The Eastern Shore Page 8

  William Grant’s destination was always the same. He drove south one hour to a sparsely settled region in southern Indiana. The ground cover was good for pheasant but otherwise nondescript, low hills and farmland, not far from coal country. In any case, pheasant were not the point of the journey. The point was privacy. William Grant preferred the late fall and early winter but hunted in all seasons. His particular destination was a shallow defile that ran five miles or more, which he entered by an ancient path. There was never anyone in sight and Grant thought of the defile as his own, a private hunting preserve. Now and again he saw deer but never shot one. He had no interest in deer. He liked the defile for its solitude, its atmosphere somehow prehistoric. There were no signs of habitation, not a cigarette pack or spent cartridge in sight. He supposed the ancient path was a legacy of the Potawatomi Indian tribe, the tribe all but vanished now but abundant in the nineteenth century. The defile had its own personality, but the personality was well concealed, revealing itself in bits and pieces, a miniature swamp here, a fine stand of birches there. It wore a different face for each season. Leatrice always prepared a light lunch, sandwiches, an apple, a carafe of coffee. An hour in, he paused for lunch, eating slowly, sipping coffee, thinking about his life—more successful than he had ever imagined. A tour de force. He had recast himself. He had built himself from the ground up, had become well groomed, with a softer voice. He’d been mysterious as to his past, whereas his life now was an open book.

  That was the trouble with it. He attracted snoops. His hair was short now, whereas before it had been longish. The one thing he could not change was his cowboy’s lope, long strides, legs wide apart. He had put one over on them all right, his family, his neighbors. In the beginning he felt like an acrobat on the high wire, the unseen audience below holding its breath in anticipation of the stumble that never came. That was why they were there, looking aloft at the high wire, waiting for the fall. This had its own perverse satisfaction. He called it sublime, hope denied. Instead, there was disappointment. People had never wished him well, not even when he was a small child. So at the conclusion of his imaginary high-wire stroll William Grant stepped onto the metal perch and gave his audience a mirthless grin, more snarl than grin. He thought of the grin as a ricochet that hit the mark dead center. Somewhere in the audience were his wife and children, blank-faced. They too were awaiting failure. His parents were there also, and the idiot dean of the college who thought of him as white trash, a malleable bit of clay that could be re-formed. And he had a point: you could alter the façade but the inside of things remained the same. His father had thrown him out of the house when he was eighteen. Get a job, his father said. You’re on your own. Don’t come back. So William drifted into a life of petty crime until the gas station job went sour. Six years at Joliet, minding his manners, making it clear to his cellmates that he was not one of the joyboys, and when that didn’t convince them he carved up the ringleader and let him know what would happen if he ratted to the authorities. Well, William Grant was safe now. He had made a secure life for himself and his family, food on the table, a fine house in the good part of town. A Chrysler for him, a Ford for Leatrice, his boys always well turned out, everyone in good health. William Grant took two bites of the apple and threw the core into the bush.

  But always there was a price to be paid. He knew that from the beginning. Don’t play their game. But now he had, and the result was his fine life. No question, he had surrendered. He had given up a vital part of himself and had taken a makeover. Businessman. Family man. Reformed. What would his father have to say about that? To hell with his father. The truth was, that was not how William Grant thought of himself, waiting on people, a salesman, a man who tended to business, quietly polite while he sold his suits and Jack Londons, and all this time he was aflame with rage. All of it was inside, a kind of moral furnace. His surrender was unconditional. His wife and children did not know him at all. They lived in a dreamworld. What was it called? The nuclear family. Well, it was nuclear all right. One day they’d find that out.

