We’re starting to set up the show. Bring down your Artoons whenever you want.” Passing her on his way out of the kitchen, Arnie touched Shandy’s shoulder. “Hang in there. Life goes on.” Which is exactly what Josie told her less than an hour later. “Life goes on. Emmett’s going to do what he has to do, and you need to do what you have to do. You can’t change the reality of the situation. All you can do is deal with it in a way that’s best for you.” “I feel like leaving for San Francisco right now. Is that running away?” “Running away from what?” “I don’t know. At least I should stay for his funeral.” “That’s up to you. Personally I think funerals are overrated.” “At least I should phone him. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him. He just left without telling anybody he was going.” “Maybe that tells you something,” Josie said. “If he wanted a big sendoff, don’t you think he could’ve orchestrated one? Maybe he wants to be alone.” They were sitting outside on Josie’s excuse for a patio, sipping coffee. The pot was on a small round table between them. Josie refilled her cup but Shandy declined. “Three thousand dollars,” Shandy said, not for the first time. “Can you believe it?” “He obviously wants to help you.” “God, he has! I wish I could thank him.” “I’m sure he knows.” “If you were me, what would you do?” Josie thought about it. 266

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“I’m not you,” she said. “But if you were.” Josie said, “Well, you’ve already decided to go to San Francisco. The only thing keeping you from going was money, and now that’s no longer an issue. So if I were you I’d ask myself, What do I have to stay here for? Well, the funeral, if that matters. What else? I can’t think of anything, can you?” “I don’t like funerals,” said Shandy. “All I’d do is cry.” “So there’s your answer.” “Maybe I should wait until after the weekend. I told Arnie I’d be in the art show.” Josie laughed. “What’s so funny?” “It’s not much of an art show,” Josie said. “It’s a rather eccentric party.” She was right, Shandy knew. There wasn’t going to be any audience except themselves, as far as she could tell. Arnie was doing the show to get back at the town somehow, but she wasn’t sure how if no one was going to come see it anyway. After her initial excitement as artists began to arrive, she’d slowly begun to feel out of place among so many people who all knew one another and often spoke in the private language of a clique. She felt like a guest, an outsider. She easily could pack up and be out of there in an hour, with no sense of missing anything important, not the art show, not even Emmett’s funeral, and the new life for which she’d waited so long could begin. She dallied at Josie’s, as if her decision could be delayed indefinitely as long as she stayed away from the farmhouse. Finally, past noon, Josie announced that she had things to do and chased Shandy home.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE i Garner went jogging in Hamartin later than usual on Saturday in order to put his plan into operation at the required time, noonish, which would be late enough that the courthouse in The Falls would be closed but early enough to give him time to get the word out. He’d done something else differently as well: instead of jogging from home, he drove the patrol car to the parking lot in Vista Park. He then jogged down one way and up another, making a large loop around the eastern side of the hill. Entering the park on his return, Garner stopped and surveyed the situation. Across the way a woman was jogging, heading away from him. A couple, holding hands, was walking leisurely toward the western viewpoint. No one else was in sight. Garner took off the small backpack he was wearing. He opened it and with a handkerchief took out Emmett’s pistol. Again he checked that the coast was clear, that no one was looking his way. He walked slowly along a stretch of bushes, selected a spot, and dropped the pistol in the shrubbery. Then he marked the spot by hanging a yellow piece of ribbon on a limb. He jogged to the patrol car and switched on the intercom. “Base,” a voice said. Chief Deputy Garner identified himself and requested immediate reinforcement in order to secure a crime scene. ii On the drive to the farmhouse Mac almost convinced himself that Helen’s news of a holiday art show was an exaggeration but the number of parked cars surprised him. He walked around the house, attracted by the buzz of voices.

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Small tents had been put up around the gazebo, some of which had photographs and drawings taped to their sides. Mac noticed a lot of male nudes. Connecting the tents were lines of easels, displaying paintings and sketches, large garden sculptures, and small tables of various artwork. Other artwork had been mounted, and presently was being mounted, on the vertical pillars of the gazebo. The infamous art show. Mac stood at the side of the house and watched the activity until Arnie noticed him. Arnie grinned and approached. “What took you so long?” Arnie asked. “Morning, Arnie,” said Mac. Arnie glanced at his watch. “Afternoon,” he said. “So you’ve done it.” “Did you doubt for a minute that I would?” “How many people you expecting to come out and look at this?” “Not the point, not the point at all.” “The media will be here, I assume.” “How do I know?” “Don’t jerk me around,” said Mac. “I know why you’re doing this. What I’m trying to do here is see if there’s some compromise, some middle ground, so I don’t have to close your ass down.” “For what?” “Public rowdiness. Obscenity. Whatever it takes. The bottom line is, I don’t want a scene here.” Arnie looked for someone in the crowd. When he found him, he called, “Jacob!” and gestured for him to come over. Jacob trotted over to them. He looked out of place in a white summer suit, purple shirt and white tie. Arnie said, “The deputy here thinks he may close us down.” Jacob smiled and offered his hand. 269

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“Officer.” Mac shook his hand. “I’m an attorney and represent all the artists here. This is a peaceful, private festival. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that it would require a court order to instigate any kind of search on private property. If you have it with you, I’d like to see it.” Arnie and Jacob were grinning. Mac managed to smile himself. “Arnie, you’re one of a kind,” Mac said. “Mind if I look around?” “May I see your invitation?” said Jacob. Mac turned on his heels and strode back to his patrol car. Helen was pulling up. She skidded to a stop, raising dust, and leaned out the window. Mac went to her. “Garner closed down the park,” she said. “What?” “He said it’s a crime scene.” “What kind of crime scene?” “I’m not sure. The whole park is blocked off with yellow tape.” “What about the fireworks?” “That’s the point, isn’t it?” said Helen. “We can’t have them if we can’t use the park.” “Jesus.” “There’s going to be buses to take people to the fireworks at The Falls. He got his way after all.” “How can he make the park a crime scene?” “You tell me. He found a gun or something. I just found out about it and have been looking all over for you.” “Where is Garner now?” “At the park.” Garner wanted to know where the hell Mac had been when he’d called for backup. Mac explained that he must’ve been at the farmhouse when the call came through and missed 270

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it. What was going on? Garner told Mac that finding the gun in the park changed everything because it suggested that the girl might have been forced to pose for those pornographic photographs. As a matter of fact, Garner already had completed a preliminary interview with the girl and he believed she was going to prove to be a cooperative witness. In the meantime, it would be a disaster to let so many people into the park, when surely they would destroy evidence. He had no choice but to close it down as a crime scene, and yes, he was aware that this meant canceling the local fireworks, but he was providing free shuttle bus service to and from The Falls, using the county vehicles assigned to the Sheriff’s Department. The fireworks at the river would be much more spectacular anyway, and in the end folks from Hamartin probably would be thanking him. What amazed Mac was how Garner could ramble on with this story without once showing the smallest clue that he knew that Mac knew this was all a crock, a scheme to get his way with the fireworks and, with regard to Arnie’s alleged porno activity, to give him publicity for his race for sheriff. Mac couldn’t explain the gun but he thought Garner’s conclusion about it was a real stretch. He didn’t tell Garner about the art show. Let the Chief Deputy find out for himself. Mac found himself almost siding with Arnie’s lawyer, hoping he’d stick it to Garner. Helen was parked outside the park, sitting in her car and waiting for Mac. He walked to the station wagon. “Is there anything we can do?” Helen asked right off. “I’m sure there’s a procedure to challenge something like this but it would take days. For all practical purposes, he’s won.” “That son of a bitch.” Her swearing startled him, and he grinned for lack of knowing how else to respond.

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“Well, it just makes me furious,” Helen said. “He can come out here and throw his weight around and get his way. It isn’t fair.” “He says he found a gun.” “A gun!” “The deal is, Arnie was up here with Shandy – well, farther down the park actually, in the woods – and Arnie took nude photos of her, and Garner saw them doing this, so he’s put together this whole theory about how Arnie is involved in a porno ring, and the gun is evidence that Shandy was forced to participate.” “I’m sure no one has to use a gun to get that girl to take off her clothes.” “Look, Helen, Garner’s being damn clever here, he gets the only fireworks display in the county and he gets publicity for his campaign. It doesn’t really matter what’s true or false, or right or wrong. I don’t think there’s a damn thing we can do about it.” “Well, not as far as the Fourth is concerned, but don’t think for a second that I’m letting this matter rest.” “Do what you have to do, Helen.” What Helen decided she had to do at the moment was drive to the farmhouse and see what was going on for herself. She was surprised to find so many cars, and she parked off to one side in case more were coming. She didn’t want to get blocked in. Helen struggled out of her car. She could hear the chattering of voices behind the house. The front door opened, and Shandy came out. The girl was carrying a suitcase. An hour earlier Shandy had made her decision to leave. Too much was happening too fast for her. With Emmett’s incredible birthday gift, three thousand dollars, she no longer was trapped in Hamartin. Behind her closed bedroom door she’d carefully stacked the bills and wrapped them in newspaper. She put the package in a paper bag, which she 272

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brought outside. Making sure no one was around, she popped Ruby’s trunk and opened the toolbox. She lifted out the tray and put in the package. She had to remove some tools so the tray would fit back down over the money. When the tray fit, she closed the toolbox. Then she closed the trunk. She had three thousand dollars! Why should she stay? If Emmett had wanted her to be with him now, he would have told her so. Giving her so much money, with the message, “Thanks for everything,” was tantamount to saying goodbye – no, even more, it was like telling her to take the money and get the hell out of Hamartin. He wanted her to leave, he was making it possible for her to leave. Why should she stay? “Shandy,” Helen called, “is Emmett here?” “He’s in Hood River,” Shandy said. She put the suitcase on the ground near Ruby and met Helen on the grass between the parked cars and the farmhouse. “He didn’t tell me he was going to Hood River,” Helen said. “I think it was a last minute decision to avoid the crowd here.” “Arnie’s doing his art show?” “Right. He’s around back if you want to talk to him.” “Aren’t you in the show?” Shandy thought about how much to reveal. She wished Arnie would appear and rescue her. “I’m moving to San Francisco,” Shandy said. “Really?” Helen had heard the rumor. She hoped the girl would tell her more. “Do you know where Emmett is staying in Hood River?” Helen asked. “Arnie would know. If you’ll excuse me, I’m kind of in a hurry.” Before Shandy got into the VW, Helen said, “Is Emmett alright?” 273

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Shandy couldn’t control herself then. The question was like a pin pricking the internal pressure of her self-control, and she suddenly was standing next to her car with tears streaming down her face. Helen stepped closer, as if she were coming forward to embrace the girl, but stopped when she saw how frightened Shandy looked. “What is it?” Helen asked. “Arnie said he’s at the end,” Shandy managed to get out. Helen started moving as swiftly as she could to the side of the house. Shandy put the suitcase in the trunk beside the toolbox. She sat behind the wheel and regained her self-control. The backseat and trunk were packed with everything she was taking with her, which was less than she’d moved in with. She was ready to go to Josie’s, where she’d spend the night on the floor and then get an early start in the morning. Leaving on Independence Day had a significance that wasn’t lost on her. Arnie came trotting around the farmhouse to the VW. He stooped down so that his face was level with Shandy’s. “What the hell are you sneaking away for?” he asked. “I don’t like goodbyes.” Arnie quickly surveyed the backseat, stuffed with clothes and art supplies. “San Francisco?” Arnie asked. “San Francisco, here I come.” “You’re going to love it there. Do you need any money?” Shandy was not prepared for the offer. It made her feel guilty for trying to sneak away. “I’m fine,” she said. But Arnie was already taking out his wallet. He took out some money, and Shandy counted five twenties, a hundred dollars, which he was holding out for her to take. Arnie said, “This is not the time to be proud.”

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“I don’t need it. Emmett gave me a lot of money for my birthday.” “You’re sure?” “I’m fine.” “Okay.” “Have you heard from him again?” Shandy asked. “No. I’m going out to see him later. You can come along if you like.” Arnie saw immediately that it was the wrong thing to say and added, “I don’t think it would be a good idea, though. I don’t think he wants company.” There was a silence. “Will you send me a postcard?” “Of course.” She tried to smile. “You know, you really should be going to New York,” Arnie said. “There’s much more action there than in San Francisco. But one step at a time. After you get comfortable in the City, think about the Big Apple. That’s where careers are made.” New York seemed as foreign to her as Paris. “I think you’re going to do fine,” Arnie said. To Shandy’s surprise, he suddenly thrust his head in the window and kissed her on the cheek. “Bon voyage!” he said, standing up straight. “Go take them by storm! Watch out, San Francisco, here comes a missile attack of cocks!” For some reason, Shandy was blushing. She started Ruby and turned around. As she moved out the driveway, she saw Arnie in the rearview mirror through a cloud of dust, waving wildly as if trying to stir up enough air to breathe. She was glad he’d caught her before she left, and she drove to Josie’s feeling elated about her decisions today, to leave and not to see Emmett before she did, and this veneer of optimism wasn’t stripped away until Josie answered the door and said, after a quick look at the frightened girl standing on the porch, “Shandy, what’s the matter?” and this question, like Helen’s 275

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earlier inquiry about Emmett, was all it took for Shandy to lose it again.

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CHAPTER THIRTY Emmett found patience difficult when he didn’t have a gun. Ever since he’d decided how to handle his death sentence, how to manipulate the hard truth into some semblance of selfdignity so he could avoid the obscene and slow suffering of his wife, he had faced each day with a sense of security. With the gun, he had the power to terminate whatever unpleasant circumstances might assault him. This was his victory over Death the Tyrant, the cruel teaser who might choose to play with him the way a cat played with and tortured a mouse. The way Death had toyed with Mary. With the first sign of such nonsense, Emmett would end the game right then and there. But he needed his gun. Fortunately his sense of panic had diminished because he was feeling better again, and yet he was sure that the end was still near, a few days away at most. He needed his gun, or any gun, to be prepared, to be able to go through with his plan. So he was impatient to hear from Arnie again. He also was hungry for a real meal, not something out of a can. He needed to stay sober since he would need a clear head through this long day, at least until the parameters of his security were in place again. Early in the afternoon, he drove across the freeway and into town, where he had a Ruben sandwich at a café on the main drag. He was back to the motel within the hour, and the first thing he did when he got into his room was phone Arnie. Arnie wasn’t there. In fact, the stranger’s voice said, he’s on his way to see you. Good. Emmett sat out on the deck, enjoying the beautiful day, the beautiful view, waiting for Arnie. He was almost ready to phone again when there was a knock on the door. “Did you find it?” Emmett asked as Arnie stepped into the room. Arnie ignored the question with, “How are you feeling?” 277

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“I’m fine. Where’s my gun?” Emmett could read the reply in Arnie’s expression. “I don’t have it with me,” Arnie said. “But you found it?” “Not your gun. A gun. Henry has one in his car but he’s reluctant to let you use it.” “Arnie, I need a gun!” “I know, just calm down. If you don’t need it till Tuesday, there’s no problem. We can drive to The Falls and buy one.” “Let’s go right now.” “The gun shop’s closed for the holiday weekend. I checked on the way.” Emmett thought a minute. “Henry has a gun?” “He keeps a pistol in the trunk of his car.” “You told him what I want to do with it?” “Of course. He’s not sure he approves.” “It’s my life.” “I’m on your side. Listen, here’s what I think the options are. If you can make it comfortably till Tuesday, no problem. If not, then I think we have to convince Henry that what you’re doing is right.” “You think that’s possible?” “Coming from you, yes, I think he could be persuaded.” “Okay.” “So how are you feeling? Something’s obviously different.” “Different, yes, but also weird. One minute I feel like a volcano is going off inside me, and the next minute I’m fine. I think it’s the scouting party.” “The scouting party?” “Checking me out, getting ready for the assault.” Arnie wasn’t sure if Emmett was trying to make a joke or what. He saw the whiskey bottle on the counter. “Are you drinking?” 278

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Emmett said, “Not until I get a gun.” “Good.” “I need to be in control. I need a goddamn gun.” “I know. What do you want to do?” “What do you mean?” “Do you want to talk to Henry now or wait until it’s closer to the time?” “I want to spend the night here.” “That’s fine. Can you drive?” “I drove into town for lunch.” “Good. I’ll give you a call in the morning then?” “Okay.” Arnie made a move to leave and stopped. “Shandy’s leaving,” he said. Emmett didn’t reply. “She wasn’t sure whether to come by and say goodbye or not.” “There’s no need for that.” “That’s what I told her. It was a wild guess. I’m glad I was right.” “She’s going to San Francisco?” “Right.” “When’s she leaving?” “Soon, I think. She’s only taking what she could get into the VW. She’s spending the night at Josie’s.” “She’s not in the art show?” “No.” “Are you showing the painting?” “Of course.” “I’d like to see it again.” “You can see it tomorrow.” “Good.” “Do you need anything?” Arnie asked. “Other than a gun.” “Not really.” 279

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“Okay, then, I’ll call you tomorrow.” When Arnie opened the door to go, Emmett said, “I feel like the luckiest man in the world.” Arnie studied him and decided he was serious. “You’re amazing,” he said. “I can’t repay that girl enough. I really can’t.” “She thinks you saved her life by giving her the money to get out of town. You probably did.” “There’s more.” “There is?” “It’s all in my will. My lawyer in The Falls has it. I wrote out instructions. It’s on my desk, in an envelope marked Official.” Arnie recalled seeing the envelope when he was looking for Emmett’s pistol. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “I wish Mary hadn’t had to suffer so much. It’s so senseless.” “I’ll call you in the morning,” Arnie said. After Arnie left, Emmett read for a while. Then he changed his mind about drinking and fixed himself a screwdriver. He sipped it on the deck, watching the light change as late afternoon slipped into early evening. He mixed another tall screwdriver, drank it and made a third, finishing off the orange juice. He was already feeling tipsy, not an unpleasant feeling, and he knew he would need to pace himself and nurse the present drink to keep the feeling at the same level, and later he would need to eat, which meant making a sandwich or heating a can of chili since he’d consumed too much alcohol to drive. Instead of eating he passed out in a chair in front of the television set, where he’d been staring at a baseball game without paying attention to the action. When he woke up, the last screwdriver was still cradled in his crotch and a game show

