Nelson DeMille - Spencerville

Keith watched him in the candlelight, quick fingers and a flicking tongue, producing five nicely packed joints faster than an old farmer could roll a single cigarette.

Gail put a tape in the deck, Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, then sat on the floor with her back to an armchair.

Jeffrey lit a joint, took a toke, and passed it to Keith. Keith hesitated a moment, took a drag, then passed it across the coffee table to Gail.

The Beatles played, the candles flickered, the smell of incense and pot filled the air. It was 1968, sort of.

The first joint was now held with a pair of tweezers, then snuffed out, and the roach was put carefully in an ashtray for future use in the pipe that Keith noticed on the table. The second joint was lit and passed.

Keith recalled the protocols and rituals as if it were yesterday. No one said much, and what was said didn't make a whole lot of sense.

Gail, however, did say in the low, hushed tone associated with cannabis and candlelight, "She needs help."

Keith ignored this.

Gail added, as if to herself, "I understand how and why a woman stays in that kind of situation... I don't think he abuses her physically... but he's fucking with her head..."

Keith passed the joint to her. "Enough."

"Enough what?" She took a toke and said, "You, Mr. Landry, could solve your problem and our problem at the same time..." she exhaled. "...right?"

Keith had trouble forming his thoughts, but after a few seconds, or a few minutes, he heard his voice say, "Gail Porter... I've butted heads with the best in the world... I've had enough experience with women to write the book on the subject... don't try to fuck with my head..." He thought this was what he wanted to say. It was close enough.

Gail seemed to ignore him and said, "I always liked her... I mean, we weren't big buddies, but I... she was kind of like... always had a smile, always doing some good deed... I mean, I could puke, you know... but deep down inside, I envied her... completely at peace with her man and her... like, uninvolvement with anything..."

"She became an antiwar something or other at Columbus."

"Really? Wow. That piss you off?"

Keith didn't reply, or thought he didn't. He couldn't tell any longer if he was thinking or speaking things.

The room seemed to be silent for a long time, then Gail said, "I mean, if you do nothing else here, Keith, if you do nothing else with your life after conquering the fucking world... get that woman away from him."

Keith tried to stand. "I think I'm leaving."

Jeffrey said, "No way, buddy. You're sleeping here. You can't even find the front door."

"No, I have to..."

Gail said, "Subject closed. All subjects closed. No more heavy shit. Get mellow, folks." She handed the joint to Jeffrey, then stood and changed the tape and began dancing to "Honky Tonk Woman."

Keith watched her in the flickering light. She was graceful, he thought, her thin body moving in good time to the music. The dance was not particularly erotic in and of itself, but it had been a long time since he'd been with a woman, and he felt a familiar stirring in his pants.

Jeffrey seemed indifferent to his wife's fugue and concentrated on the candle flame.

Keith turned away from Gail and helped Jeffrey look at the flame. He didn't know how much time passed, but he was aware that the tape had changed again and was now playing "Sounds of Silence," and Jeffrey was declaring that this was the ultimate musical accompaniment to pot, then Keith was aware that Gail was sitting opposite him again, drawing on a joint.

She spoke, as if to herself, and said, "Hey, remember no bras, and see-through blouses, and nude swimming, and group sex, and no killer diseases, and no hang-ups, no Antioch rules of sexual conduct, and men and women who actually liked one another? Remember? I do." She added, "God, what has happened to us?"

No one seemed to know, so no one replied.

Keith's mind was not working very well, but he did remember better days, though perhaps his idea of better was different from Gail's or Jeffrey's. The point was, things were once better, and his heart suddenly ached with a sense of loss, a nostalgia and sentimentality partly induced by the cannabis, partly by the evening, and partly because it was true.

Gail did not offer herself to him, which was a relief, because he didn't know what he would have said or done if she had. The evening ended with him sleeping on the couch in his underwear with a quilt thrown over him, and the Porters upstairs, in their bed.

The incense burned out, the candles guttered and died, a Simon and Garfunkel album ended, and Keith lay in the quiet dark. At dawn, he rose, dressed, and left before the Porters awakened.

It was a few days after dinner with the Porters, a Friday night, and Keith Landry, reacting to some remembered behavior of farm life, decided to go into town.

He put on slacks and a sport shirt, got into his Blazer, and headed for Spencerville.

He'd seen no sign of Annie during the past few days, but that was not for lack of vigilance on his part. He'd been home, he'd stayed within earshot of the phone, he'd checked his mailbox a few times a day, and he watched the cars that went by. In short, he'd reverted to a lovesick adolescent, and the feeling was not entirely unpleasant.

The day before, he'd seen a blue and white patrol car from Spencerville pass about noon, and that morning he'd seen a green and white county sheriff's car go by. The sheriff's car might have been a random thing, but the town police car was a long way from home.

In any case, he kept his Blazer out of sight, and he didn't know if they'd discovered his new automobile, unless, of course, they'd run his name through the Bureau of Motor Vehicles.

It was sort of a low-key cat-and-mouse game at this point, but Keith knew it had the potential for confrontation.

He drove up Main Street, which was quieter than he'd remembered it on Friday nights. In those days, Friday was called market day, and there had been a huge farmer's market on the blocked-off street north of Courthouse Square. Now, everyone, including the farmers, bought most of their food in supermarkets, prepackaged.

The commercial strip outside of town probably got the majority of Friday night shoppers, Keith thought, but there were a few shops open downtown, and the bank was open late. Also open, with cars parked nearby, were Miller's Restaurant and the two taverns — John's Place and the Posthouse.

Keith pulled into a space near John's Place and got out of the Blazer. It was a warm Indian summer evening, and there were a few people on the sidewalk. He walked into the tavern.

If you want to know a town, Keith had learned, go to the best and the worst bar, preferably on a Friday or Saturday night. John's was obviously the latter.

The tavern was dark, noisy, smoky, smelled of stale beer, and was inhabited mostly by men dressed in jeans and T-shirts. The T-shirts, Keith noticed, advertised brand-name beers, John Deere tractors, and locally sponsored sports teams. A few T-shirts had interesting sayings such as, "Well-diggers do it deeper."

There were a few video games, a pinball machine, and in the center of the tavern was a billiards table. A jukebox played sad country-western songs. The bar had a few vacant stools, and Keith took one.

The bartender eyed him for a moment, making a professional evaluation that the newcomer posed no potential threat to the peace of John's Place, and asked Keith, "What can I get you?"

"Bud."

The bartender put a bottle in front of Keith and opened it. "Two bucks."

Keith put a ten on the bar. He got his change, but no glass, and drank from the bottle.

He looked around. There were a few young women, all of them escorted by men, but mostly this was a male domain. The TV above the bar broadcast the Yankees vs. Blue Jays in a tight pennant race, and the sportscaster competed with some country singer sobbing about his wife's infidelities.