  William Grant lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring, a perfect O until it frayed at the edges and collapsed. He was sitting with his back to a tree, the ancient path ahead of him. It was pleasant in the open air, the beginnings of an autumn chill. He had money; he could disappear anytime he wanted. He tried to summon the faces of his wife and boys, rising in the morning and finding him absent, no note. Leatrice would think he had left early for work, but after a moment’s thought realized that was nonsense. The time was six a.m., no hint of dawn. The Chrysler was gone. She waited an hour and did what she always did when things went awry. She called her father, groggy with sleep, soothing all the same. Not to worry. Maybe he felt like a ride in his car. Maybe a breakfast meeting with someone. William Grant was smiling now, spinning it out, the suspense of it. Soon enough Leatrice’s father took charge, driving the boys to school and returning at once to sort things out, his tight smile that had worry behind it. Has he seemed unhappy? Any health problems? But in the back of his mind the old man was exploring the idea of a woman somewhere. Women of all ages found William Grant attractive, always so well disposed. That cowboy lope and scarred face, muscular arms, knotty smile, trustworthy. There was always the sense that William Grant had had another sort of life before he arrived in Herman and no one knew what that life was. So there was a measure of revenge there. Somewhere along the line William Grant had been wronged, and he was not the sort of man to forgive and forget. Leatrice’s father did not know where to turn. Howard Elias had been a banker his entire adult life and knew from experience that men had secrets often of a surprising nature, though as he grew older very little surprised him, certainly not in Herman. Lives were tightly held in Herman, a town of closed doors. But the banker intended to make inquiries.

  William Grant laughed out loud at the conclusion of his reverie. He had placed most everyone he knew on a proscenium stage, William Grant himself in the wings, the observer of his own life as others saw him. And a question had arisen. Was it time to reinvent himself once again, simply to prove it could be done? He could not say that he was bored. He sighed and said to himself, Play the hand you’ve dealt. He was aces over tens at least, probably better than that. No one knew anything about him. He was a lie from the socks up. Laughing again: they had no idea of the strain it was, particularly in the early days. He had worked up a slight southern accent and once or twice made a blunder of pronunciation; but it was only once or twice and no one noticed. Temptation was always nearby. The idea of a mistress was appealing. There were two opportunities, both requiring stealth. Herman was closed as a clam, everyone watchful. He should have an out-of-town mistress, then, perhaps one of the girls in Mill City, down the road. Mill City was a mischief city, most everyone out for a good time, one tavern after another and music to go with the laughter. Law enforcement left you alone. He laughed again, realizing that he could create a second façade, a Mill City façade, a black-hat façade to go with white-hat Herman. Well, no question about it. He had retooled himself once and could do it again, though there were undeniable risks. That was one of the attractions. Risk was his middle name. That was how he got on in life, assuming identities not his own, the world his stage. In Herman his life was regulated and any deviation from it would be noticed and commented upon, beginning with Leatrice. It had taken him months to reconcile her to his Sunday-afternoon rendezvous downstate, the defile in the forest. He once called it solitary Sunday afternoon and her feelings were hurt. He had joked her out of her hurt feelings, explaining that he liked to put food on the table. He was a hunter-gatherer. Hence the pheasant and occasional quail. That was what men did, hunt for dinner. It took him longer than he liked, explaining things to her. She was a banker’s daughter and used to having her own way. At the end of the argument his voice grew cold, and she admitted, much later, that he had frightened her. He said he was sorry but there were times when she had to back off. He meant no harm to her or the boys. He merely needed a
furlough. So the crisis came and went. But how would he explain evenings out? Evenings out were rare, rare enough so that he had forgotten the last time he had one. But there were ways and means.

  No, the time was not ripe. He decided that for the moment he would stand pat, secure with façade one. That was how he would think of it. Façade two would be in reserve for Mill City. He would only have to keep the lid on a little longer. In the meantime he would have some fun assembling his fresh façade, commercial traveler, riverboat captain, retired actor, definitely a man of means. Perhaps an anodyne career: retired seaman. William Grant liked Jack London’s résumé. Until then he would plod ahead with his store, making a damned good living, too. So he would wait a little longer.