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was on. He put the drink on the small table beside his chair. He turned off the television set. Emmett sat down at the desk and picked up the telephone. It took no time at all for the operator to find the number for Herbert and Carol Venn in Pasadena. “Hello?” It was Carol. “Carol Venn?” “Yes?” “This is Emmett. Emmett Hale.” “Why hello? What a surprise! Where are you?” “I’m in Hood River.” “I thought you might be in town.” “No.” “What a surprise.” There was an awkward silence. “The reason I called,” he began, “is to thank you.” “Thank me for what?” “For telling me that I was an important teacher in your life. It means a lot to me.” “You changed my life. I told you that.” “Yes, that’s what I mean. Thank you for telling me.” “Well, it’s the truth.” After another silence, Carol said, “Are you alright?” “I just wanted to thank you,” Emmett said. He gently lowered the phone onto its cradle. He sat at the desk for a long time before he got up. It was still early but he was ready for bed. He undressed and put on his pajamas. He pulled back the bedspread and sheet. He stretched out on the bed, pulling first the sheet and then the bedspread over his body. He sat in the dark room and listened to his own breathing. He’d made it through another day. He closed his eyes.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE i The front page of the Riverbend Sunday paper ran the reporter’s story on the homophobic hate message that had been painted on a barn in Hamartin. There had been considerable debate in the editorial office about where to place the story since Sunday was the Bicentennial edition of the paper. The compromise had been to lead the long story briefly on page one, then continue the bulk of it far into the first section. Consequently on page fourteen there was a photograph of the graffito. The accompanying story included the following quotation from Arnie: “Something like this is always lurking in the background in a community like Hamartin that prefers to live in the past. I’m outraged that this happened but not all surprised.” Josie, an early morning person, was the first to see the article. Shandy had crashed on the floor in Josie's sleeping bag, which meant that Josie had to creep around quietly instead of putting on a tape of classical music, her usual morning routine. She made coffee as quietly as she could, then took it outside to drink on the patio. That's when she fetched the Sunday paper and sat down to read it. The story made it sound like the graffito was significantly more than a prank. The reporter closed the article with a question: Is the nucleus for an anti-gay hate-group forming in Cascadia County? Josie thought the story exaggerated just about everything that could be exaggerated. She thought spontaneous ignorance, not organized hate, was responsible for what was, she believed, a reprehensible prank and not an act of bigotry. Some kid who'd had too much to drink most likely did it, probably on a dare. Once again the media was making a mountain out of a molehill. 282

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When Josie returned inside for a coffee refill, the sleeping bag was empty, and she could hear Shandy in the bathroom. Josie waited until she came out. "You ready for coffee?" "Coffee would be good. What time is it?" "Seven." "You get up early." "Did I wake you?" "No. I want to get an early start." On the patio Josie showed Shandy the article. "God," Shandy said after skimming it. "Do you think it's true?" Josie told Shandy her theory about it. "You're probably right," said Shandy. That was the extent of their conversation about the article. Shandy had a second cup of coffee and then announced she was ready to go. Josie followed Shandy to the VW out front. They embraced. "Which way are you going?" Josie asked. Shandy looked confused. "Where are you picking up the freeway?" "I haven't thought about it," Shandy said. "I was going to take the highway south and watch for signs to catch the Interstate." "That's the best way. Pick up the new highway at Tony's and turn right, south, and you can cut over to pick up the Interstate at the sign for Eugene or later for Grant's Pass. Got your money in a safe place?" “It’s hidden in the toolbox in the trunk.” “Good girl.” Pulling onto Main Street, Shandy decided she must have looked like an idiot with no itinerary already planned out. She didn't even have a map. When had she had time to do any

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planning? As spontaneous as her departure was, she was thrilled to be on her way. Goodbye, Hamartin! Shandy drove through town and then accelerated as Main Street became a county highway. A few miles out of town she passed the farmhouse and looked down the long gravel driveway at all the parked cars. She felt no temptation to pull in and say goodbye. At Tony's she stopped for gas. While the attendant was filling her up, she went into the office and asked for a map. It cost her a dollar. Shandy paid the attendant for the gas with cash. Standing alongside Ruby, waiting for her change, she heard a man behind her say, "Why hello there." She turned. It was him again, the creep who had beat her up. He'd pulled up his gray pickup on the other side of the gas pump and was grinning at her from the window. "Hi," she said. She looked around for the attendant. "Looks like you're taking a trip." Shandy didn't reply. "Where you off to?" Shandy saw the attendant coming out of the office. She moved to meet him halfway. When she returned with her change, the man was standing next to Ruby's passenger door. "Looks like you got everything you own in here," he said. "Are you moving somewhere?" "That's about it," Shandy said. She got into Ruby. The man walked around in front of the VW and came to her door. He stared down at her. "Well, we're all going to miss you around here," he said. Shandy started the engine. "You all have a safe trip." It took Shandy several miles of speeding down the highway before her breath found its normal rhythm. She drove another few miles before she noticed that a pickup was behind 284

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her. Was it his? It was the same shade of gray, but she couldn't tell in the rearview mirror whether the creep was driving or not. It sort of looked like him and it sort of didn't. Why would he be following her? She speeded up but the pickup speeded up as well. Then she slowed down, hoping the pickup would pass her, but it didn't. She decided it was him, and he wasn’t driving this direction by coincidence, he was following her. What should she do? She'd driven over twenty miles now, and the pickup was still following her. She passed a sign for a rest stop. She needed to pee but she was afraid to stop. She kept driving. At a large stretch of straight road, the pickup accelerated, and for a moment Shandy thought the creep was going to ram her rear bumper but at the last second the pickup swerved into the other lane to pass her. Shandy stared straight ahead, afraid to look over at him. She became aware that the pickup was right beside her but not accelerating anymore, not passing her. The creep beeped his horn. Shandy turned to look at him – and it wasn't the creep. It was someone else, and he was grinning at her and then wiggling his tongue at her in an indecent sexual suggestion. Then he laughed, waved and passed her. Shandy slowed down and the pickup accelerated far ahead of her. She felt physically exhausted. At the next town she stopped at a café and ordered coffee and used the restroom. She lingered for half-an-hour before she was back on the road. ii Sunday morning Emmett again awoke without pain. Instead of feeling relieved or optimistic, however, he felt anxious, as if surrounded by a great calm before calamity. This joke of the gods, or whatever it was that was jacking him around, had gone on long enough. Today was the day. Or rather tonight. All along, Emmett had pictured that he would end his life after sunset. It somehow seemed more reflective, 285

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more proper, to take such definitive action in the still of night, dying under the stars. He didn't want anyone to believe he didn't know what he was doing, that he had acted from impulse. He therefore would drive to the farmhouse this afternoon, or take a cab if he couldn't drive. He would convince Henry to loan him the gun. If he couldn't convince him - well, he simply must. He'd given no thought to alternative methods of taking one's life. A bullet in the brain was immediate and, he presumed, as painless as such an act could be. Emmett didn't buy a Sunday paper. He read in his book through the morning. Just before noon, he felt the fire in his gut for the first time today but four pain pills quickly softened the sensation of burning. Nonetheless this reminder of his condition made him restless and impatient for the day to end. His decision made, he wanted to get on with it. By early afternoon he was feeling even more restless and decided to get out of his room for a while. He dropped the bottle of pain pills in his pocket before he left, just to be on the safe side. He started driving east on the Interstate. He felt in total control of the car. At the same time, he was alert for any unexpected signal from his body, and for this reason he cruised along in the slow lane, letting the light holiday traffic rush past him. The habit of driving was just what he needed. Emmett followed the Interstate like a man under hypnosis. Before he knew it he was passing through The Falls. He saw a turnoff to Wyam Park and took it. He was dumped onto the old highway and continued east. After a few miles, he swung into the park, parked and got out. Wyam Park was as much memorial as park, built near the location of the once great Wyam Falls that gave The Falls its name. Wyam was an Indian word meaning "the sound of water crashing on rocks," and in 1957 a new hydroelectric dam had submerged the falls. Before then, Wyam's roaring magnificence had been a river landmark and a tourist 286

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attraction, primarily because of the great wooden scaffolds built directly over the falls from which Indians fished the river with dip nets for salmon and steelhead trout, standing precariously over the turbulent water, thrusting down the long handles of their nets, and skillfully catching the large fish that tourists could buy along the river bank. As a child, Emmett had gone with his father to buy fish at Wyam many times. He was always impressed by the danger facing the Indian fishermen, perched above the crashing white water on what seemed to be fragile, insecure boards, a danger only emphasized by the constant roar of the falls, and yet they fished so calmly, so expertly. Today the park was next to a tranquil stretch of river, the fishing grounds buried and swallowed up in silence. Already families were gathering for holiday picnics, and Emmett remembered that it was the Bicentennial, a very special Fourth of July indeed, but he felt no special patriotism for the occasion. He had his own agenda. By the time the fireworks began, he hoped to have the job done. He found a bench overlooking the river and sat down on it. His thoughts turned to Shandy. So she'd finally gotten out of Hamartin to begin her life as an artist. He’d made her journey possible sooner rather than later, and there was still more financial assistance for her in his new will. All of these gifts made him feel good. She’d made him feel good, and he was returning the favor. In his mind's eye he could still see the wondrous openness of her expression during their last sexual encounter. He wondered what his life would have been like if such an intense connection with someone had been made early on, as a young man, when such a moment might have had lifelong consequences. Or was a moment like this always fleeting, some rare exception to the rhythm of human mating? All he knew was that it was a moment he could not forget. He could not get the image of Shandy's expression out of his mind.

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Emmett was about ready to leave when he noticed an old Indian man sitting along the bank of the river. How long had he been there? He was old enough that he could have been one of the fishermen that Emmett had seen as a child. When the fishing grounds were submerged, a whole way of life was lost. Of course, there was another point of view. The falls had been a detriment to commerce on the river, a great obstacle to the commercial barges carrying wheat and other products downriver to Portland. Not to mention the electricity generated by the dam. And irrigation water for the farmers. Of course, for the brave fishermen, nothing would ever be the same. Emmett tried to imagine the sadness, the anger, the sense of loss and isolation the old Indian man must be feeling. Then he saw the old man raise a small paper sack and take a swig from whatever bottle it contained. Maybe the old man wasn't feeling any regrets at all. Maybe he was just sitting there, getting drunk. iii As soon as Helen saw the article, she decided to call an emergency meeting of the Hamartin Bicentennial Committee. What troubled her even more than Arnie’s snotty comments about the town was the announcement about the First Annual Hamartin Festival of Gay Arts. It sounded like this was a citysponsored event. She wasn’t against festivals in general, though she thought this one was best described as Arnie’s eccentric temper tantrum, but she believed Hamartin should be removed from the title. She called Ned Trafford first, who said he was just about to phone her with the same suggestion of a meeting. When Helen called Mac, she encountered a different attitude. "What will a meeting accomplish?" Mac wanted to know. "This kind of publicity reflects on all of us," said Helen. “He shouldn’t have put Hamartin in the title.” "Let me call Garner and get back to you." 288

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Before Helen could object, Mac had hung up. The phone rang after only a few minutes. Mac said Garner wasn't at either of his homes but he'd left a message on each answering machine. "Ned and I are going to meet this morning," Helen said. "You do what you want." "I still don't see what you can accomplish." "I'll feel better, that's what. I can't stand sitting around doing nothing." As it turned out, Mac joined them at Tony's, which was the closest place open on the holiday. Passing the door into the bar on the way to the restaurant, Helen saw a large crowd of revelers despite the mid-morning hour. Ned was already waiting for her. As Helen sat down, he said, "Is Mac coming?" "I don't think so." No sooner had they ordered than Mac appeared. He was out of uniform, although his shift started after noon. Three clean, pressed uniforms were hanging in the back of his patrol car, picked up Saturday from the dry cleaners in The Falls. “Did you reach Garner?” Helen asked. “No. If he’s seen the paper, he may be at the farmhouse right now.” Ned said, “Why?” “He’s ultimately in charge of the investigation. At least until the Feds get involved.” Ned wanted to know why the Feds would get involved. “Because something like this carries a political message. The Feds usually snoop around when politics is involved.” “Has anybody talked to the Chase boy?” Helen wanted to know. “I did,” said Mac. “I don’t think he did it.” “Who else in this town would do a thing like that?” asked Ned.

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Mac hesitated before speaking and when he did, he looked right in Ned’s eyes. “To be honest with you, I’m more concerned about Jason. I think he’s hiding something from me.” Ned considered this a moment. “I don’t see Jason doing something like that,” he said. “I’m just giving you my gut instinct.” “Well, your gut instinct is wrong.” Helen said, “I don’t think Jason would do it either. As soon as I heard about it, I assumed it was Adam.” “You know what I think?” Mac said. He paused for dramatic effect. “This may sound crazy but I think Arnie did it himself.” Helen stared in disbelief. “Hear me out. Everyone knows he has a grudge against the town. God knows we’ve put up with him for all these years but he still thinks everyone in town is against him. Look at the art show, this so-called Hamartin Festival of Gay Arts—“ Helen put in, “He had no right to use the name of the town. He just did that to be spiteful.” “Arnie gets his jollies out of doing anything that will provoke Garner,” Mac continued. “I bet he’s laughing like hell this morning. I think this entire affair may be his doing.” There was a silence as the others considered the possibility. Helen spoke first. “I have to admit I can picture Arnie laughing like hell when he sees the article.” “Has anyone talked to him?” Ned asked. “He’ll deny it, of course,” said Mac. “It would be a hard thing to prove.” “From one perspective,” Helen said, “it doesn’t matter who did it. The point is, it’s been done and now the whole region knows about it, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the national press doesn’t pick up on it, and all this reflects on

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Hamartin’s reputation. What I was hoping we’d talk about is how to counter this. How to put some good news out there.” The challenge hung in the air, unanswered. Ned broke the silence. “The trouble is, there are people in this community who agree with it,” he said. “It’s not like you’re going to have much luck organizing a parade in support of homosexuality. I’m against homosexuality myself.” “But most people believe in live-and-let-live,” Helen said. “Most people would never do anything in support of homosexuality. I mean, that’s what you’re really asking for, isn’t it? Some community action that shows how Hamartin has no problem with queers?” “He’s right, Helen,” said Mac. “Most folks have no use for queers.” “What are you saying? We deserve all the bad publicity?” No one replied. “I hate feeling powerless,” Helen said. Their speculation was stalled, and they knew it. They dropped the discussion through breakfast, eating silently or making small talk. After the waitress had cleared their table, Helen said, “I think all of us need to visit Arnie.” “Why all of us?” Ned asked. “To make an impression. I got nowhere alone.” “Let’s do it before I go on duty,” Mac said.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO i In the bar at Tony’s, to the dozen-plus Hamartin men who had to gather out of town to find camaraderie as they got a morning start on their holiday drinking, the newspaper article about a Hamartin Gay Arts Festival was shocking and upsetting. No one along the bar believed Hamartin had any official connection to the art show since city government in the small town was practically non-existent. Obviously this was all Arnie Woodworth’s doing, and those who remembered the scandal surrounding the last art show the teacher had put on, before his retirement, were not surprised that he was up to his old tricks. By the time Bill Richardson walked into the bar, a growing crowd of hardliners, Ed Rollins and a few other former customers of Shandy among them, were making the angry threats of a vigilante committee. Something clearly had to be done about this affront to the reputation of a good, family-oriented, God-worshipping community, and who else was going to rectify the situation if they didn’t do something about it themselves? The tradition of the Bicentennial demanded patriotism no less responsible than this. Bill hadn’t looked at the Sunday paper, and at first he felt as if he’d walked into a bar in a strange city because he couldn’t piece together any of the bits of information being slung his way in excited and feverish fragments. A rally of homosexuals? A public exhibition of pornography? When it occurred to him that the excitement was about something going on at the farmhouse, Bill took Ed aside and asked what the hell was going on. Ed called over the bartender, who brought over a copy of the article in the Sunday paper, and in a quick glance Bill put two and two together and understood what all the commotion was about.

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Bill didn’t let on that he disapproved of the hatred and growing anger in the room. As far as he was concerned, Arnie could do anything he pleased on his own property. Since when was it anybody’s business what friends a man had over to visit or what they did in their own home? No one seemed concerned that Arnie had been the victim of vandalism, only that he was putting on this festival of gay arts, whatever that meant. Of course, putting Hamartin in the name of the festival was asking for trouble, but Bill had known, long before going to work for him, that Arnie was one of those minorities who carried a chip on his shoulder, casting an eagle-eye everywhere for the slightest evidence of prejudicial treatment. Bill assumed this whole shebang was Arnie’s getting even for the vandalism. Or maybe for the fact that nobody was doing anything about the vandalism, in which case Bill didn’t blame him. As noon approached, it became clear that the momentum in the bar, fueled by alcohol, was going to force the men to take some kind of action. Already they were talking of driving to the farmhouse and seeing for themselves what was going on. The self-appointed vigilante committee had grown to several dozen now, and Bill wouldn’t put any kind of stupidity past them, including violence. He finished his beer and excused himself to the men’s room. This was his line to get away. Coming back from the can, he didn’t return to the bar but followed the perimeter of the room to the exit and stepped into the bright noon day. It was going to be a warm one for all the holiday picnickers. Bill climbed into his pickup and started the engine. The radio came on with the roar of the engine, a loud country song blasting out. Bill turned it off. He sat thinking as the engine idled. He decided to visit the farmhouse before the angry gang in the bar got their act together.

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ii Arnie loved the article. For starters, his name was spelled right. He didn’t get his name in the paper all that often but over the years the misspelling of Wordworth or Woodward for Woodworth had occurred more often than the laws of chance predicted, and so the spelling of his name was the first thing Arnie looked at. More impressively, the story was accurate. When Arnie was quoted, the quotation was more or less what he’d told the reporter, and all the background facts in the story were correct. Arnie knew that the story would piss off many residents of Hamartin, and this pleased him as well since they deserved it. It was good to stir the pot now and again. Henry, Gregory, Albert, Cal and the other artists were unanimously overjoyed to wake to news that they were, in a small fashion, famous. They were the participants of the First Annual Hamartin Festival of Gay Arts, an idea that struck everyone as hilarious and outrageous and very camp, all at the same time. Why hadn’t Arnie let them know earlier that the occasion was this momentous? They’d expected just another art show at the Woodworth Ranch, which amounted to an excuse for a party in the country. But this, the initiation of an annual festival, not in Portland or another urban center but way out here in redneck country, was something no one could have anticipated. This was as revolutionary as Stonewall. This called for morning celebration, for screwdrivers and gin fizzes and Bloody Marys. Arnie set up the speakers of the phonograph in the living room at the window so their revelry could be accompanied by Wagner’s Tristan and Isold. During the night artistic decisions had been made. Gregory had decided how to use Shandy’s severed pigtail. He was going to drop it from a small branch like a rope, then attach a small doll to it as if she were being lynched. The piece would represent the sacrificing of the old life for the new, Gregory explained. Shandy’s pigtail, representing her old life, hung her old self in effigy, permitting the rebirth of a new life, 294

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shorthaired and adult and artistic. He would call the piece “Death and Resurrection.” Gregory could find the branch he needed here on the property, and he had several dolls in a wooden box in the trunk of his car, which was filled with an assortment of items that might become useful in collages and other mixed-media exhibits. The idea of the lynching gave Arnie an idea for turning the graffito on the barn into an art object. “We should hang someone in effigy below it,” he said. “It would be like the title page for a hanging.” “Hang who?” Gregory thought aloud. Alcohol had loosened everyone’s tongue, and suggestions followed rapidly. “Falwell!” “Reagan!” “My ex-wife!” Cal made the suggestion that sparked in Arnie a sense of possibility. “Hang the sheriff,” Cal said. More candidates quickly followed, but Arnie’s mind already had latched onto the sheriff. He wandered off to be alone and stare at the graffito while his mind percolated. Henry joined him near the barn. “Got an idea?” he asked. “I like the idea of hanging the sheriff in effigy. I could make a figure with straw easily enough but where in hell will I get a uniform today?” “We could raise enough hell to bring the cops, then pants someone.” Arnie couldn’t help but laugh. But he didn’t want to lose his mood and concentration. “I’m serious,” Arnie said. “I can see you are.”

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“They haven’t done a goddamn thing to find out who did it. They just don’t give a shit. Hanging the sheriff in effigy is perfect.” “I probably shouldn’t say this,” Henry began. He waited for encouragement. When it didn’t come, he continued anyway. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? We both know there’s a lot of people around here who are reading the Sunday paper right now and making brown stinky in their pajamas. You make it sound like the town is sponsoring all this. I was here the first time, remember, when the show was completely innocent compared to this. If that one got the community dander up, imagine what this one will do. But you know all that. That’s really the point, isn’t it? You think you’re fighting the Good Fight here. Dearheart, you should’ve moved to Portland the minute you buried your mother.” “Why the hell should I move anywhere?” “You find Hamartin that stimulating with its rich cultural life?” “I make my own culture. And I come to Portland for the gallery scene six or seven times a year. I work better here than in the city. I was born here. I was born in this very house as a matter of fact. It’s my home. I never realized how much I love this part of the country until my parents died.” “And your neighbors?” “With very few exceptions, they’re ignorant bigots. So what else is new? The world’s full of them, including in Portland and every other city. I’ll tell you something. Out here there’s a stronger sense of live-and-let-live than in Portland. There’s fewer rules and regulations, and our government is a joke, which means it leaves everybody alone.” “You running for President of the Chamber of Commerce?” Henry smiled. “People leave me alone here. Most of the time. This is the exception. An extreme exception, I’ll grant you. Usually they do the graffito out on the mailbox. It’s just kids at Halloween. 296

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Something like this has never happened before. That’s why it’s important for me not to let it ride. I get along in this town because I don’t take any shit from anyone. They may regard me as an old queen who’s going straight to hell, but at least they know I refuse to compromise who I am. A few of them may even respect me for it.” Cal called out Arnie’s name, and when Arnie turned he saw Helen, Mac and Ned Trafford approaching. Arnie confided to Henry, “Here we go.” Then Arnie turned into Mr. Hospitality. He grinned and met the guests halfway with his hand stretched out. Ned was the first to take it, then Mac, but Helen refused a handshake and welcomed him instead with a knowing stare. “Arnie, is this really what you want to do?” Helen asked stiffly. “I’m an old man,” said Arnie. “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.” Helen’s sigh was audible. Ned looked up at the graffito and said, “I didn’t realize it was so large and – well, hateful. Mac, I’m sure Jason had nothing to do with this.” “Jason did it?” Arnie asked. “I just said he didn’t.” Mac said, “We don’t know who did it.” He reached for Arnie’s arm, but Arnie pulled it away. “Am I under arrest?” “I’d like to talk to you privately,” said Mac. The deputy moved off from the others, waiting for Arnie to follow. Arnie didn’t budge. “Hear what he has to say,” said Helen. Arnie looked around. No one was paying them any mind. Wagner’s opera drifted over the scene like the wrong sound track. “Two minutes,” said Arnie, taking the first step toward Mac. 297

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“You heard about the park, right?” Mac began. “What about the park?” “Garner closed it down.” “What about the fireworks?” “Only fireworks will be in The Falls. He closed it down as a crime scene, Arnie. He thinks you’re head of a porno ring.” Arnie grinned and said, “Shandy told me. I love it.” “You won’t love going to jail if it comes to that. This art show plays right into his hands. Those drawings of naked guys? Pornography. The painting of Shandy Anderson? Pornography. Believe me, Garner will be out here sooner or later and all you’re doing is reinforcing his theory. I don’t care what kind of lawyer you have, Garner can throw you in jail before your lawyer has time to think straight, and with the holiday and all, you may be in there overnight or longer. Is this really what you want?” “He can’t come on my property without a search warrant.” “Don’t be too sure of that. He’ll claim probable cause.” “Probable cause, my ass. You want to talk to my lawyer? He’s right here.” “You want to get arrested,” Mac said. “I want Hamartin to own up to its sins.” “Do it your way,” Mac said. He rejoined Helen and Ned, who were patiently waiting near the barn. All of them silently left for the front of the house. After they were out of sight, Henry came up to Arnie holding a sheriff’s uniform on a hanger. “Look what I found in your parking lot,” Henry said, grinning. iii Bill was approaching the driveway to the farmhouse when he passed three cars coming the other way, driven by Helen, Ned and Mac, who took up the rear in his patrol car. Our illustrious City Council, Bill noted. He guessed they’d had a 298

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breakfast meeting at Tony’s, and he bet it was about the cancellation of the fireworks. Bill was surprised how few cars were parked in front of the farmhouse. This annual festival of the arts didn’t seem to be that big a deal. But it was different, he could tell that by the sounds of an opera coming out of the house. Who the hell listened to opera on the Fourth of July? Who the hell besides Arnie listened to opera in Hamartin? Bill jumped out of his pickup, lit a cigarette, and strolled over to the gazebo. Bill had no understanding of art that wasn’t representational, and the first “art” pieces he encountered sailed as high over his comprehension as a flight of geese heading off for the winter. On an easel was an abstract painting in bright reds and yellows that looked like nothing at all. Next to it on a small table was what appeared to be a lynching, a doll hanging grotesquely from a tree limb. But the rope was made of something that looked like braided human hair. Then Bill reached an easel displaying the large painting of Shandy, and here he lingered. The painting looked uncannily like her – and Bill was surprised how much he suddenly missed her. The time she was working Tony’s parking lot was a good easy time for his sex life, and for the sex lives of quite a few others. It reminded him how simple sex was when dealt with straightforwardly with a sense of supply and demand, and how complex otherwise. Nevada had the right idea. Bill was still looking at the painting when Arnie appeared beside him. “It’s already been sold,” Arnie said, which wasn’t true. The painting wasn’t for sale. “It’s realistic as hell. Even more realistic than a photograph somehow. You do damn good work.” “Why thank you.” “How’s Shandy like it?” “I think she’s pleased.” 299

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“Is she around?” “I imagine she’s on her way to San Francisco by now.” “Oh?” Arnie didn’t elaborate. Bill said, “So this is the First Annual Hamartin Festival of Gay Arts?” “Everything starts small.” Bill looked around at more of the artwork. There were a lot of drawings of naked men, a few with impressive erections. Other pieces were “modern,” he supposed, which meant that they didn’t look like anything he could identify. The works that would cause controversy, as far as Bill could see, were the nude painting of Shandy, the drawings of naked men, and possibly the lynching of the doll. Everything else could have been scribbled by a child during a temper tantrum. “You come out to see the show then?” Arnie asked. “Or to admire your gazebo? Everybody loves it. I’ve had many comments on the good craftsmanship.” “It’s something else,” said Bill. “I just came from Tony’s. There’s a rowdy crowd in the bar who’s pissed about the article in the paper, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they paid you a visit.” “They like art?” “I’m serious. They see one of those drawings of a guy with a hard-on, and they may tear the place up. I just wanted to warn you.” “You make them sound like vigilantes.” “Damn close. You do what you gotta do, Arnie. I just wanted to warn you.” “I always do.” After Bill was gone, Henry appeared and said, “I’ve got it ready.” The straw deputy looked like something out of The Wizard of Oz but it did the trick. Straw stuffed the uniform, with enough hanging out of the neck of the shirt to fit on a hat. 300

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They didn’t have the hat that went with the uniform, so Arnie fetched one of his old paint-splattered baseball caps from the basement. The effect wasn’t perfect but it was better than no cap at all. In the barn Arnie cut a long strand of rope and tossed it over a horizontal beam above the broad door of the barn. No one knew how to tie a hangman’s noose, so he tied a cowboy’s lasso instead. He slipped the “head” of the straw dummy into the loop, tightened it, and raised the dummy by pulling on the rope. He looked around for a place to secure it, settling on a vertical beam near the door. The deputy was left hanging in the barn’s wide doorway with the graffito right above him, like a title caption. “Perfect,” said Arnie, and everyone had to agree. At the same moment several dozen self-appointed vigilantes in ten pickup trucks were turning into the long driveway to the farmhouse, determined to put a stop to the First Annual Hamartin Festival of Gay Arts.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Garner spent Saturday night in Hamartin with his family. Sunday morning he was up early and out for his usual morning jog. He was feeling good because everything was right on track, according to plan. So far no one had disputed the closing of the park enough to try and do something about it, and Garner didn’t expect trouble in that area today when everything was closed down tight as a drum for the holiday. His first focus today was public relations, telling his brother, the dispatcher, to have several buses available to haul the good residents of Hamartin to and from the spectacular fireworks on the Columbia River. His second focus was to make sure those same fireworks were everything they were advertised to be, which meant overseeing the Californians who had come up to install and perform the extravaganza. He was relaxed during his leisurely jog, and when he reached the yellow tape at the entrance to the park he stopped only long enough to check that the parking lot was empty and everything quiet, and then he started down the hill. As soon as he walked in the door, Sally dropped the news. “We’re on the front page,” she said, holding out the newspaper for him. Garner, still in a Zen-like trance from jogging, had no idea what she was talking about. He took the paper and looked at it. A headline read: Hamartin Hate Crime -- or Prank? Garner slung the paper across the room in disgust. Who the hell told the Riverbend paper about it? Who possibly but Woodworth himself? Under the pounding hot spray of a shower Garner calmed down. So the word was out. But rumors had spread the word through town anyway and perhaps the echo of a rumor is what had brought a Riverbend reporter snooping around. This wasn’t necessarily as disruptive to his day as he first thought.

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Reading the article changed his mind again. Arnie had the audacity to claim he was hosting the First Annual Hamartin Festival of Gay Arts. What the hell did that mean? Arnie also called Hamartin a backward community, as if this were a bad thing. Garner was sure that all over town residents were reading the article and wondering what the hell the county had been doing to let such a perverse weed blossom right on its outskirts. Moreover they would want to know what the Chief Deputy planned to do about it. Garner, it seemed, wasn’t going to be able to delay dealing with Arnie until Monday after all. He was curt and rude through breakfast, as he normally was when something important was on his mind. He had no time for small talk and no inclination to spell out his every option of strategy in response to Sally’s nagging questions. Whenever she asked a question, he snapped at her until she stopped asking. The festival couldn’t continue, that was the bottom line. First, however, he’d have to drive out there and see for himself exactly what the situation was. He doubted if Arnie would close down voluntarily, so that would mean calling for reinforcements and making some arrests. Mac, himself and a third officer from The Falls ought to be able to handle it. How large a festival could this actually be? Garner was just about to go out the door when the phone rang. Sally answered it, then held out the phone to him. “Garner,” he said into the phone. It was the dispatcher from base. A call had come in reporting a riot, or something close, at the Woodworth farmhouse. Apparently quite a few men had crashed a private gathering and destroyed an art show taking place on the property. Assault, property damage, and who knows what else was occurring even as the dispatcher spoke. Sally was surprised to see Garner grinning after he hung up. 303

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“What is it?” she asked. “Some good old boys just saved my ass,” he said. Garner was the first one on the scene because he didn’t call in for reinforcements until after he’d arrived. As he approached the turnoff into the Woodworth driveway, he saw a log line of pickup trucks speeding away from the farmhouse, kicking up a thick cloud of dust behind them. Garner made the quick decision to let them go and pulled to the side of the road. The trucks skidded and swerved onto the county highway, one by one, speeding off in the direction opposite from Garner’s patrol car, as if they might be going to Tony’s Truck Haven. When the driveway was clear, Garner continued ahead and pulled into the driveway. He expected much worse. As everyone yelled at him at once, he quickly surveyed the property damage and saw little that was permanent. Easels and tables were overturned, spilling their paintings and sculptures onto the ground. Some paintings had been slashed and ripped apart. Pieces of drawings dangled from columns at the gazebo, their remaining bits scattered across the weed-infested grass. But Garner found no broken windows or even more graffiti. Under the old graffito, a dummy wearing a County Sheriff uniform was hanging in effigy. More evidence. A new charge, if less serious than the many morals charges: stealing county property. On the ground Garner found the huge, almost life-sized nude of the Anderson girl that he’d seen in the basement, but now it looked as real as the photograph in the evidence locker at base. A great slash had been cut across the girl’s excuse for breasts. Garner made a mental note to take the painting for evidence. “They just left!” Cal screamed in Garner’s face. “Chase them! Arrest them!” Garner took a deep breath. His tactic was to stall until reinforcements arrived but stalling wasn’t necessary until he had the floor and that might take a while. He’d never seen so 304

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many grown men running off at the mouth in the manner of emotionally disturbed women. He decided to let their perverse energy take its natural course, at least until Mac got there. Arnie stood to the side, observing the scene with calm. When Garner noticed him, he maneuvered through the upset crowd to face him. “You’re in trouble here,” Garner said. “I’m in trouble? What about the Neanderthals who did this?” “Is that your nude painting on the ground?” Arnie glared at him, then shouted, “Jacob!” Garner let the lawyer ramble on about rights to privacy and search warrants and the rest, and Jacob was still on his soapbox when Mac arrived. Garner had already decided to arrest the lot of them but he needed the third patrol car. Fortunately another officer had been in the area, checking out the report of a hit deer, and before the ball was back in Garner’s court, all his backup was there beside him, and he was ready to act. “I’m taking everyone in for questioning!” he shouted over the din. Remarkably, everyone became silent. “You can’t question them without a lawyer present,” said Jacob. “Is that a threat or an obstruction to an officer of the law acting in the line of duty?” “It’s the U.S. Constitution.” Garner repeated, “Everyone goes to The Falls for questioning. Mac, Alan, round them up.” Immediately the emotional panic was back in gear as Mac, the other officer and Garner himself took each man by the arm, one at a time, and escorted him to the back seat of a patrol car. Jacob said, “Arnie will ride with me, officer. I promise to deliver him.” Garner smiled and said that was fine. He knew they’d be going over their legal strategy but once at the station in The 305

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Falls, he was dumping them all into a holding cell and not dealing with the situation until tomorrow. He had a spectacular fireworks show to get ready. On the drive to The Falls, Jacob kept telling Arnie he expected the worse, and Arnie kept insisting there was nothing they could do to him since he hadn’t done anything wrong. “I know this kind of guy,” Jacob said. “They think it’s still the Wild West. They think they’re on television. They play by their own rules, damn the Constitution. If he throws you in jail, it would take me the rest of the day to get you out and I’m not even sure I could do it that quickly.” “In jail for what?” “I just want you to be prepared.” But Arnie wasn’t prepared. He wasn’t prepared to find himself in a three-cotted cell with Henry and Cal, and he wasn’t prepared to still be there when the sound of fireworks began and occasional flashes of exploding light spilled into the dark cell through the barred and wire-meshed glass window.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR i By late afternoon Shandy was relaxed and feeling good. She was on her way! More than once she’d thought of calling Emmett in his motel to thank him again and to let him know she finally had left Hamartin – and without having to depend on Heather or anyone else, thanks to him. But she didn’t have his number, he’d forgotten to leave her the information. Of course, she could call Arnie and probably get it from him. On the other hand, she wasn’t sure Emmett wanted to hear from her, or from anyone. If he really was going through with his plan, maybe he wanted to be left alone. She couldn’t imagine what he must be feeling like, knowing the end was near, that today was the day you were going to end it all. As depressed as she had been in Hamartin, as bleak and hopeless as her future looked to her at times, never once had she considered suicide. She tried to pick up some country music on the radio but all she could find was static. Apparently this was one function of the car that Craig hadn’t fixed. No matter, she could just as easily pass the time lost in her own thoughts. Shandy wasn’t like a lot of girls her age, especially in high school, who had to listen to popular music all their waking hours. She hardly ever listened to music. To classical sometimes, if she was drawing and could pick up the public radio station somewhere, which seemed to depend on the weather. Most of the time Shandy was inside her head and perfectly happy to be there. Since she could afford a motel, she decided not to kill herself driving. She’d stop when she got tired and continue on the next day whenever she was ready to travel again. Time was not her master. Poverty was not her master. To Shandy, three thousand dollars felt like incredible wealth that would last forever. She felt like a total free spirit, thanks to Emmett. She hoped he knew how much his amazing gift meant to her.

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San Francisco. She’d never been there and knew little about it apart from what she’d read in a magazine now and again, waiting in a dentist’s or doctor’s office, or what Heather had written in her letters. A big city, much larger than Portland. So much going on in the arts. But not as much as in New York, Arnie had said. That’s where she eventually should be, that’s where artistic careers were made. Then why not go to New York right off? Because she’d spent recent years dreaming of moving to San Francisco. Because Heather was there to help her get on her feet. But now Shandy didn’t need any help from anyone. Her ticket to the future was securely wrapped and hidden in Ruby’s tool box. San Francisco or New York? Heather was expecting her. It would be rude not to show up. At the same time, there was no reason to stay with Heather and have to listen to her fight with her boyfriend. She could get a motel first and look up Heather second. Or better yet, a hotel room in the heart of the city. Shandy had never spent the night in a hotel room. She’d order room service and everything. She’d get her bearings. She could look up Heather in her own sweet time. Heather would try to take over her life, thinking she was helping her, so Shandy best flaunt her freedom and independence from the start. San Francisco first then, to check it out. But don’t put down roots, don’t make any commitments. Just check it out. New York must be the final destination. That’s what Arnie said, and she trusted him to know what he was talking about. San Francisco was a side trip on the way to New York. Of course, Heather would be disappointed. But that’s the breaks. They weren’t really that close. Sometimes, in fact, Shandy felt like she was being used. She’d look up Heather to be polite but there really was no point in staying in San Francisco for more than a few days unless it was so great she had to stay longer. She could take a vacation in San Francisco, then go on to New York when it was time to get serious about her career. 308

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She’d play it by ear. After all, she could do any damn thing she wanted. She regretted not saying goodbye to Emmett, even if he wanted to be left alone. She’d never met anyone like him before. She wondered what he was like when he was younger. Was he as kind and patient then? Would he have been so gently attentive, happy to spend hours just looking at her? Or was the personality she saw the result of his dying? She didn’t know. What she did know was that she’d never forget him. ii Emmett called the farmhouse several times through the afternoon but no one answered. His pain was as irregular as ever, coming in sudden explosions that sent searing jolts through his body, then going away for an hour at a time. He was impatient to get the matter of the gun settled and around four, after recovering from the latest seizure of pain, he decided to drive to the farmhouse while he was able and find out for himself what was going on. He drove slowly, alert for the slightest hint of pain. The last thing he wanted was to be consumed by a bolt of fire while he was behind the wheel. He made it to the farmhouse without incident and was relieved to find the parking lot full, Arnie’s van among the vehicles. No one had gone anywhere. Or had they? Emmett was struck by the silence as soon as he got out of the Chevy. He’d expected the murmuring of conversations drifting from the art show around the gazebo. If the art show was in progress, it was the quietest one in history. Emmett took measured, slow strides toward the side of the house. He was moving slowly more from attitude than from physical necessity; he was moving like a man who expected to be struck in the stomach at any moment. When he reached the corner of the house, the gazebo came into view and with it the shocking evidence of the vigilante’s attack. If to Garner the 309

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scene had seemed slight and insignificant, to Emmett it appeared as if a tornado had torn through the property. Works of art, whole or in pieces, were scattered all across the ground. At first glance, nothing had been spared. But it hadn’t been a tornado. The farmhouse was spared. The windows and doors, the trees and the fences, had been spared. Only the art show had been destroyed. Emmett crept across the lawn like the dazed survivor of a plane wreck, dizzy with confusion. What the hell had happened here? Drawings had been ripped from the columns of the gazebo. Sculptures and mixed-media collages had been broken and thrown across the grass. Paintings had been knocked off their easels and many of them slashed. Suddenly Emmett remembered the nude of Shandy, and with a sense of panic he searched the debris for it. He couldn’t find it. Maybe Arnie hadn’t put it out after all. He raced as best he could into the basement but the painting wasn’t there. Coming back outside Emmett stopped to catch his breath. He saw that one work of art had been spared after all. From a rope below the graffito on the barn dangled a sheriff’s uniform stuffed with straw. This was Arnie’s way of turning the slogan into art, Emmett assumed, although whatever message was intended was not immediately clear to him. What on earth had happened here? He stared across the expanse of debris and destruction with a growing sense of doom. He should call the police. Using the kitchen phone, Emmett dialed the operator, who connected him to the police in The Falls who, learning that Emmett was in Hamartin, connected him to the Cascadia County Sheriff’s Department who, after getting Emmett to slow down to comprehensible speech, reported that the matter already had been reported and was being taken care of and, no sir, I have no more information about it. Emmett hung up and called Helen.