  William Grant surveyed the woods, listening. He heard nothing. The sun was hidden behind the trees and ebbing. This was his place. Chances were that no one else knew it existed. It was important always to have a place of your own, inviolate. A hideout, a kind of open-air one-man clubhouse. As long as he had the defile he would be all right. Sundays were quiet in the country, now and then the voice of a bird. The defile was the place to go when the world closed in. Old man Elias was one of the closers, always asking about the haberdashery, how it was doing, its profits. Of course he knew these figures. He was William Grant’s banker, the company receipts in his vault. The old man was a meddler. He said once, You ought to branch out to Mill City. Not a chance, he replied. They don’t wear suits in Mill City. It’s an overalls town. And the old man backed off at once, not before a laugh and his comment, William, you’re a snob! I never would’ve guessed it, and then backed off again when he saw the look on William Grant’s face. That was the last time the banker mentioned Mill City.

  William Grant carefully stubbed out his cigarette and field-stripped the butt paper. Leave nothing behind. He was in a good way now, having thought things through without interference. Now he had the idea, fleeting, that he would stop in to one of the Mill City taverns on the way back to Herman, surely lively on a Sunday afternoon. See what action there was.

  At the sound of a rustle behind him William Grant froze, then slowly turned his head, knowing that he had an intruder. This had never happened before. He rose, moving quickly, and saw a red squirrel eating a nut. William Grant remained still. He slowly raised the Browning over-and-under and blew the creature’s head off.

  The tip came in a straightforward manner, a telephone call to Press-Gazette reporter Gus Harding. The caller refused to identify himself by name but promised a blockbuster story. A story with legs enough to reach Chicago and beyond. He proposed a meeting, not in Herman but in Mill City, a bar called the Good Times, you can’t miss it, a neon sign. I’ll be in the rear booth, the caller said. I’m the one in the baseball hat, the White Sox. His voice was insinuating. The man was in his forties, balding, thickset, a bushy goatee. Gus Harding slid into the rear booth, ordered a beer, and waited. The stranger identified himself as Fred, a longtime acquaintance of the man who called himself William Grant. Actually his name was William Kelly. Fred said, Now think a moment and tell me what comes to mind when you think of Grant and Kelly. Gus looked at him blankly and shrugged. Fred said, The movie stars, dummy. Cary and Grace. Fred went on to say that Billy Kelly was a fan of the movies, always wanted to be in one. Fat chance with that face unless it was one of those Frankenstein movies, and let me tell you, if they’d’ve asked him he would’ve jumped at it. Kissed their ass. Quite a piece of work is our Billy. Fucking fraud.

  Gus sat quietly listening, his dislike of this Fred growing by the minute. Gus knew right away that Fred was one of life’s losers, a grievance-sneer on his mouth. Gus said, So what’s the story?

  How much is it worth to you?

  I don’t know what it is. And whatever it is, we don’t pay for it.

  The hell you say, Fred said.

  Gus Harding had taken his notebook and pencil out of his pocket and laid them on the table. Now he returned them to his pocket. He looked at his wristwatch. Time to leave.

  Fred sat tapping a manila envelope on the table and then slid it across to the reporter. Go ahead, look at it. There’ll be no charge. Gus looked at the envelope a moment before opening the flap and spreading the contents on the table. There were press clippings from the Moline paper, the crime, the arrest, the trial, the sentence. The photograph of Billy Kelly was indisputably of William Grant, a younger Grant, an unconvincing half smile on his scarred face. There were official documents also, a transcript of the brief trial at which Billy Kelly did not speak, claiming his right not to do so under the Fifth Amendment to the Constitution. The jury’s decision, the judge’s order, the parole board’s finding. Gus skimmed the material, then read it carefully, Fred looking sourly at him all this time. With a sigh, Gus returned his notebook to the table and made an entry. He looked at Fred but did not speak.

  There’s your evidence, Fred said.

  Why? asked Gus Harding.

  Why what? Fred said.

  Why are you doing this?

  My business, Fred said.

  It’s my business now, Gus answered.

  He owes me money, Fred said.

  Why does he owe you money?