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“Emmett, good God, how are you? I’ve been worried sick.” He explained what he’d found at the farmhouse, and Helen said she’d be right over. He waited for her on the swing on the front porch. The warm summer weather did not raise his spirits. How little Nature acknowledged the emotions of men. Seeing the dust rise at the end of the driveway, Emmett stood and waited for her behind all the parked cars. He couldn’t place a car that was missing. The police were “taking care of it.” Helen managed to get out of the car. When she was on her feet, she smoothed down her dress with two flabby arms. Then she embraced him, startling him and almost knocking him down. “I’ve been so worried about you,” Helen said. Emmett wiggled free as gracefully as he could. “I think the police may have arrested everyone,” he said. He led Helen around the house to the gazebo. She gasped when she saw what had happened. “Did you call Mac?” “The sheriff’s office. Everything’s being taken care of,” Emmett said with no effort to hide the sarcasm in his tone. “Let me try to get ahold of Mac.” Mac wasn’t answering. Helen hung up and dialed another number from memory. Emmett was relieved that someone else was in control. He wanted to climb the stairs and crawl into bed. But he had something else to do first. It required getting rid of Helen. “Thank you,” Helen said and hung up. Absorbed with his own business, Emmett had missed her side of the conversation. “Arnie and everyone are in jail,” Helen said. “For what?” “I wasn’t told. They’re still looking for the vandals who destroyed the show.” 311

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Emmett exhaled audibly. The special moment, for which he’d made so much mental preparation, was becoming too complicated, his focus challenged by too many distractions. He had to take care of first things first. “Thanks for coming over, Helen.” He took a step from the kitchen to the front door, and Helen automatically followed. “At least I know where Arnie is.” They went out onto the front porch. Emmett walked her to the station wagon. Helen said, “I talked to Shandy before she left. She said you were very sick. Arnie said you thought it was time.” “Helen, I don’t want to talk about it.” He could see how upset she was by the way she refused to look at him. “We both knew this day would come.” “What are you going to do?” He knew better than to tell her the truth. He didn’t have the energy to debate and defend his decision. More importantly, how he handled it was none of her business. Dying was a personal matter. I die, therefore I am. “I have to do this my way,” he managed to say. He turned, made it to the porch before Helen called, “I’m always available if you need to talk!” Talk. As if talk was the solution. What the hell did talk accomplish? Would talk put Shandy back in his bed? Would talk find him a gun? Emmett went inside and watched from the kitchen window to make sure she left. As soon as the station wagon was out of sight, he went back outside. He couldn’t get into the trunk of Henry’s Toyota but he could check glove compartments for a gun. None of the cars were locked, but he found nothing. He was tired and stressed and in a little pain again. He couldn’t think clearly, and this is what upset him most, the sense of being scattered in his thoughts and not in firm control of his destiny. Maybe a nap would help. It was worth a try. 312

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Hours later Emmett awoke in a dark room. He turned on the light. As if the moment had been rehearsed, he opened the drawer of the bedside table and reached for his pistol. Of course, it wasn’t there. What he brought out instead was the photograph of Mary. She looked so happy. He arranged it on the table in its old place. God, he missed her. Yet not even Mary, the person to whom he had been closest, would understand the joy he’d experienced these past few weeks. She would be too distracted by hurt feelings to understand or accept that Shandy had made him happy when he needed it most. And how he needed it most. Mary, his partner in Agape and Fidelia, would feel terribly hurt, understanding nothing about Eros. In the end, all communication and meaning happened in a mirror. In the end, the only important conversation was with oneself. Well. Something must be done, but what? He was feeling better than expected, which didn’t stop him from popping two pain pills. He went downstairs. He was sipping a glass of wine when the solution to his dilemma came to him. The insight came without preparation or announcement, an experience of “Eureka!” as dramatic as Archimedes’ revelation while sitting in a tub of water. Emmett suddenly knew what he must do. He climbed the stairs and stepped into Arnie’s room. He sat down at the typewriter on a small table in the corner. He rolled in a blank sheet of paper and slowly pecked out: Arnie … Sorry to have to do it this way but I couldn’t find Henry’s pistol or mine or any other. Hope I’m not causing you too much trouble. Thanks for everything. Emmett He left the paper in the typewriter and went back downstairs. Emmett turned on the rear security light. Stepping off the back porch, he felt surprisingly calm and relaxed. He started slowly toward the barn, then stopped. He looked straight up overhead. He stepped away from the light into shadows cast by the house. He continued past the dark stand of Weeping 313

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Sequoias and on into the adjacent field of alfalfa. Here, at last, he had an unobstructed view of the southern sky. Emmett quickly picked out Scorpio low on the horizon. He identified its brightest star, Antares, glaring with the reddish-orange heart of a warrior. As a young sailor in the South Pacific, Emmett had stood under a southern sky, marveling that Scorpio was so high overhead. In the sky, as in life, everything was relative. What you saw depended on where you were looking at it from. A shooting star zipped across the periphery of his vision. Emmett glanced at the spot, letting his eyes dart around the area, waiting for another. When he saw it, he headed back to the barn. Ahead he saw the shadow of the dummy hanging in effigy. This wasn’t exactly the way Emmett wanted to do it – he was leaving, after all, a mess more visible than he would have preferred – but his options were limited. He walked under the dummy into the barn and turned on the light. A horse whinnied and paced in its stall. Emmett picked up the stepladder and set it up under the dummy. He climbed up and rested the dummy on the flat top area of the ladder, so that the rope became slack. His eyes followed the path of the rope from the dummy over a horizontal beam and down to where it was secured at a vertical beam. The beams were large and sturdy, surely they would support the weight of a dying old man. Emmett slid the knot until he could slip the noose free of the dummy. He let the dummy fall to the ground. Then he dropped the noose over his own head, tightening it and adjusting it so the knot rested at the back of his neck. He stood very still on the ladder with the rope around his neck. An observer might have assumed he was having second thoughts but he wasn’t. Emmett was reflecting on his good fortune, his good life. He had enjoyed both of his careers and had been able to share them with a good woman, a wife who had been his best friend. When all seemed lost and his life was 314

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slipping away, Shandy had appeared, giving him not only intense pleasure, the memory of which still energized him, but renewed courage as well, courage to take control of his life again and to die with dignity, just as he was momentarily prepared to do. Emmett felt lucky for his life. He had experienced Eros, Fidelia and Agape. He had no regrets. Well, one. But in a way he was settling the score now, making up for his failure to put a bullet in Mary’s brain. A horse whinnied. High in the barn an owl hooted. Somewhere far in the distance a truck shifted down its gears. Emmett kicked away the ladder, feeling like the happiest man under the stars. iii It was past midnight before Jacob managed to use his legal connections in Portland to get an immediate judicial order releasing Arnie on bail. His friends, unfortunately, would have to wait until the court was back in business after the holiday because Jacob didn’t have their personal information. Jacob drove Arnie home, explaining along the way what an outrage the arrest was, a legal atrocity if ever there was one, and as soon as the legal system was back in gear, the matter would be set right, there was no question of this. Arnie barely listened. In the cell, after the shock of being arrested and jailed had worn off and the self-righteousness of sharing complaints with Henry and Cal had worn off, Arnie’s thoughts had turned to Emmett. He was worried about him. Arnie thanked Jacob for the ride. He hurried inside and strode up the stairs quickly enough to take his breath away. But Emmett wasn’t in his bedroom. Nor in Shandy’s. There was evidence downstairs that someone – who else but Emmett? – had been there: a half-full glass of white wine on the counter. The wine glass was still cool to the touch, suggesting that it had been poured recently. “Emmett!” Arnie called out. 315

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He went out on the front porch and called again. He moved around to the side of the house, winding through the debris still scattered around the gazebo. He stopped when he saw a body larger than the dummy’s hanging in the barn door. So Emmett had done it. He hadn’t found a gun but he hadn’t let this stop him. Arnie admired him for this. He wondered if he’d have the courage to do the same thing under the circumstances. One never knew until the time came. He picked the ladder off the ground but hesitated before setting it up under the body. The grotesque expression on Emmett’s face, which became clearly visible for the first time, stopped him. A dead tongue dangled out one side of the corpse’s mouth, a caricature and a horror at the same time. Arnie had to look away and catch his breath. He placed the ladder off to the side and stepped outside the barn. He looked up at the graffito, barely legible in the barn’s scattered light: KILL ALL FAGITS!!! Let Jacob handle the legal fight, there were other battlegrounds on which to wage the Good Fight. Arnie returned inside, climbing the stairs and entering his room. He was seated at the typewriter before he noticed Emmett’s note. He read it, then pulled it out and set it down on the table. He rolled in a fresh sheet of paper and expertly typed: KILL ALL FAGITS!!! Back in the barn Arnie climbed the ladder, making sure he didn’t look at the corpse’s face, and pinned the sheet of paper to Emmett’s shirt. He climbed back down and took a deep breath. He couldn’t help himself and snuck another look at the face, which was as grotesque as ever, the tongue still hanging loose like some perverse cosmic attempt at humor. But this was a serious matter. Let someone else discover the body and try to dismiss the implication of the note. Meanwhile, he was going to have a wake. Arnie fetched a folding chair and arranged it near Emmett’s hanging body. He went inside and returned with a 316

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bottle of Jamison’s Irish whiskey and a water glass. He sat down, opened the bottle and poured until the glass was halffull. He admired the hell out of Emmett. They had little in common, really, but Emmett was a good man. Emmett had always treated Arnie with respect. Emmett had the balls to take control of his death as well as his life. And going out like a stud! Arnie had to smile. He’d never seen an infatuation quite like Emmett’s pursuit of Shandy. The thing was, in the end they seemed right for each other at this time and place. Shandy gave the old guy something to live a little longer for, and he, of course, had given her financial security, at least for the immediate future. What a break for an artist! What a break for a dying old man! Arnie wouldn’t mind having a fling with a pretty boy on his own way to the graveyard. To you, Emmett! Let some reporter find you and think the bigots lynched you. Fifty years ago, they would’ve done it in a flash. You trespass the community moral code, old man, you disregard the community standard of right and wrong, you screw around with girls young enough to be your granddaughter, and your ass is ours. This will teach you to keep your dick in your pants! Fifty years ago, moral outrage inspired retributive action for transgressions less damning than Emmett’s fling with Shandy. Today the bigots had to be more careful, they could just think about what they wanted to do. But the hate was the same, the bigotry was the same. A funny thought occurred to him, and Arnie laughed aloud. He raised the whiskey glass, toasting himself for thinking of it. Today, even as fireworks celebrated the Bicentennial, all the bigots were in the closet, and all the gays were coming out of the closet. Time marches on! Arnie poured another drink. Before the glass was empty, he realized that it wouldn’t do to have Emmett’s body

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discovered here. It had to be discovered somewhere far from the farmhouse. It had to look like a lynching. But where? Of course! Arnie could barely contain his excitement as he saddled a horse. Sometimes the perfect audacity of his ideas shocked even him. He led the horse under Emmett’s body, where it was harder than he anticipated to maneuver Emmett’s legs so they straddled the horse. It took Arnie a while to get the body on the saddle right, slung forward and balanced so he could leave it alone for a moment. Arnie stooped at the vertical beam and untied the knot, needing to use a screwdriver to wedge into the twisting strands to loosen them. He pulled the rope free, winding it up like a lasso, which he arranged over the saddle horn. Then he raised his foot into a stirrup and swung onto the saddle behind Emmett. He steadied the body, which seemed to want to fall in every direction at once. So this is what “dead weight” meant. Arnie enclosed Emmett between his arms, and they were set to go. On the trail to the park, loping along as solitary as a Hollywood cowboy, lacking only a moon and a soundtrack, Arnie could already see the headlines. Somewhere he once had read that there had been a lynching in Oregon in the 1920s during an era when the Ku Klux Klan was so powerful in the state that it had elected the governor. Here, not in environmental bottle bills, was the hidden Oregon legacy. Arnie imagined the headline: Hamartin Has First Lynching in Fifty Years! Let the local bigots explain that one.

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PART THREE

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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE i Sunday night Garner went to bed a happy man. The fireworks extravaganza had been a great hit, going off without a hitch, and the good people of Hamartin attended in respectable numbers, using Garner’s convenient shuttle bus service. Few in Cascadia County had ever seen more magnificent fireworks, and Garner figured he’d picked up hundreds of votes. As soon as he saw the headline in the Monday morning paper, he figured he was in danger of losing these votes and more. He had spent the night at his apartment in The Falls, sending Sally and the kids back to Hamartin without him. Despite being up past midnight, Garner was up at six and put on his sweats to go jogging. As was his habit, he brought in the morning Oregonian, opened it, and set it on the counter. That’s when he saw as startling a headline as he could remember: HANGING IN HAMARTIN POSSIBLE LYNCHING. He read the article twice before he made his first cup of coffee. The reporter was from Portland, and nothing he wrote made any sense. Why would anyone murder Emmett Hale, an old man who had terminal cancer? At least that’s what Mac had told him. No mention of this was in the article. And even if it was murder, why the note about queers pinned to his shirt? Hale wasn’t queer, though he possibly was a switch-hitter. Rumor had it that he was a preferred client of the young prostitute, Shandy Anderson. No mention of this was in the article. It also seemed suspicious that the note on Hale’s shirt had the exact same phrasing of the graffito on the barn, a phrase that Garner had written himself. At the time the prank had seemed like a good way to hassle Arnie and drive him to do something stupid enough to get into trouble for. Which, in fact, 321

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had happened. But lately Garner’s plan had taken on its own life and gone out of control. To Garner, it almost looked like this new incident was mocking him somehow, as if someone had figured out his plan and now was playing with his head. Or was it the fear of being found out that was troubling him? Garner made a cup of instant coffee and turned on the TV. As he feared, the story was on everywhere. The story had gone national, and anchors couldn’t seem to use the phrase “alleged lynching” often enough, as if the networks’ obsession with the Bicentennial had ended and at last news anchors were able to report once again the grotesque happenings across the land. The phone rang. It was Mac. “You see the paper?” the deputy asked. “Of course I’ve seen it. I just don’t believe it.” “Hard to figure, that’s for sure.” Garner said, “Why would anyone kill a man who has terminal cancer?” “Good question.” “And wasn’t he one of the girl’s johns?” “I heard they were involved, right.” “We should bring her in and talk to her again.” “She left town,” Mac said. Garner swore under his breath. She was a potential witness against Woodworth. “That’s suspicious in itself,” said Garner. “What I heard is she’s moving to San Francisco. It had been her plan for a long time.” “Right, I heard that, too. I think I’ll go over to the jail this morning and talk to Woodworth.” “He’s out of jail.” “What do you mean?” “His lawyer got him out on bail. Around midnight, I think. Helen talked to him and then called me. There’s a town council meeting this morning.”

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“Let me run an idea by you,” said Garner. “Maybe you can present it to the council.” “Shoot.” Garner’s mind was just a step ahead of his mouth. “Hale was in on this pornographic business with Woodworth somehow. Maybe he handled the books or something. They had a fight. Woodworth killed him and set it up to look like a hate crime.” “Did you notice the note is exactly the same phrasing as what’s on the barn? Illiterate spelling and everything.” Garner flinched at the accusation of illiteracy, wondering what the hell was wrong with his spelling. How the hell did you spell fagit? He said, “Of course I noticed.” “I see your thinking: if Arnie did the barn, maybe he also did this. But to be honest, Paul, I don’t think your porno theory will wash.” “Why not?” “I don’t think there’s any Portland connection or any other connection. He took nude photos of the girl in order to paint her. That’s the way he works, he takes a picture first. Hell, his paintings of bank presidents are all over the state.” “He still painted her naked.” “You may consider that immoral, but it’s not against the law,” said Mac. “Public nudity is against the law.” There was a silence. “So what do you think happened?” Garner asked. “I wish I knew.” So did the rest of the town council members. They normally would meet at Mom’s Café but this morning they knew they’d be constantly interrupted with questions from the regulars, so they met again at Tony’s for a little more privacy. No one could believe what had happened. No one could

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explain it, not even with the wildest speculation. Then Mac shared Garner’s theory that Arnie might be involved. “That’s ridiculous,” said Helen. “Arnie loved Emmett. He went out of his way to make Emmett’s final months more comfortable.” “Consider the source,” Ned said. “You know how Garner is with Arnie.” The only consensus they could reach was that there was no lynching. Whatever had happened, it was not perpetrated by a mad mob climbing to the summit of the park with Emmett in tow and a rope at the ready. Except for the note, Helen was more inclined to believe it had been suicide. But the note, the same hateful message as the one on Arnie’s barn, made the incident especially suspicious. It invited a comparison that made no sense to her, as if the vandal of both acts were one and the same. Notoriety rose over the small town like a dark sun. It was one thing to see an unfavorable article about Hamartin in the Riverbend Sunday paper, quite another to watch Barbara Walters force herself to say “alleged lynching” on TV for an audience of millions. After their initial shock, the residents of Hamartin slipped into an embarrassed silence, waiting for the Sheriff’s Department to find out what had happened and hopefully to put the respectability of their community back together again. It was as if a great public figure had died, and everyone was in mourning – which, in fact, is what had happened. The great public figure was the town itself. ii Garner was in his office when F.B.I. Special Agent Shirley McDonald entered. She had flashed her badge at the front counter and asked to see the person in charge. Garner was informed and invited the agent into his office. Garner was uncomfortable facing a woman of authority. McDonald would have been good looking, maybe even a 324

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knockout, if she wore the right clothes and put on some makeup. Since McDonald wore a tan business suit and only a touch of lipstick, and wore her hair in a bun so you couldn’t tell how long it was, Garner pegged her for one of those new liberated women who were joining the agency lately, who’d bust your balls in a heartbeat if it made them look as capable as a man. In general, he thought the F.B.I. should keep its nose out of local affairs but, in truth, this whole shocking incident had stumped him and under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have minded a little help. At the same time, he didn’t want to appear weak. The people of Cascadia County wanted a man of action as their County Sheriff, not someone who passed the buck, especially to a woman. To Garner’s chagrin, McDonald already had concocted a theory that was totally ridiculous. She assumed the hate crime at the barn, as she put it, and the hate crime in the park were related. Garner obviously couldn’t tell her that he’d painted the graffito himself – who would ever understand his motive? Without this perspective, his suspicion that Arnie might be behind this himself would make no sense at all. Garner kept silent until McDonald stopped and asked if her theory made sense in light of his own investigation. “I’m not sure it’s actually a hate crime,” Garner said. McDonald glared at him. “If I didn’t know better,” she phrased her words slowly, “I’d think you have no problem with harassing gay people. I assume you draw the line at murder.” Garner tried again. “It’s hard to explain. We have a respectable county out here, we don’t go around killing people just because we don’t approve of them.” “Did you know Mr. Hale was a homosexual?” Garner said, “I don’t think he was a homosexual.” Now she glared at him as if he’d just said two and two are seventeen. 325

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“Deputy Garner,” she said, and Garner noticed that she’d dropped the Chief, “have you done any investigation into these hate crimes at all?” He thought of telling her about Arnie and his ring of pornographers but Mac’s skepticism had reduced his own confidence in the matter. McDonald was waiting for a reply, looking more disgusted with him the longer he delayed. Garner said, “We’ve been looking at a suspect but we haven’t been able to get enough evidence to charge him. He has a record for vandalism around here.” “Who is that?” “Adam Chase,” said Garner and immediately wished he’d said nothing at all. iii In his article in the Sunday paper, the Riverbend reporter had closed with a question: “Is the nucleus for an anti-gay hategroup forming in Cascadia County?” The Monday morning Oregonian suggested the answer: HANGING IN HAMARTIN POSSIBLE LYNCHING. Arnie stared at the headline a long time. In print, the headline was more shocking, more disturbing, than when he had seen it in his imagination. It was as if his prank, which he had defended to himself as a way to force his neighbors to confront their own bigotry, now took on its own life, and this life promised to be darker than he had intended, perhaps even with surprises he would regret. The story said the F.B.I. might investigate, and while Arnie welcomed the prospects of confronting his old nemesis, the Chief Deputy, such a confrontation being one of the motives for the prank in the first place, he felt only trepidation at the prospect of being drilled by federal agents. Now and again Arnie’s imagination got the best of him, and he wondered if this might be one of those times.

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The phone rang and Arnie answered it in the kitchen. He was alone in the house and had been in the porch swing when he heard the ringing through the screen door. He was waiting for his friends to return, which Jacob had promised would happen this morning. “Hello.” “It’s Josie. I heard from Shandy. She’s on her way back.” Arnie was silent. “Arnie, you there?” “I was just wondering if that’s a good idea or not.” “I think she wants to be here for the funeral. How are you doing?” Arnie said, “As well as can be expected.” “How on earth could something like this happen here?” Arnie almost laughed aloud. Was Josie this naïve? He bit his lip and said, “It’s terrible.” Josie talked on. He got the idea that Josie had called because she needed an audience, anyone to whom to vent, and he was one of the few local people in her address book. He let her talk on until the energy of stress was dissipated, and she turned silent. “Josie, we’ll talk more later, okay?” Arnie was outside cleaning up the mess when the others arrived. As usual, everyone was talking at once about “the murder of Emmett” and Arnie was tempted to tell them the truth, though of course he had to keep his secret to himself. They pitched in to help Arnie clean up, salvaging what work they could, until most of the evidence of the art show and its destruction was stuffed into cylindrical cans to haul to the dump. Cal was the first to say it was time to head back to Portland, and the others quickly agreed. Henry was the only one to ask Arnie if he’d like him to stay, but Arnie said, no, he was fine, go on home and I’ll be in touch.

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On the evening news Arnie was surprised to learn that an arrest had been made. Adam had been taken into custody by the F.B.I. and charged with the vandalism of the barn and the murder of Emmett Hale. Jesus Christ. Now it was Arnie’s turn to find an audience to whom to vent. The only local person he could think of was Helen. iv Helen opened the door and found Arnie on the porch. “Arnie, what a surprise. Is everything all right?” “Can we talk?” Helen led him into the living room. It was a room like many kept by older single women, he thought, full of knickknacks and doilies and small pillows, each no doubt associated with a special memory of a special time in a long unspecial life. Arnie got right to the point. He told her, first, that he had no idea who had painted the graffito on his barn. He was willing to believe that Adam Chase was responsible for it since he’d painted FAG on his mailbox in the past. However, Adam was innocent of the murder – and Arnie explained how he’d found Emmett’s body hanging in the barn and how he’d found the suicide note and then typed his own note and pinned it to Emmett’s shirt and taken the body up to the park by horseback. He couldn’t let Adam be charged with a murder that wasn’t even a murder, something the boy had nothing at all to do with. “You certainly can’t,” Helen agreed. “Why don’t you phone Mac right now?” “Maybe they’ll have to let the boy go anyway. They can’t have evidence if he didn’t do anything wrong.” “Since when are you so naive? Innocent people are convicted of crimes all the time.” Arnie had to agree this was true. “You have to tell the truth,” said Helen. Arnie sighed. 328

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“At least I feel better telling someone.” “Hasn’t all this gone on long enough?” “All what?” “Your feud with Garner. Your determination to put Hamartin in as bad a light as possible. See where it leads?” “Helen …,” Arnie began but he couldn’t finish. He’d needed an ear and she’d served the purpose. Now he was ready to get the hell out of there. “You said Emmett left a note,” Helen said. “Short and sweet.” “What did it say?” “Not much. He thanked me for everything.” “I don’t understand why he did that. Surely if he’d checked himself into a hospital—“ “Helen, it’s none of your business how a man chooses to die.” He stood up, and there was an awkward silence. Helen remained seated. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that I miss him so much. I would have liked to have said goodbye.” “I don’t think he wanted a lot of people around him at the end.” “Did he really leave his money to the Anderson girl?” Arnie wondered where she’d heard that. “He was very fond of her.” “What did they have in common besides sex?” “Sometimes sex is enough, Helen,” Arnie said. “What on earth did they find to talk about?” “Helen …” Again he couldn’t finish. “I’m going to go.” “Will you call Mac?” “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I guarantee you I won’t let them convict Adam of murder. That’s about all I know at the moment.” “I’ll hold you to your word.” 329

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On his way to the door Arnie heard her grunting, trying to raise her large body from the deeply cushioned chair. He waited for her at the door. “At the time,” Arnie said, “it sounded like a brilliant idea. Sometimes Garner gets under my skin. I hate assholes in general and bigots in particular, and Garner is both and wears a badge to boot. He threw me in jail, for God’s sake. It never occurred to me they’d arrest Adam. I won’t let it get too far along before I speak up. I’m just not ready to do it right now. He probably did the vandalism anyway. It’s not as if he’s completely innocent here.” “Don’t try to justify what you did to me.” On the drive home Arnie decided to play it moment by moment, newscast by newscast, delaying the inevitable as long as he could.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX i “Josie!” Shandy fell into her friend’s out-stretched arms. Josie said, “Let’s go inside.” There was news. The Chase boy had been arrested. “I can believe he vandalized the barn,” said Shandy, “but not the other.” “Nothing would surprise me.” They sat in the living room and Shandy turned down a glass of wine. Soon it was clear to Josie that the girl was restless. “Are you in a hurry to go to the farmhouse?” Josie asked. “I probably should. Can we have dinner together?” “Of course.” At first Shandy thought no one was home at the farmhouse. All the cars of the Portland artists were gone, though both Arnie’s van and Emmett’s Chevy were there. No one answered the door. Shandy walked around the side of the house, all evidence of the art show gone, and she found Arnie in the barn in his coveralls. The graffito still loomed overhead. “Arnie!” Shandy called. Arnie pulled the saddle cinch tight and fastened the strap. He met Shandy in the broad doorway, under the graffito, and they embraced. “I was just going for a ride,” he said. “Come with me.” They rode across the pasture to the trailhead to Vista Park. Though Shandy had much she wanted to ask him, now didn’t seem like the time. Riding was like a meditation, a preparation for a conversation that would come later. As they climbed toward the summit, Arnie relinquished the lead and let her horse catch up to his. He was ready to talk. “I moved Emmett to the park myself,” he told her. 331

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Shandy was at a loss for words. “He couldn’t find his gun, so he hung himself in the barn. I didn’t get out of jail until late. I found him then. After a few drinks, I decided to move the body. I wrote the note on the body.” “Why?” “At the time I felt like I was saying, Fuck you, Hamartin. Fuck you, Chief Deputy Garner, and God save us if you become our County Sheriff.” “But they arrested Adam.” “I know. I have to take care of that.” After a silence, Shandy asked, “Did you paint the graffiti, too?” “That I didn’t do. There’s still a bigot on the loose. Actually I think Adam did it.” They rode on silently. “Arnie?” “Yes?” “Why do you live here if you hate it so much?” Arnie smiled. “That sure seems to be the sixty-four thousand dollar question around here. My pat answer is, I love Oregon but I hate Oregonians.” He changed the subject. “How does it feel to have escaped?” “Incredible. A little scary, too, but mainly incredible. Maybe you should try it.” “I’m an old man. I lost my chance to escape – to escape a second time – a long time ago. When I decided to move back and live in the family home, the plan was to stay here about five years and get a hell of a lot of painting done. Five years came and then ten and I was still here. Nobody welcomed me but I really came to love all this. I love being able to ride whenever I want to, love never seeing a traffic jam. Remember when I used to ride my horse to school?” “Everybody thought you were really weird.” “Part of my charm, don’t you think?” 332

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Shandy smiled. Arnie said, “When I was your age, of course, I couldn’t get out of here fast enough.” They rode as far as the yellow police tape and stopped. “We probably shouldn’t go looking for trouble,” Arnie said, and they guided their horses to start back down again. As they approached the barn, they could see a cloud of dust that announced company. It wasn’t a car that Arnie recognized. He led the way out of the pasture to the barn. “Just tie them to the railing inside,” Arnie said. He dismounted and started for the front of the house. He met Special Agent McDonald along the way. “What a beautiful gazebo,” she said. “Did you build it yourself?” Arnie held up both hands, spreading out his fingers. “I still have ten,” he said, “which means the answer to your question is no.” McDonald smiled and took out her I.D. “Special Agent McDonald, F.B.I. Is this a good time to talk?” “As good as ever.” “Is the girl your daughter?” “Just a friend.” “Did she know the deceased?” Arnie wasn’t sure how to respond. McDonald waited, and Arnie knew his delay was arousing her suspicion. “Everybody knew Emmett,” he said. “Maybe she should join us.” “I’ll get her. Shall we talk in the gazebo?” “That would be lovely,” said McDonald. Lovely for you, Arnie thought as he trotted to the barn. He told Shandy that an F.B.I. agent wanted to talk to them. He reminded her that what he’d told her was in strict confidence. He would reveal the truth in his own good time.

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Shandy and Arnie joined McDonald at the folding table. After introducing herself to Shandy, the agent said, “Let’s get right to it, shall we?” “Fine by me,” said Arnie. The agent’s first question took both of them by surprise. McDonald looked at Shandy and asked, “Are you the Shandy Anderson who’s been arrested for prostitution?” Shandy’s throat became so tight she couldn’t swallow. The last thing she expected was to be put on the defensive. Arnie came to her rescue. “Those charges were dropped, and she was released.” “Was Emmett Hale a client of yours?” McDonald asked, her gaze riveted on the girl. Shandy looked desperately at Arnie. Arnie said, “I think I’d better call my lawyer.” McDonald’s manner immediately changed. She gave Arnie a sweet, almost flirtatious, smile. “I don’t think that’s necessary. What I was asking is whether Adam Chase was a client as well and, if so, if he ever talked about the victim. I assume you heard we made an arrest.” “He didn’t do it,” Arnie said. He was surprised how easy it had been to say. Shandy was surprised, too, but looked away, not wanting the agent to read anything in her expression. “Why do you say that?” McDonald asked. “Because murder isn’t in his genes.” “You’re a biologist?” ‘I’ve known the boy most of his life. I think he painted the graffiti, in fact. But he’d never kill anyone.” McDonald studied him, then studied Shandy, who was looking out across the pasture. There were more questions but no more surprises, no new revelations. McDonald tried to get someone to say something damaging about Adam, and neither cooperated, other than Arnie’s accurate description of the boy’s history of vandalism. 334

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But Arnie always qualified each point by emphasizing that as far as he was concerned, Adam Chase was incapable of murder. ii “I miss Emmett,” Shandy told Josie near the end of dinner. Josie had thrown together a casserole, and Shandy already had told her about being questioned by the F.B.I. “I can understand that. You had a unique relationship with him.” “It wasn’t just sex. That wasn’t ever a big deal. Well, except for one time.” Shandy stopped, surprised that she’d admitted this much. Josie didn’t press her to elaborate. In a moment Shandy said, “He was like a young guy but without all the testosterone.” “The testosterone’s what I like,” Josie laughed. “Take away the sex, and what good are they?” Shandy said, “He told me stories. He’d done so many things and been so many places. We’d go outside at night and he’d show me the constellations. He knew the names of all of them. I learned so much from him. He was like the grandfather I never got to be close to. Only, you know...” “We’re not supposed to sleep with our grandfathers.” “Actually I got to like sex with him,” Shandy said. “Because it wasn’t really sex, you know?, the way it is with a younger guy, about getting off and everything. Does that sound weird?” “Honey, I don’t think anything about sex is weird. When I was working, if a john wanted to pay me to piss, the money spent as well as anything I made spreading my legs in the missionary position.” “Everybody thinks it’s weird because of our age difference but that’s what made it special, I think. I didn’t feel pressured about anything. Most the time he couldn’t even get it 335

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up all the way. He called it his soft-on. He wasn’t always trying to prove to me what a stud he was. Obviously. He liked to be naked with me. That seemed to be what he liked best, just lying naked with me. Almost every time I woke up in the morning, the first thing I saw was him looking at me. He seemed so happy, like there was nothing else in the whole world he’d rather be doing than looking at me naked.” Josie recognized the wistful look in Shandy’s eye. “You really cared for him,” she said. “Yes, I guess so.” Shandy remembered an afternoon shortly after she and Emmett reached the agreement on what their arrangement would be. They were walking in Vista Park. They hadn’t hiked up the trail from the farmhouse but driven, and Emmett’s Chevy was parked on the gravel lot. They took the long way around to the western edge of the park, where the view of the valley below was most spectacular. Hills of golden grain, bright under the afternoon sun, stretched over rolling hills, interrupted by patches of green alfalfa and brown tilled earth. At the horizon, Mt. Hood rose with considerable snow still on its eastern surface. “Do you feel like a kept woman?” Emmett asked. “No. Because I can resign whenever I want.” Emmett laughed and said, “Touché.” “Have you ever hired a woman this way before?” “Not exactly.” “But close?” “When I was stationed in Guam in the Navy. I had an arrangement with a young woman. I used to do favors for her family.” “In return for sex?” “Well, I didn’t think of it that coldly but I suppose that’s what it amounted to. But there was more to it than sex. I liked her company. She was always surprising me and making me laugh.” 336

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Shandy thought about this and said, “I don’t make you laugh.” “You attract me in other ways.” “What ways?” “You’re a mystery. I don’t understand why you aren’t going to college. I don’t understand why you don’t go into math or science. You’re so good at math and it’s such a good field compared to going into art. Your progress in math is objective. You can measure your talent, you either solve a problem or you don’t. Art strikes me as too subjective. As soon as you start dealing with so much subjectivity, everything becomes political. Of course, I don’t really know anything about the art world. I shouldn’t offer an opinion about it.” “I’m always glad to hear what you think.” “Good because you seem to bring out the opinions in me. Usually I mind my own business.” “I like to keep my opinions to myself, too,” Shandy said. They heard a child laugh and turned to see a mother chasing her three children across the grass. “You know why I’m an artist?” Shandy asked rhetorically. “Because it never bores me. I hate boredom more than anything. That’s why I couldn’t keep a job in this stupid town. That’s why I need to leave. Everything is so boring here.” “When I was your age, I felt the same way.” “How old were you when you left Hamartin?” “The day after I graduated from high school, I joined the Navy.” “Wow.” “I couldn’t get away fast enough. It was a family scandal at the time because my dad expected me to take over the farm. I kept telling him what I was going to do but I guess he figured I couldn’t go through with it. It took him years to forgive me. I’m not sure my mother ever forgave me.” “Did you have a brother to take it over?”