  That is my business, Fred said. That’s no concern of yours. He paused a long moment, looking hard at the reporter. At one time we were friends, he said. Billy Kelly and me. That’s a shit thing to do to a friend, don’t you agree? He’s just a punk. That’s all he’ll ever be.

  Gus nodded, a neutral nod, and turned to look at the documents once again, verifying names and dates. He had been a reporter at the Press-Gazette for thirty years. The work suited him, the marshaling of facts, their deployment on the page. He could deconstruct a police report in two minutes, write his piece in five. Truly, for the most part the job was a kind of paint-by-the-numbers. After a time it all became second nature. Controversy was rare in Herman. The publisher insisted that any doubt should be resolved in favor of the Republican Party, but that was politics, the normal thing for a small paper in a rural community in the Midwest. The idea was not to stir the pot but to keep the lid on. The word the publisher used was mature. Present a mature face to the world, a confident face that promised—well, lenience. Patience was a virtue. The paper saw itself as reliable, disinclined to go off the deep end. The publisher was insistent on that point. Point being, the paper was adult in its approach to the news. Now and then it was sentimental, finding space for the lost dog or the cat in the tree or the retarded boy who made Eagle Scout. Adult did not mean cynical or callous. Quite the reverse.

  Gus Harding understood these principles in his bones. Once upon a time, Gus could have moved up to Indianapolis or Muncie, bigger stages, higher wages, but he had no desire to leave Herman, where his family had more or less flourished for three generations. He looked across the table at this Fred, who was scratching his goatee. This story would be different. This one had trouble written all over it even if all the facts were scrupulously accounted for. Gus listened to Fred drum his fingers on the table now that the goatee was tidy. Gus said at last, How did you find him?

  That’s my business too, Fred said. I’ll tell you this much—it wasn’t difficult. So you’ve got your story. Now run with it.

  You knew Mr. Grant well, then. Tell me about him.

  He’s a shit, Fred said. He’d screw his own grandmother. And he’s done very well with his little men’s store, hasn’t he? Married the banker’s daughter, civic leader. Family man. Everyone’s friend. No one bothered to look under the covers. That’s quite a little town you have there, Gus. Herrrrrrman. You should rename it Gullible. Fred laughed. He’s pulled the wool over your eyes and you never even noticed.

  Gus Harding frowned. Seems to me Mr. Grant has played by the rules. He made a mistake and did what you’re supposed to do. Paid his debt to society, went straight, went to college, graduated, made a new life for himself in Herman. He’s a fine citizen, father of two boys.

  Fred laughed. Well, your fine citizen knifed a man in Joli
et. Left him for dead. He was never caught. And what about his debt to me? Where do I come in? He owes me money. That’s the debt I care about.

  So speak to him, Gus said.

  I wouldn’t go near Billy Kelly. He’s a tough hombre. He’s vindictive. Look at that face of his. Tells you all you need to know.

  Gus grunted but did not reply.

  Billy had dreams, Fred said. Fancy dreams. But he’s a common criminal. Too big for his britches.

  Gus said, What dreams?

  You read through the trial transcript. You’ll find his mouthpiece calling him a fantasist. That was his word. Fantasist. Billy Kelly didn’t live in the real world, boo-hoo. According to the mouthpiece. But the jury didn’t buy it. The judge didn’t buy it. No one bought it. So Mr. Billy Kelly did hard time. He’s dangerous. And he’s a shit. He’s leading a liar’s life. He belongs behind bars.

  Gus shrugged uncomfortably. Being a shit’s not against the law.

  And you call yourself a reporter! A reporter who refuses to report!

  That’s what I do. I’m a reporter.

  So you’re not going to report anything about this. The material I’ve given you.

  I didn’t say that, Gus said. It’s an interesting story. Human interest, you might say. Whether or not it prints, that’s another question. Publisher’s decision, way above my pay grade. I do have one last question. Where did the haberdashery come from? The story you’ve given me does not mention that. Men’s fashions?

  Billy always had his nose in a magazine, Fred said. Always looking at the clothes. He’s a fairy, you know. Queer as a three-dollar bill.