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“Only child. I guess that’s why I’m so spoiled,” Emmett smiled. “It worked out eventually. They sold out at the best time and got a great price. I thought they’d retire here but they moved to Arizona. Dad even took up golf. I still find that hard to believe.” Shandy said, “You’re saving my life, you know.” “Oh, not really.” “I’d never get enough money to get out of here without you.” “You don’t need money to leave. You just need courage.” “I’ve got courage.” “Not enough or you’d be gone by now. I hope you don’t take offense.” Shandy was quiet. Emmett said, “There I go speaking out of turn again.” “No, you’re right. I could’ve left any time. I could’ve hitchhiked to San Francisco and Heather would’ve let me crash. I could get a waitressing job down there easier than here. With more interesting people, too, I might even be able to stick at it a while.” “So why didn’t you?” Shandy thought a minute before replying. “I didn’t want to be dependent on Heather. When I move, I want to have enough money in my pocket to be independent.” “I applaud you for it,” said Emmett. “Some young man is going to be very, very lucky to win your heart.” “Right. That’ll be the day.” Shandy suddenly started walking away. Emmett caught up and said, “Don’t be mad at me.” “I’m not mad,” she said. “Life’s too short for petty disagreements. Look at Arnie. If he didn’t have something to hate and make him feel victimized, he’d go crazy. To me it just doesn’t seem like any way to live. Of course, when you have all the time in the world, everything seems different. If you waste a day with self-indulgent anger, 338

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fuming about some impossible mission, what difference does it make? There’s always tomorrow. If I told Arnie he’d be dead tomorrow, believe me, he wouldn’t spend today giving one thought to what Hamartin or the sheriff or anybody else thinks.” Yes, Shandy had grown fond of Emmett, and she liked listening to his reflections on life. She’d seldom had an opportunity to be around people older than her mother. She could barely remember meeting her grandparents on her mother’s side, who lived in California, and she’d only met her father’s parents, who lived in Idaho, at the funeral after they shipped him home from Vietnam in a body bag. Josie said, “Are you okay?” “I was just thinking about Emmett.” “When’s the funeral?” “I don’t know. This week, don’t you think?” “I would think so.” “I should have married him,” Shandy said. “Why?” “Not for the money. In order to be in charge. In order to have some say in how things happen. I miss him. I feel like I should be doing something. I feel like I should be in charge.” But Shandy wasn’t in charge, and she had no choice but to wait for the funeral arrangements to run their natural course.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN Helen turned on the porch light before opening the door and peeked out the window. She saw Jason Trafford standing on the porch. It was late enough for her to be in her robe, and she didn’t know why on earth Jason would be visiting her except as the bearer of bad news. “Jason, come in,” she said. He looked terrible. His face was smudged with dirt and his hair unkempt. Bits of grass were stuck to his short-sleeved shirt. He looked like he’d been rolling around on the ground somewhere. “Can I get you something to drink?” Helen asked. “I have diet Pepsi or orange juice.” “Nothing, thanks. Were you going to bed?” “Well, not for an hour yet. Is something the matter?” He looked troubled. “Jason, what is it? Let’s sit down and you can tell me all about it. You make yourself comfortable. I’m going to get us both a Pepsi.” By the time she returned with their drinks, a can split into two glasses, he looked a little better. He’d sat down at one end of the black leather divan that Helen had purchased a decade ago on sale. She handed Jason his glass and eased her body down on the other end, using her free arm to brake her descent so she didn’t plop down with an unseemly and audible rush of air. Jason must have been more comfortable because he wasted no time in sharing what was on his mind. “I know who painted the graffiti,” he said. “It wasn’t Adam.” Helen reached out and touched his knee. She had meant to be comforting but Jason’s body tightened, and she pulled back. “Did you do it, Jason?” she asked gently. 340

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“No! God, is that what you think?” She thought he was going to bolt out of the room. But he stayed, though his earlier comfort had been too fragile to survive, and Helen tried again. “Who did it?” He spoke so softly she could barely hear him. “The sheriff.” “Who?” “The Sheriff.” “Mac? Sheriff Hudd?” “Not him. The other one, Sheriff Garner.” “How do you know this, Jason?” Jason, with halting difficulty, explained how he and Adam had been out drinking and how they crashed the farmhouse after midnight Saturday night because Adam had left a basement window unlatched and how they were just looking around inside the house, not stealing anything, and that’s when they saw car lights coming down the long driveway and so got out of there in a hurry. Their car was parked out front but so was Emmett’s Chevy, so maybe whoever it was wouldn’t worry about it. They raced out the basement door, and while sprinting across the grounds to hide behind the barn, Jason had tripped and twisted his ankle. When he tried to get up, he was afraid he couldn’t move fast enough to get out of sight so he crawled to the gazebo and hid behind it. Adam was behind the barn, he thought, out of sight and not even coming back to look for him. Jason heard the car engine die and a car door slam. Then a flashlight came around the house and Jason worried that whoever it was would hear his breathing, which sounded as loud as a drum to him. Jason hugged the ground, stretched out behind the gazebo, and he heard sounds in the barn but wasn’t sure what was going on. Then the barn light came on, and Jason got curious enough to peek up over the side of the gazebo. Between the small pillars of the railing and across the hardwood floor, he could see Sheriff Garner in the barn. Garner 341

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opened a can of paint and then set up the ladder and, to make a long story short, Jason watched him paint the graffiti. Then Garner climbed down the ladder and folded it up, turned out the barn light, turned on the flashlight, and was gone. When Jason heard the sound of wheels on gravel as the sheriff’s car drove out the driveway, he stood up and tested his ankle, which was better. He hobbled to the back of the barn but Adam wasn’t anywhere to be found. Apparently he’d taken off alone, deciding it was too dangerous to hang around. Adam didn’t give a hoot if Jason was in trouble or not. “Have you told anyone else about this?” Helen asked when he was finished. “No. I’ve been afraid to. He’s the sheriff. I thought he must have a good reason. But I know Adam didn’t do it.” “Do you think Adam could kill Emmett?” Jason hesitated before replying. He didn’t look to Helen like he was considering the matter; he looked like he was avoiding saying something that was difficult to admit. All he finally said was, “I don’t know.” Helen said, “I’m glad you told me, Jason. I think this is something you’re going to have to tell Mac. Not tonight. But soon. I’d be glad to go with you when you do it.” “I have to think about it.” “Okay.” After a silence, Helen said, “Why did you choose me to tell?” Jason shrugged. “I’m glad you did,” said Helen. “I always liked you as a teacher.” “Thank you. I liked you as a student. You were one of my best.” “I should go now.” “Can you see yourself out? I’m so comfortable.” She wondered if he could see through such a flimsy excuse. She wanted to avoid sharing the spectacle of herself trying to get to her feet. 342

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“Sure,” Jason said, but he didn’t move. “Jason?” “There’s something else I want to talk to you about.” “What is it?” “Maybe this is a bad time. For me, I mean. I need to think something through first.” “Whatever you think is best.” “Maybe I can come by again sometime.” “I’d like that. Give me warning and I’ll bake you a pie. I remember how much you liked my strawberry pie whenever I brought it to class.” Jason stood up. “Well, goodnight,” he said. “Goodnight, Jason. Please call me soon.” “Okay.” Helen waited until Jason closed the door behind him. Then she put one hand on the armrest and another on a cushion and began the difficult battle to rise to her feet.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT On Wednesday morning Agent McDonald dropped a copy of the autopsy report on Garner’s desk and said, “Can you explain something this irregular?” Garner looked over the report. He didn’t see anything that justified McDonald getting her pants wet about it. Then he noticed a scrawl under the cause of death, which read “Double set of rope burns. Body was hung twice.” “What does it mean, hung twice?” Garner asked. McDonald flashed him her sweetest, most superior, smile. “How about this? Somebody hangs the body. Then somebody moves the body and hangs it again. The question is, why?” Garner thought a moment. “Or this,” he said. “Somebody finds the body hanging somewhere and moves it.” “Right, it could be two people.” “The first time could be suicide,” Garner said. McDonald tried to hide her surprise and intrigue at this possibility, which for some reason had not occurred to her, though she never would admit it to anyone, least of all Garner. Garner liked this possibility and explored it. “I think I got an explanation.” He was getting excited, the baffling murder opening up to him as if under a lifting fog. “Emmett Hale was dying of cancer. Everybody around here knew that. Anybody with a beef didn’t have to kill him, they just had to wait a week. So let’s say he takes his own life. People who are dying anyway do that sort of thing. Especially with cancer and what you end up going through. His wife died that way, it probably gave him the idea not to go through the same thing.” “But if he killed himself, why would someone move the body?”

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“Most people wouldn’t. But we have a special situation around here. You see, we got this retired art teacher in Hamartin who’s as queer as a three-dollar bill and likes everybody to know it. He throws it in your face. Then when you tell him to mind his own business, he gets up on a soapbox and yells that everybody in town is a bigot and prejudiced against him. You follow me?” “Go on,” said McDonald. “His name’s Arnie Woodworth, the same guy who owns the farmhouse where Emmett was staying, and he’s been this way for years. Fact is, strange behavior runs in the family. So I don’t think there was a hate crime to begin with. I think Woodworth painted that graffito on his barn himself, just to give Hamartin bad publicity, which is exactly what happened. I mean, he wouldn’t even paint over it, like he wanted it up there for a reason. Bingo! See where I’m heading? Later I think he found that Emmett had hanged himself and took the body up to the park to make it look like a second hate crime. It all makes sense.” McDonald said, “Are you finished?” Garner could tell she didn’t share his enthusiasm. But she was from Portland, by definition she had no real understanding of the situation. He said, “You don’t buy it, do you?” “No, I don’t, and I’ll tell you why. In the first place, what you offer is the most creative speculation I’ve heard in some time. I’ll believe that someone would go to this much trouble when I see hard evidence and not before. In the second place, I met with Mr. Woodworth myself and interrogated him. I don’t consider him a suspect. I’ve already arrested a suspect, and I think the boy’s getting close to a confession. You know as well as I do what the boy’s record is. He’s vandalized the Woodworth property before – destroying a mailbox, wasn’t it?” “It was Halloween,” said Garner. “He painted it pink.”

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“Right – and painted the word fag on it. So we have a pattern of hate crimes. Now let me say something else, sheriff. I’m troubled, if I may be candid, by your attitude. It’s obvious you don’t approve of Mr. Woodworth’s lifestyle, and you’re doing your best here to turn a victim into a perpetrator. I wonder just how fairly you can administer the civil rights laws with such a bias.” There, she’d said what had to be said without coming right out and calling him a bigot, which he certainly appeared to be. McDonald expected the sheriff to explode and throw her out of the office but she’d underrated his capacity to surprise her. “You’re right, I hate fags,” said Garner. “But that has nothing to do with anything. If he was a closet fag minding his own business, that would be one thing.” “Sheriff, I really don’t have time to listen to--” “Do you want to find out what’s going on around here or not? This whole business is about vandalism -- moral vandalism. It’s about the desecration of community values. There’s stuff going on around here that would set your hair on end.” “What stuff?” In his passion and frustration, Garner had let this slip out, and now he was trying to think on his feet to get out of it even as he could feel himself growing tense and warm in the face. “Personal community stuff,” he said. “You can take my word on it.” “Sheriff, I want to remind you what my goal is here. I have only one report to write after my informal investigation. Is what happened here a hate crime sufficient in degree to warrant formal investigation by the federal government? Yes or no, that’s it. From what you’re telling me, I get the impression the federal government is the only entity capable of completing such an investigation.”

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“Look, lady--” … but McDonald’s intense glare, daring him to go on, stopped Garner in his tracks. He ran his tongue over his teeth and tried to regain his authority. “Things happen different in a small town,” he said, as if this explained everything. “This ain’t like Portland. People think different here. We have different values.” “Apparently so.” “All I can tell you is the Chase kid didn’t do it. None of it. It wasn’t a hate crime, it was a sick prank, and Woodworth’s your guy.” They left it at that. McDonald stayed in the building to talk to Adam again, and Garner sat for a long time in his office, alone, taking no calls, calming down. He hated feds in general, especially when they interfered in his business, but he hated female feds most of all, and Special Agent Shirley McDonald in particular. She was trying to make it in a man’s world by over-compensating in every way, trying to be more macho than the most macho cop, and she ended up coming off like an obnoxious know-it-all, who in fact didn’t know squat. In fact, McDonald reminded Garner of Woodworth. They both had chips on their shoulders the size of hand grenades. If Garner said one thing against her, he’d be accused of sexual harassment. But one good thing had come out of the heat of this verbal battle with McDonald: Garner had been blessed with a great insight. He was sure he was right about Arnie moving the body after Emmett’s suicide. This explained everything and was just the sort of hare-brained thing that a Woodworth would do. Lunacy ran in the family. Garner remembered a story, often told in the bars, about Woodworth’s great-grandfather. The man wanted to establish a sheep industry in Cascadia County. To get it started, he’d purchased a herd of purebreds on the east coast and managed to drive them over two thousand miles across the plains and over the Rockies. Then he loaded them onto a large raft to take them 347

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down the Columbia River to The Falls, where he planned to unload them and drive them the final leg to Hamartin. At the wharf in The Falls, before the sheep were unloaded, the wind picked up in the gorge, forming waves on the river, and the raft over-turned and all the sheep drowned. The incident became known as The Woodworth Massacre. Yes, this was the Woodworth Massacre all over again, but much worse, because it was an obscene version of the Woodworth capacity for stupidity, moving a dead body of all things, desecrating the sanctity of a deceased human being. The Arnie Woodworth Massacre.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE Arnie found the nerve to tell his lawyer what he’d done. He prepared Jacob for the news by inviting him over for dinner and making him one of his favorite dishes, paella, and by keeping Jacob’s glass filled with good Spanish red wine. The temperature had climbed over ninety during the afternoon but began cooling off as the sun dipped toward the horizon. By the time Arnie had set the table, bringing out the small stemless octagonal wine glasses he first had seen in a small café in Barcelona, he was satisfied that eating in the gazebo would be more comfortable than eating inside. If he’d had a record of flamenco music, he would have played it for atmosphere. Instead they made due with Bizet’s Carmen. As soon as he poured their after-dinner brandies, Arnie told the story quickly and efficiently, beginning with finding the body, having his brief private little wake, and being inspired to move the body to the park with, of course, the note pinned to Emmett’s shirt. When the story was over, Arnie refilled their glasses and waited for Jacob to explode, or resign, or whatever else he might do. Jacob sniffed his brandy and took a sip that didn’t look like a sip: he seemed to be letting the rich brown liquid dampen his lips without entering his mouth. Then the mouth opened, and Jacob tilted the glass up. He swirled the brandy around, and Arnie almost expected him to spit it out on the table, if not across the table at him. “Arnie,” Jacob finally said, “you’ve really outdone yourself this time. Do you have any idea what the penalty is for removing a body from a crime scene?” “It wasn’t a crime really. It was suicide.” “According to law, suicide is a crime.” “So how many years will I get?” Jacob seemed to be doing the addition in his head. “I have no idea,” he said. “This is an area of law I’ve been fortune enough to miss until now.” 349

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“So you have no advice?” “Of course I have advice. The first thing you have to do is turn yourself in. No, that’s the second thing. The first thing is to brainstorm here and see what kind of reason we can come up with so they’ll be willing to make a deal.” “I told you my reason.” “I mean a reason that would make sense to a rational person.” Brainstorming wasn’t an accurate term for their conversation over the next hour. Jacob kept wanting to change the subject to an analysis of Arnie’s reasons for doing what he did. The more he drank, the more Jacob seemed to prefer psychology, especially abnormal psychology, to law. Arnie made an effort to keep the conversation on track, which was difficult since he didn’t have the foggiest notion what he might offer the powers-that-be in exchange for going easy on him. Out of nowhere Jacob said, “You will promise to go back into the closet.” “What?” “You won’t confront the sheriff and challenge the town and all the rest of the things you like to do for recreation. You’ll stay out here and paint and otherwise mind your own business and make no public display, absolutely none, of your chosen lifestyle. Instead you will embrace the lifestyle of a homosexual in the closet. That’s our bargaining tool.” “What kind of fun is that?” “Goddamn it, this is serious!” Jacob caught his breath. “Arnie, it’s all we have to offer. And we only have it to offer Garner. This will make no sense to the Feds. So the first line of business is to get the Feds out of here, which means they have to be convinced no hate crime took place.” “But a hate crime did take place,” said Arnie. “Defacing my barn.” “You have to make some compromises here. You’re potentially in serious trouble. What I’m suggesting is you 350

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accept the possibility that the graffito was just a prank, a kind of joke, albeit one in poor taste. The point being, you’re not interested in pursuing the matter any farther. I suggest you paint over it tomorrow, in fact.” “Isn’t it too late for that?” said Arnie. “I already hung the sheriff in effigy! Garner saw it.” Jacob pursed his lips and scratched his nose. “Maybe the sheriff misinterpreted what he saw, what you actually meant. Let’s look at that image more closely.” Jacob squinted in the direction of the barn. “We have a slogan, Kill All Fagits. We have a sheriff hanging in effigy. Why does the first have to be the title of the second? Maybe there’s another explanation. After all, who but the sheriff is the one to investigate the heinous crime of the first and hopefully bring the criminal to justice? This is not an easy job. In fact, it is a most dangerous job. So dangerous that from time to time, in his pursuit of justice, the sheriff is captured by the criminal and not the other way around. Sometimes the sheriff pays with his life. Sometimes, in his pursuit of justice, the sheriff is a martyr. The sheriff is not hanging in effigy. He’s hanging as a tragic symbol of his dangerous profession.” Jacob looked exhausted and thoroughly pleased with himself. Arnie said, “You are absolutely amazing. You want me to turn Garner into a defender of gay rights. Into a martyr and a hero. Un-fucking-believable.” “I’m suggesting that the meaning of art is in the eye of the beholder, and you can do your part to guide Garner where you want him to be, which is in the frame of mind to make a deal.” “I have to think about it,” said Arnie. “Good. You have twelve hours. I’ll call you in the morning.” Shortly after Jacob left, as Arnie was doing the dishes, headlights approached the farmhouse. Arnie identified them as belonging to a VW Bug, and he was right. 351

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Arnie put on a small pot of fresh coffee and sat with Shandy at the coffee bar, waiting for it to perk. Arnie said, “I told my lawyer. I’m in deep shit unless I can cut a deal with Garner. The thought of doing that makes me want to puke.” Shandy let Arnie do the talking, barely listening. It was depressing to be back, even if she’d only been gone for a few days. She wanted to bury Emmett and leave for good. She hoped Arnie stayed out of jail but she really couldn’t do anything about it. She remembered what Emmett had told her once: you can’t help anyone else until you help yourself and that usually takes all the energy a person can muster. After a cup of coffee she told Arnie goodnight and climbed the stairs. She had a hard time falling asleep and was awake when Arnie came up to bed. Sometime later she came downstairs, went outside, and fetched the toolbox from Ruby’s trunk. When she dozed off, the toolbox was in bed beside her, as snug as a lover.

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CHAPTER FORTY i Jacob phoned Arnie early the next morning for an answer. Last night he’d taken the liberty to arrange a tentative meeting with the F.B.I. agent and Garner. It was time to compromise. What did Arnie want to do? Arnie said that, against his better judgment, he’d compromise. When Jacob came by to pick up his client, he found Arnie waiting on the porch in pea-green corduroys and a purple shirt. “I know you own a suit,” Jacob said. “What color is it?” “Black. My funeral suit.” “Wear it.” “Are we going to a funeral?” “Hopefully not to yours. And bring down that suicide note with you. It’s our best evidence. Next to your new improved attitude, of course.” Shandy emerged from her room and passed Arnie in the hallway. She was wearing a cotton nightgown and looked halfasleep. Arnie, wearing his suit, said, “I’m on my way to sell my soul to the devil.” Shandy mumbled, “Good morning,” and plodded on toward the bathroom. The phone rang. Arnie went back and answered the extension in his bedroom. It was Helen. “I’m in a hurry,” he said. “I told Jacob, and we’re going to The Falls to turn me in.” “You’ll want to hear this before you go. I had a visit from Jason last night. He saw Garner paint the graffito on your barn.” The more Arnie thought about this revelation on the drive to The Falls, the more it made sense. Over the years the Chief Deputy had learned exactly which of Arnie’s buttons to push, and the graffito had triggered the very response Garner had 353

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anticipated: Arnie had gone off the deep end. The question became, What was in such an elaborate hoax for the Chief Deputy? Garner never did anything that wasn’t self-serving. Somehow the graffito had to work to his advantage. Maybe it had something to do with his race for County Sheriff, which would be the centerpiece of his concern these days. Was Garner creating a crime in order to solve it, thereby showing the good people of Cascadia County what a brilliant law-andorder man he was? Arnie didn’t share the new information with Jacob, though he knew he should. He didn’t want to share it until he knew what to do with it. On the drive, listening to Jacob as the lawyer gestured with one hand and steered with the other, trying to predict all the options of strategy they would be facing in The Falls, and how they would respond to each contingency, Arnie discovered how much he enjoyed the feeling of power he had by knowing something no one else knew. It was like being the only one in the room who knew how the magic trick worked. At the sheriff’s station a deputy led them to a conference room where Garner and Special Agent McDonald were sitting together, waiting for them. Arnie and Jacob sat down across the long table. Arnie looked at Garner, who seemed confused by something. The suit! The suit was throwing Garner completely off guard. There was a method to Jacob’s madness, after all. Arnie had less confidence in the strategy his lawyer had outlined on the drive. Jacob was to do all the talking, being the experienced negotiator, and when necessary he would ask Arnie a direct question, which always would be phrased so that Arnie would reply in an affirmative manner. Arnie could use his own words as long as he agreed with the substance of what Jacob was asking and remembered that the mission here was to appear contrite and cooperative.

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Appearing contrite and cooperative was against Arnie’s nature. However, he admitted to himself that moving the body had been a pretty stupid thing to do even in retaliation for having his art show ransacked and being unjustly thrown into jail. This had been his first experience in jail and almost ten hours in a holding cell was plenty to make him certain he never wanted to have the experience again. Following Jacob’s stern advice, he would do his best to appear contrite and cooperative for one reason and one reason only: to avoid going back to jail. But everything was taking too long. Jacob and McDonald sparred back and forth like boxers feeling one another out. Garner silently fumed, and Arnie squirmed. Finally Arnie decided to take the matter into his own hands, in hopes of making quicker progress. “Look,” he said during a silence when Jacob and McDonald brooded during a stalemate. “The bottom line is, I’m responsible for all this, and I’m sorry. I saw it as some kind of cockeyed publicity for my art show.” Jacob said, “Arnie, I think you should—“ “Let’s quit beating around the bush. I did it all. I painted the graffito myself, and I moved the body after Emmett hanged himself. There’s been no hate crime. I’m responsible for everything.” McDonald stared at Arnie. Then she stared at Garner. This was exactly the Chief Deputy’s theory, which she had dismissed. “You painted the graffito?” she asked, to make sure she’d heard right. “For the publicity. Unfortunately I got more than I wanted.” Garner glared at Arnie, his eyes narrow. What was the fag up to now? “There’s been no hate crime,” Arnie repeated.

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Jacob shot his client a look of exasperation, then tried to appear confident and unshaken as he turned to McDonald with a wide grin. “My client is contrite, as you can see. He has an artistic temperament and tends to over-react emotionally. I realize moving a body from a crime scene is a serious offense, but I’d like to point out that no real harm has been done here since there really wasn’t a murder in the first place. This hate crime business is all a hoax.” Garner coughed, as if too much pressure had built up inside for him to keep it in any longer. He had no idea what Arnie and his lawyer were up to. But on principle he didn’t like it. “Okay,” said McDonald, “there was no hate crime. We’ve made some progress. But there’s still something I don’t understand. I was looking through the evidence room yesterday and found an item that interests me very much. If you’ll excuse me a minute.” Garner felt panic as McDonald got to her feet and went to the closed door of the conference room. She opened it and said something to someone in the hallway. Then she closed the door and returned. “Sheriff Garner,” McDonald said, sitting back down, “you were investigating an incident of nude photography that took place in the park. You were concerned enough to secure the area as a crime scene, even though it meant canceling Hamartin’s holiday fireworks.” Garner swallowed and tried to meet McDonald’s stare with the same confident demeanor that she showed, as if to say, I have nothing to hide. But in fact he felt like he was being backed into a boxed canyon with no escape route. Before Garner responded, there was a tap on the door and McDonald called out, “Come in.”

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A young man entered the room, carrying a box that Garner recognized as coming from the evidence room. With him was Shandy, and she was wearing handcuffs. ii Shandy had been woken by repeated knocking on the door, which drifted up from the porch and entered the open bedroom window. It wouldn’t go away, getting louder with each cycle of repetition, and she wondered why Arnie didn’t answer the door. Then she remembered seeing him in the hallway earlier, on her way to the bathroom. He was wearing a suit! Was today the funeral? She leapt out of bed in panic and raced to the window, calling out, “I’ll be right down!” She threw on clothes and hurried downstairs. But it wasn’t someone to fetch her for Emmett’s funeral. On the porch was a young man in a suit who identified himself as an F.B.I. agent. He told Shandy she was under arrest. Soon it was clear to her that they were driving to The Falls. She was in the back seat, he in front, and he ignored her protestations and demands to see her lawyer, as if she had one. Where was Arnie? He had a lawyer who might represent her. The young man refused to tell her what she was being arrested for. All he said was that he was “taking her in” for questioning and that she’d find out what was going on soon enough. When Shandy was led into a conference room where Arnie sat with his lawyer, she found instant relief in their company. The young man gestured for Shandy to take a seat next to Arnie, which she did, exchanging only the briefest glance with him. She wanted to present an expression of passive neutrality, as if none of this was fazing her because she was not involved in anything that was against the law. The young man put the box of evidence on the table in front of McDonald. She reached into the box and brought out a photograph. It was one of Arnie’s Lady Godiva nudes. “Did you take this?” McDonald asked Arnie. 357

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Arnie looked at Jacob, who nodded. “Yes, I did.” “For what purpose?” “I’m a photo-realist, I paint from photographs. I did a photo shoot with her in order to do a painting around the Lady Godiva theme.” “Why?” As Arnie considered his answer, Garner said, “Ask him who he sold the photos to in Portland.” McDonald stared at Garner until the Chief Deputy looked away. She waited for Arnie’s reply. “I’m an artist,” Arnie said. “Lady Godiva interests me, and Shandy was a good model for the project. Besides, she could use the money. She was saving to be able to get out of town. I wanted to help her out. I understood where she was coming from.” “Art and altruism,” Jacob added, making sure McDonald got the point. “Are you producing pornography?” McDonald asked Arnie. “I paint a lot of nudes but they are not pornography. They’re art.” Garner said, “Ask him about the naked boys about ten years ago. School kids, for Christ’s sake.” “Chief Deputy.” “Junior High at most.” “Sheriff,” McDonald said gently, her tone in contrast to the look of reprimand she gave him. “I have the floor. You’ll get your turn.” She asked Arnie. “Have you sold any of these photographs to anyone?” “Of course not. They’re tools I use for painting. They’re of no use to anyone but myself. I’m not even sure how you got hold of one.” McDonald turned to Garner and said, “Sheriff?” 358

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“I found them in his studio in the basement.” “What the hell were you doing in my basement?” Arnie said, bolting to his feet. Jacob immediately grabbed his client’s arm and pulled him back down. “He didn’t have a search warrant,” Arnie told Jacob. “Is that true, sheriff?” asked McDonald. “You took this evidence without first getting a search warrant?” “I didn’t need a search warrant,” Garner said feebly. McDonald sighed. Who are these people? Shandy said, “Will someone tell me why I was arrested?” “Jim, take the cuffs off her,” McDonald told the young man, who was standing near the door like a guard. He did so, and Shandy stretched her arms over her head, then put her hands in her lap under the table. McDonald’s expression changed. Suddenly she seemed more relaxed, less rigid in the role of interrogator. She put the photograph back into the box of evidence and came out with something else, a pistol. She held it high for everyone to see. “This was found in Vista Park,” McDonald said. “It’s registered to Emmett Hale.” Arnie thought, So that’s what happened to his gun! Garner said, “I found that myself in Vista Park. I thought it suggested that the girl was being forced to pose nude. Isn’t that what you told me, Shandy?” With Arnie’s lawyer in the room, Shandy had the confidence to set the record straight. “I posed as a professional model getting a professional fee. I was happy to have the work.” “You’re lying,” said Garner. McDonald snapped, “Sheriff!” She waited until silence established her authority again. “Okay,” she began. “Here’s where I’m heading. I’m satisfied that there hasn’t been a hate crime, and I see no evidence to suggest that Mr. Woodworth or anyone else is producing and selling pornography. Shandy’s 359

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not a minor, so there’s no law broken by her posing nude, and—“ “In a public park!” Garner interrupted. “Apparently in an abandoned park so that no one was around to make a complaint. If you have an explicit ordinance against public nudity, you might have a case technically but without a complaint, the issue becomes moot. The point is, there is nothing here that warrants further involvement of the federal government, and this will be the conclusion of my report.” She slid back her chair and stood up. “I leave the loose ends to be tied together at the local level. However, I am not pleased with what I’ve seen of the performance of this department and in particular with what I’ve seen of the Chief Deputy’s attitudes toward those with a lifestyle he doesn’t approve of. I’m considering making the recommendation of a federal investigation of the entire Sheriff’s Department.” “You can’t do that,” Garner said but his tone had the ring of defeat. “I most certainly can. But I’m a reasonable person. I would withdraw my recommendation under one condition.” “What’s that?” Garner asked. McDonald grinned. “You drop out of the race for County Sheriff. I would be appalled to find someone like you in such a position of authority.” Garner’s mouth dropped open but no response came. “You don’t have to decide now,” said McDonald. “You have until nine a.m. tomorrow morning. I’m scheduling a news conference, and I’ll announce all my recommendations then. Good day, everyone.” The young man opened the door for her. At the doorway McDonald turned for a final remark. “Sheriff, you need to let the Chase boy out of jail.”

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In McDonald’s absence, it was as if everyone was afraid to be the first to move or the first to speak. Jacob broke the tension. “Well, we have the feds out of our hair. Now let’s see if we can make the peace here at home.” Garner stared at Arnie. “I still think you sold some of those pictures in Portland. I may not be able to prove it now but I’m keeping you under the microscope, you’d better believe it.” “That’s not the attitude I was hoping to hear,” said Jacob. “Oh, he’s just being honest,” Arnie said. “So I’ll be honest, too. It was a nice try, Garner, but there was a witness. Someone saw you paint the graffito.” Garner felt the surge of his blood pressure rising. Jacob said, “Thanks for sharing that with me, Arnie. Jesus Christ, how do you expect me to help you if you keep things like that from me?” “I just learned it this morning. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with it. Now I know. I’ll just let Agent McDonald know before she writes her report.” It took a long moment before Garner was able to speak. “Don’t forget I’ve still got something on you. You moved a body from a crime scene.” Jacob said, “Gentlemen, surely there’s room for compromise here. Each of you has something against the other. Each of you can agree to forget it.” The way Shandy told the story to Josie later, it took almost an hour to work out a deal. The women were sitting at a window table at Mom’s Café, relishing the late afternoon pie special. “What was the compromise finally?” Josie asked. “Garner agreed to drop out of the sheriff’s race, and Arnie is supposed to go back in the closet and keep his lifestyle to himself. Neither one really looked like they wanted to agree. But they didn’t want to get in trouble either.”

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Jason passed by outside and saw Shandy through the front window. He waved and entered the café, sauntering over to their table in his usual slouch. “Hi, Shandy,” Jason said, as if they were old buddies. “Hi.” “Have you heard from Heather lately?” “She called me on my birthday.” “She never calls home unless she wants money. How’s she doing?” “Just fine.” “Do you still live at the farmhouse?” “I’m staying there till the funeral.” “When’s that?” Josie said to Shandy, “Oh, I forgot. Helen called me. The funeral’s tomorrow. I left a message at the farmhouse.” Jason said, “Do you know what’s going to happen to Emmett’s sextant?” Shandy said she had no idea. “I’d like it if no one else claims it. I mean, if his family wants it or something—“ “I don’t think he has any family,” said Shandy. Josie said, “Helen said the reading of the will is tomorrow morning before the funeral.” “Well, if nobody else claims it, I’d love to have it. Sextants are pretty cool.” “I don’t have anything to do with it,” said Shandy. “But I’ll tell whoever’s in charge.” “Thanks.” He ambled off in a slouch. “Jason’s going to Stanford,” Marg said. She’d hustled over to get their empty plates as soon as the boy left. “Impressive,” said Josie. “The first Hamartin boy ever to go to Stanford. Let the folks who criticize our community put that in their pipe and smoke it.” 362

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Shandy and Josie walked from the café to Josie’s cottage, where Ruby was parked out front. Shandy turned down an invitation to come inside, saying she was exhausted from the ordeal of being arrested. She just wanted to mellow out and maybe swing in the hammock. “There’s nothing quite as relaxing as a hammock,” Josie said. “I wish I had a spot to put one up.” But Arnie was already in the hammock. He appeared to be napping so Shandy didn’t disturb him. She entered the farmhouse and climbed the stairs to settle for her bed.

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CHAPTER FORTY-ONE Shirley McDonald called a press conference at 5p.m., an hour after Garner phoned her with his decision to drop out of the race for County Sheriff. She had mixed feelings about his decision, relieved on the one hand that such a bigot wouldn’t be up for election but unsettled on the other that she hadn’t bitten the bullet and taken action to get him out of the Sheriff’s Department entirely. On the other hand, if you purified the law enforcement agencies of officers and deputies who carried with them the same prejudices of the general populace, the robbers would outnumber the cops. McDonald considered postponing the news conference until morning as originally planned until she realized she’d be doing this solely for the convenience of the media. To hell with the media. If she had the press conference today, she could be in Portland by dinner time. McDonald spoke from a microphone set up in the Breakfast Room at her motel. Only two media representatives attended on such short notice, one from the weekly paper and one from the local television station. The reporter in town from The Oregonian had spent the afternoon in a bar and missed the announcement. McDonald made it short and sweet, reading from a prepared statement: “I’ve now completed my investigation of the alleged hate crimes at the Woodworth farm and Vista Park. I’ve concluded that there is not sufficient evidence to establish that hate crimes were actually committed, rather than misguided if harmful pranks, and therefore the federal government will not pursue the matter further. However, during my investigation I’ve become aware of certain infractions in the procedures of local authorities, and I alert the Cascadia County Sheriff’s Department to review its procedures and in the future to perform them by the book. No formal investigation of the Department is recommended at this time.” 364

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From habit, she stepped quickly away from the microphone but when she heard no questions being yelled at her retreat, she stopped and turned around. The television cameraman was already putting away his equipment, and the local reporter was still scribbling in her notebook. No one had a follow up question about the “certain infractions” of the their local law enforcers. Maybe no one cared. Thirty minutes later Special Agent Shirley McDonald was racing west on the Interstate, relieved to be heading for home and already rehearsing the stories she’d have to tell her colleagues in Portland about the strange folks of Cascadia County.

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CHAPTER FORTY-TWO i The reading of the will took place in the small building of the Hamartin library, which Helen opened up for the occasion. Emmett’s lawyer, who read the will, agreed to drive down instead of making them come to The Falls once Helen assured him that an appropriate private office could be used. Since Helen, who to her surprise had been named executor of Emmett’s estate, had access to the library, the library was the logical place to convene. The lawyer gave Helen a short list of people who should be there, and she contacted Arnie, Marg and Jason. Helen asked Arnie to tell Shandy so she wouldn’t have to speak to the girl herself. Now each sat in the library, listening to the lawyer read the will. Emmett clearly had given much thought to what he wanted to give to each of them: to Jason, his sextant; to Arnie, all his books; to Marg, Mary’s recipe book; to Helen, one thousand dollars (payment for being executor, she assumed); and to Shandy, all the rest of his assets, including a healthy savings account, a few stocks, and the beneficiary’s benefit on three substantial life insurance policies. Shandy was overwhelmed by the bequest. She felt too numb to react. Emmett already had given her three thousand dollars, every penny of it still safe in the toolbox, and she had no desire to receive more than this. The true impact of her inheritance didn’t hit her until she’d joined a small gathering at the cemetery, where Emmett’s lawyer offered to help her handle the claims for the insurance money. He estimated that when all the monies came in, Shandy would have in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand dollars. Possibly more. Shandy entered a deeper state of shock. There had been no church service, and what service there was took place at the cemetery before Emmett’s casket was lowered into the ground next to his wife. Helen arranged for a 366

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Presbyterian minister from The Dalles to say the appropriate words. Presbyterian struck her as being middle of the road enough so that neither Emmett’s soul nor the few friends (Shandy, Arnie, Jason, Marg, Josie, Mac and a few others) who gathered to say goodbye to it would be offended, although she had to stretch the truth and tell the minister that Emmett was a Presbyterian. She had no idea if he’d ever been baptized, and she was pretty sure he’d never joined a church. She’d tried to get a Unitarian minister – Emmett had spoken favorably of going to a Unitarian service in Portland once, the only time he ever mentioned going to church, if you could call a Unitarian service “church” – but the closest one was a woman reverend in Portland, and she needed more notice to drive so far. Shandy cried through the short service. She felt guilty for not making an effort to see Emmett before she’d left town. He was important to her in ways she was just now beginning to understand, and his influence had nothing to do with sex or even with money. In fact, his influence had begun in high school when he told her she was bright enough to go to college. Now he was making it possible for her to concentrate on her art, to become an artist in the most practical sense, with the time to work at her craft, and he’d done this without even understanding or appreciating her Artoons. No one had given her such a blank check of confidence before. After Emmett was buried, Arnie invited everyone to the farmhouse for a small wake. As far as Arnie was concerned, he’d had the real wake when he’d discovered the body but it was appropriate to gather Emmett’s friends together for final words and reminiscences. Shandy didn’t feel like drinking because she was determined to hit the road today. She wandered through the house, mixing, trying to be social, listening to the stories about Emmett, and it occurred to her that she probably knew him better than anyone there. He’d told her stories about his life that he’d told few others. 367

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She remembered one story that Emmett hadn’t even shared with his wife. He told Shandy she was the first one to learn the real reason he’d gotten out of the Navy. After the war, he’d been the captain of a supply ship in Guam that transported goods around to the surrounding islands. One day Emmett encountered a native ship on fire, far from shore. The natives didn’t carry the white man’s insurance of life preservers and lifeboats and were frantically trying to save the ship, or some portion of it, from the spreading flames. Emmett quickly dispatched his own lifeboats and managed to save every native on the small ship. The next morning he stood at attention before the desk of his Commanding Officer and received a severe reprimand for putting the lives of his men in danger. No matter that he’d rescued the natives, their lives weren’t worth the risk to his own men. Emmett received this blemish on his record only days before he planned to reenlist and go for thirty. Instead he decided to retire, and when he told Mary the news she was so thrilled that he pretended her happiness was the motivation for his decision. But the real reason was that the Navy, or at least his Commanding Officer, gave so little value to the lives of the natives, who naturally considered Emmett a hero. Native children at the American school on Guam began to ask for his autograph. He had a hard time paying for a meal or a drink in an establishment owned by natives. On Guam, Emmett was a hero, and in the eyes of the Navy, he had recklessly endangered his men, bringing into question his worth as an Officer and a Gentleman. Emmett knew he had done the right thing and told the Navy to go screw themselves. This was Shandy’s favorite story among the many Emmett had told her. She felt special and privileged to be the only one to hear it. The party continued. Arnie put on an opera, Kurt Weill’s The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny. After a while he skipped to the end and got very emotional as the singers sang 368

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in German over a strong beat. Shandy couldn’t understand a word. Suddenly Arnie started singing along, almost shouting along, in English: “You can talk good sense to him! You can swear at him! You can give him money! You can put him in a hole! You can cover him with dirt! But you can’t do anything to help a dead man!” There was a short but energetic musical climax, and the opera was over. Soon, one by one, the few guests left. Shandy went upstairs and gathered her toiletries from the bathroom, packed her few personal items in the bedroom, and went downstairs to say goodbye to Arnie and get on her way. She’d say goodbye to Josie, who had declined Arnie’s invitation, on her way out of town. Arnie was at the sink, cleaning glasses. “I guess I’m ready to go,” Shandy said. “Well, at least you’re saying goodbye this time. It’s a joke.” “I know. I was wondering, do you happen to have a picture of Emmett I could have?” “No, but I bet there’re plenty in the trunk in the basement. Helen’s down there now.” When Shandy hesitated, Arnie said, “Go on, she won’t bite you.” “She hates me. Did she and Emmett used to go out or something?” Arnie wasn’t about to stir this hornet’s nest. He said, “They were good friends for a very long time. Tell Helen I said you could get a photograph of Emmett.” Shandy found her bent over the trunk in the basement. “Do you need any help?” Helen replied without looking up from what she was doing. She had managed to get through the gathering upstairs without speaking to the girl but now she was trapped in the basement with her. “I can manage,” she said.

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Shandy knew the librarian didn’t like her, she hadn’t liked her for years. At least since her freshman year in High School when she hadn’t returned several books, claiming they were lost because she was too embarrassed to return them with their pages soaked and ruined by her mother’s spilt bourbon. Despite what Arnie thought, Shandy knew her relationship with Emmett only made Helen dislike her more. “Arnie said I could get a photo of Emmett.” Helen didn’t reply. “May I look at them?” Shandy asked. This was the last straw. Helen straightened up and stepped back from the trunk. “Help yourself. I was just going upstairs to use the bathroom.” “There’s a bathroom down here,” said Shandy. Helen ignored her and reached the bottom of the stairs before she hesitated. The stairway was narrow, barely able to fit her broad form, and she always climbed stairs in her own sweet time. She wondered if the girl was staring at her. She didn’t want to give her that pleasure. She turned and saw Shandy watching her. Shandy was looking for the words to call her back. She didn’t want to cause any hostility with anyone. “Was there something you wanted?” Helen asked. “I just want to get a picture of Emmett before I go.” There were hundreds of photographs, a few in albums but most loose in boxes, including many of Emmett taken throughout his childhood, teenage years and later life. Helen wondered what the girl was up to, making a request like that, as if she and Emmett had had a relationship beyond sex. Helen said, “There are lots of photos, as you can see for yourself.” “Why do you disapprove of me?” My God, what did this girl want from her? Helen didn’t know what to tell her. 370

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“Is it because I became close to Emmett? Or is it the other stuff, from school, like when I didn’t return those books? I know you never liked me. I was never even in your class.” “I’m sure it doesn’t matter to you who I like or don’t like.” “You’re right. I don’t care if you like me or not. But don’t think you know about Emmett and I because you don’t.” Emmett and me, Helen almost corrected her. “I’m sure I don’t,” Helen said. “He was my best friend.” It was all Helen could do to keep from laughing. “Only I never got to tell him,” said Shandy. “There’s a lot I never got to tell him. I’d just like a picture to remember him by.” “I’m sure you have lots to remember him by.” Helen hadn’t hidden the sarcasm in her tone. “Are you jealous or something?” “Of course not.” “Then what is it. Our age difference, right? You think I used him.” “You said it, not I.” “At first maybe I did but it became something else. We really liked hanging out together.” Helen couldn’t believe the girl was so naïve as to believe this. What on earth would they have to talk about? “I know you were friends with Emmett for a long time, and I’m sure you know lots of things about him that I don’t know. But it works both ways. He told me things he never told anyone else. He said so himself. We had a very special relationship, and I miss him as much as you do.” Shandy turned away to keep herself from crying. She bit her lip and took a deep breath. Helen said, “Take what you want.”

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She turned and again went to the stairway. This time she took the first step of the long struggle upstairs, her pride be damned. Shandy took a moment to regain her composure. She looked in the trunk and found photographs of Emmett that showed sides of him she’d never seen before. In her favorite, he was sitting on a motorcycle, a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. He was wearing a leather jacket and had a trim moustache. He was very handsome, in a rakish sort of way, a young man who looked like he enjoyed flirting and good times and taking risks. This wasn’t the reserved old man she had come to know. Shandy bet the girls went crazy for him back then. The Princess was probably crazy for him. She selected this photograph and another of Emmett in his dress Navy whites. She interpreted Helen’s telling her to help herself as meaning she could keep them. Upstairs Shandy heard Arnie and Helen talking in the kitchen. It sounded like an argument, which Shandy didn’t plan to interrupt, but Arnie saw her and called her into the kitchen. “I don’t expect you two to become friends,” said Arnie, “but I do demand respect for Emmett today. Save your petty hostilities for another time.” Helen said, “Look who’s talking about petty hostilities.” “I don’t want to cause a problem here,” Shandy said, feeling like she was being accused of something. “You’re not,” said Arnie. “She can take a photo, can’t she, Helen?” “I told her to take whatever she wanted.” “I found two.” Shandy handed the photographs to Arnie. “I never knew he rode a motorcycle,” he said. “It’s from when he was courting Mary,” said Helen. “He was on leave from the Navy. He always loved his motorcycle.” “I can’t picture him riding a motorcycle,” said Shandy.

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Helen flashed a superior smile, suggesting there were many things the girl didn’t know about Emmett. “I like the moustache,” said Arnie. “He should have kept it.” He handed Shandy the photographs. She said, “Well, I guess I’m on my way.” Shandy was halfway to the door, Arnie following her, when Helen said, “Have a safe trip.” Shandy stopped and turned to Helen. For a moment their eyes locked in silence. Then Shandy said, “Thank you.” Arnie walked her to Ruby. Jason was standing out front, as if waiting for someone. “Maybe I’ll see you in San Francisco,” Jason said. “Stanford isn’t that far.” There was something in the way he said it that jarred Shandy. Like it was a done deal, her new life already set in its direction, she was going to San Francisco. Isn’t that what she’d been telling everyone all this time? But now, more than ever, she was free to go wherever she wanted. Money, more than ever, felt like liberation. Two hundred thousand dollars! “Maybe you will,” she said. She looked at Arnie and said, “I guess I’m off for good this time.” “Send me a postcard,” said Arnie. “Many,” Shandy promised. Shandy started Ruby’s engine. Jason said to Arnie, “I forgot the sextant.” Shandy beeped the horn and started out the driveway. Arnie and Jason waved. “Come on in, and I’ll get it,” said Arnie. “There’s something else.” “What’s that?” Jason began to reply with a frog in his throat. He coughed and tried again. “I was wondering if I could buy one of those T-shirts from you.” 373

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“Which T-shirt is that?” “Cascadia County Gay Alliance. I thought it would be pretty cool to wear one at Stanford.” Arnie tried not to be too obvious in his curiosity. Was the boy meaning he wanted to look cool or was he trying to tell him something else? “Jason, is there something you want to tell me?” Jason slouched even more than his normal posture, looking like a young man who wanted nothing more than to sink down into the earth. “Of course I’ll give you a T-shirt,” Arnie said. “I think mine will fit you. I can always get another made in Portland.” “I don’t want to—“ “Don’t be ridiculous,” Arnie interrupted. He put his arm around the boy. “It’s not every day the Cascadia County Gay Alliance gets support. Let’s get your shirt – and that sextant.” ii Shandy was driving down Main Street when a body suddenly appeared in front of Ruby, arms waving wildly. She slammed on the breaks, and Bill belly-flopped on the front of the car, laughing like hell. “I could have killed you!” Shandy said when he came around to the window. “I was yelling at you but you didn’t hear me.” Shandy looked in her rearview mirror but there was no traffic around to hold up. She took a slow breath and said, “Did you want something?” “Hey, cheer up! I just wanted to congratulate you. I hear you really cashed in.” This fucking town, she thought. Think something to yourself and an hour later it’s being discussed in the tavern. Shandy said, “Thanks,” hoping to get rid of him. “You’ve got a better business head on your shoulders than I thought,” Bill said. “I would’ve been a good manager but 374

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nothing like this. You knew exactly who to seduce. Good for you.” So this was her legacy. The whore who seduced Emmett out of his money. Fucking Hamartin. She slammed her foot to the accelerator, and Bill jumped back for his life. As it turned out, Shandy’s sense of her legacy wasn’t far off, at least not among the regular drinkers at the tavern and the lounge and Tony’s Truck Haven. Ed Davis was especially vociferous about his theory that Shandy herself had strung up Emmett after he’d come to his senses and told her he was changing back his will. Wasn’t it obvious? Who ran like hell to get out of town? Who made out like a bandit from his death? Who was using sex to take advantage of the old man from day one? And why the hell couldn’t the sheriff figure all this out? None of Shandy’s former customers would admit they missed her, and those who didn’t think she was a murderer at least agreed that she’d pulled a fast one on poor Emmett Hale. Besides, they all agreed (in vociferous voices to hide the lie) she gave a pretty piss poor blowjob. iii Shandy’s last stop was at Josie’s. Josie fetched two Pepsis, which they took out to the small patio. “I’m not sure I’m going to San Francisco,” Shandy said. “Oh?” “Money’s no obstacle any more. I can go anywhere I want.” “Where are you going?” “Arnie said careers are made in New York.” “There’s something to be said for that. Do you know anyone in New York?” “No. But maybe that’s an advantage. I mean, if I go to San Francisco, then I’m going to spend a lot of time following Heather around and doing what she wants me to do. I’m not sure we really have that much in common any more. Did you 375

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ever have a close friend in high school and then find out after you graduated that you really didn’t have very much to talk about now that you couldn’t bitch about school?” “Oh, yes.” “Maybe I’ll just play it by ear.” “You don’t sound like someone in a hurry to leave.” “No, I’m out of here! That part’s real clear. I guess New York is a little scary.” “Shandy, I think you can handle anything you want to handle.” Shandy took the two photographs of Emmett out of her purse and showed them to Josie. “Wasn’t he cool looking?” Josie said, “I would’ve never imagined he rode a motorcycle.” “I wonder if he thought with his dick then.” Of course he did. What was The Princess about if not thinking with his dick – and acting on his thoughts? “Biology is biology,” said Josie. “Maybe I’ll find an old man for a boyfriend in New York. I like them better.” “Because they’re so grateful you can control them. There’s nothing wrong with that, mind you. They don’t even have to be that much older than you. So you’ve decided on New York?” “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll let Ruby decide. But I have to get out of here.” The women stood up and embraced. “I’m going to miss you,” said Shandy. “That’s what telephones are for.” “I don’t even have to call collect!” “Do what you have to do, Shandy. Just keep in touch. And keep drawing.” “I’m going to start painting again, too. I can afford it now.” 376

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“Good for you.” “Well, I guess I’m off.” They embraced again at the car. Shandy stooped into Ruby, got comfortable and started the engine. “I’m driving to The Falls and taking the freeway east,” she said. “New York, here I come.” “More power to you. Drive safely.” Catching the Interstate east out of The Falls, Shandy had no idea where she was going in the short run, what route she would take east, or where she would stop to spend the night, or stop tomorrow, or the next day, but she knew eventually she’d end up in New York city. This, she decided, was her destiny now. There was more traffic on the Interstate than she expected, and she eased Ruby into the slow lane of traffic. Below her, to the south, Shandy identified the highway that stretched south over the golden hills to Hamartin. Bon voyage, Hamartin. Bon voyage, Cascadia County. Shandy was on her way.

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CHAPTER FORTY-THREE Arnie got his first postcard from Shandy on a bright sunny morning when he was driving out the driveway on his way to The Falls. Fred, the postman, was waiting for him. “Saw you coming,” Fred said, getting out of the car to hand Arnie his mail. “Thanks, Fred.” “You got a postcard from the Anderson girl,” Fred said. “What’s it say?” “I won’t spoil it for you.” Arnie waited until Fred drove off and then went through the mail. He went right to the postcard. It was a photograph of New Orleans, a scene on Bourbon Street. Her note was brief: “Love New Orleans! Going to NYC! All is well. Shandy P.S. I think of Emmett a lot.” New York. He didn’t think she had the guts to do it. He was proud of her. Arnie parked in a visitor’s spot behind the sheriff’s station and entered the back door. Since he knew where Garner’s office was, he bypassed the front desk so the Chief Deputy wouldn’t be warned and spoil the surprise. He found Garner at his desk, bent over paperwork. “Chief Deputy,” Arnie said. “Woodworth, who the hell let you in here?” Arnie smiled, ignoring the question. “I’ve been thinking about your campaign. It’s a shame you dropped out. Your father was County Sheriff, your grandfather before him – it’s almost your family duty to be elected, don’t you think? So I’ve come up with a solution.” “Woodworth—“ “Just hear me out a minute. I’m here to help. Listen to the magic words: write-in candidate! What do you think?”

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As a matter of fact, Garner already had thought of it and his allies were testing the waters. But he was suspicious and curious about why such an idea would occur to Woodworth. Arnie didn’t wait for an answer. He went on as he pulled the tail of his sports shirt out of his pants. “I believe with proper publicity, you could win with a write-in campaign. And I stand here before you, Chief Deputy, to offer my full support in such an endeavor.” Arnie began unbuttoning his shirt. Garner wondered what the hell was going on here. Was the fag going to do a strip right in his office? Arnie continued. “As a matter of fact, I believe I have quite a bit to bring to your write-in campaign. I even have a slogan. And a T-shirt.” Arnie tore open the sports shirt with all the sudden defiance of a woman exposing her breasts. What Garner saw revealed was a bright red T-shirt emblazoned with black lettering. Under the image of a black fist raised in a menacing salute were the words, in large bold letters: GAYS FOR GARNER! Garner’s explosive reaction was immediate. Arnie grinned from ear-to-ear as the Chief Deputy slammed his fist on the table and bolted up from the desk. Too low to be heard, Arnie said, “Seemed like a good idea at the time.” As Arnie fled, Garner’s obscene epithets hit the back of his head at the speed of sound, which was considerably slower than the speed of thought, and Arnie glowed in the satisfaction that life in Cascadia County was back to normal.

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July 7, 1979 Shandy had just about given up on him when she saw Arnie standing in the doorway in a suit and tie, dressed entirely in black from beret to cowboy boots. She loved the cowboy boots. It was as if he were saying, This may be New York – but I am from the West! Shandy moved through the crowd to greet him. Once he seemed to be looking right at her but she could forgive him for not recognizing her. She had little in common with her appearance two years ago: her spiked hair was dyed so black it made her naturally dark hair look gray in comparison and, like Arnie, she was dressed entirely in black; her boots had thin spiked heels, and silver jewelry and chains hung abundantly from her body. “I’m so glad you made it!” she said, beaming at him. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” It was her first solo exhibit, and she had written Arnie about it six months ago, as soon as it was scheduled, never thinking that he would fly all the way to New York for the opening. Arnie said he had a good friend in New York who was overdue for a visit, so he’d schedule this around her debut and kill two birds with one jetliner. She was glad he had a friend in New York because otherwise she would have felt guilty about being too busy to spend much time with him. He’d phoned twice after his arrival, having to leave messages on her machine, and she’d called back the second time to get his friend’s machine, on which she left directions to the gallery. It wasn’t the easiest place to find, its door in an alley in the Village with only a small unlighted sign out on the sidewalk to point the way. She led him to the table of champagne and hors d’oevres, where they lingered to exchange news and catch up. Yes, Shandy loved New York. No, she didn’t have a boyfriend, 381

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though she was sleeping with the same man now and again, though she didn’t mention that he was older and married. Yes, Arnie was still at the farmhouse, and he and Garner were still doing their dance. After catching up, their comfort zone suddenly grew smaller. Shandy sensed that Arnie felt out of place despite the posture of individuality, the artist as cowboy, and was eager to look at her work and be on his way. She turned him loose to wander on his own. Of course, she wanted him to like her new work but she wouldn’t have admitted this to anyone. Her selfeducation as an artist already had taught her how to remain aloof from the opinions of others, at least in social situations. She could damn her critics in private later. As it turned out, Arnie loved her work, or at least most of it. His few remarks of criticism were reserved for two recent paintings, which were presented as a pair and titled “Day” and “Night.” The “Day” canvas was painted entirely gray and the “Night”” canvas was painted entirely black. Arnie’s remark about them was, “Too much head, not enough heart.” But he liked the abstract paintings done in swirls of bright colors and especially liked the new Artoons, several dozen of them, most with Shandy’s usual hard-edged commentary on the relations between the sexes. Shandy took his compliments graciously, believing they probably were true. Arnie had seen the small card that read, “This exhibit is dedicated to Emmett.” After his brief comments they stood uncomfortably silent within a periphery of energetic conversations converging from all around them – until at last Arnie said he must be on his way, he wanted to do some more visiting with his host before catching an early morning flight. Shandy and Arnie promised to stay in touch but neither really believed they would. It was clear they lived in very different worlds now, and in fact Shandy would never see Arnie again, nor visit Hamartin again, even losing touch with Josie. 382

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Years later, while packing for one of her many moves through the bohemian neighborhoods of New York, Shandy found the two photographs of Emmett. A girlfriend, who was helping her move, asked who the man was, and so she told her about how Emmett had been her guardian angel, rescuing her from Hamartin, and in telling the story Shandy thought again of Arnie for the first time in years and she wondered aloud how he was doing, not having learned that he’d died of a heart attack several years earlier. This would be the last time she thought of Arnie. Emmett had a better fate, coming into her thoughts with unpredictable regularity, usually when she was making a significant change in her life yet again, moving into a different flat or exchanging the man she slept with for another, moments when she would find the photographs of Emmett as she packed, and she would study them then, recalling the short sweet special time with Emmett and missing the clarity of her life with him, and finally she would pack the photographs for the move and continue what she was doing, hoping this change might be her last for a while, forever trying to build an orderly new life on the clutter of the old. END

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About the Author CHARLES DEEMER was raised in Virginia, Texas and Southern California. He began his undergraduate studies at the California Institute of Technology, where he was quarterback of the 0-4 Freshman football team, and finished them at UCLA, where he received his BA (Phi Beta Kappa, Honors English). He has an MFA in Playwriting from the University of Oregon. Deemer has had over forty plays produced, dozens of short stories and articles published, and six screenplays optioned. His play Famililly won the 1997 "Crossing Borders" international new play competition. The public television version of his play Christmas at the Juniper Tavern won a regional ACE award. Three of his short stories were selected to the "Roll of Honor" in Best American Short Stories. Deemer is the former editor of Sweet Reason: a journal of ideas, history and culture and the former managing editor of Oregon Business magazine. Deemer has received two Oregon Arts Commission fellowships, one for fiction and one for drama. He won the Oregon Arts Foundation theater award and has been both a distinguished-writer-in-residence and a distinguished-scholarin-residence at the Catlin Gabel School. Several of his plays have been supported by grants from the Oregon Council for the Humanities. Deemer has taught writing workshops at the Screenwriting Expo, Fishtrap, the Pacific NW Writers Conference, Moonfish, and elsewhere.

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Presently Deemer teaches screenwriting at Portland State University and, via the Internet, for Writers on the Net. From 1994-2001 he was the webmaster of the Screenwriters and Playwrights Home Page, which was the first website for scriptwriters on the Internet. He is the author of Screenwright: the craft of screenwriting, Seven Come Eleven: Stories and Plays, 1969-1999, Seven Plays, Five Screenplays and Selected Stories. Charles Deemer’s literary archive is maintained in the Ibiblio Collection at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and can be accessed at http://www.ibiblio.org/cdeemer. Charles Deemer lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife, Harriet and their dog, Sketch. He is at work on a new novel, a memoir, and the libretto to an opera.

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