Russell Banks - Affliction

“Never mind that,” she said. “Chick and Frankie and those boys were playing already this morning. Anyhow, I don’t want to talk about that. And neither do you.” She paused and placed her large hands on both his shoulders, as if blessing him. “What happened to Jill?” she asked.

“I got sick of arguing with her. Sent her home.”

“Truth?”

“Yeah. Nothing happened. Nothing ’happened’ to her.” He suddenly pictured Jill crumpled on the highway, broken like a pumpkin under the flashing yellow light by the school, the car that hit her, a black BMW, racing away into darkness. “I’m … I’m going to start up one of those custody suits. I don’t fucking give a shit,” he said. “You know?” He was aware that his eyes were filling with tears, but he was not weeping: he was not sad.

“Don’t be a horse’s ass,” she said. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do mean it.”

“No, you don’t. You’re pissed, Wade, that’s all. You ought to let yourself cool off from this one for a few days and then just sit down and for once have yourself a long talk with Lillian. Straight talk, I mean. You know? Work it out with her. Let her know honestly just how this kind of stuff makes you feel,” she said. Then she added weakly, “Lillian’s not out to get you, Wade. You know?”

“The hell she isn’t. Lillian’s been trying to nail me to a cross since the day I met her. Since fucking high school. No. I’m gonna hire me a fucking lawyer from Concord and get this thing, this divorce thing, rearranged. I am. I been thinking about it, a lot. I was too fucked up and all, when we got the divorce, so I just hid out and took whatever crumbs they were willing to toss me, her and that goddamned lawyer of hers.” He held his nose with thumb and forefinger and yanked. “I didn’t even have a regular divorce lawyer, that’s how dumb and fucked up I was. I’m embarrassed to say it, but it’s true. And now she can do any goddamned thing she wants, anything — move to Concord, get married. Move to fucking California, if she wants. Meanwhile, I still got to send her three hundred bucks a month child support or go directly to jail, do not pass go. Only, when it comes to actually being with my own kid, being a real father and all, I don’t have a single say-so,” he said. “It’s like she owns Jill or something and only loans her out to me or something, and then only when she feels like it. And when she wants her back, she comes and gets her. Like last night. That’s not right,” he pronounced. “People aren’t property. Nobody owns anybody, especially not kids. Right’s right.”

He stood up straight and drew Margie’s hands off his shoulders and smiled. “Look, I got to get out of here. I got to get my coffee and climb back onto that goddamned grader. Mr. Gordon LaRiviere’s going to be royally pissed at me. Nick the Wick’s probably pissed at you already.”

“Nick the Wick,” she said, smiling.

He looked directly into Margie’s face. “That goddamned woman,” he said. “Lillian thinks she and her goddamned husband can just drive up here and cart Jill off like that and leave me … leave me all alone like this. It’s more than pissed, Margie. I’m a whole lot more than pissed. No shit. I been that plenty, and I know the difference. This is different.” He spun around and headed for the door.

Margie shook her head sadly and followed him. As he approached the cash register at the end of the counter, Nick looked out from the kitchen and said, “Your coffee’s by the register, Wade. What do you hear about Jack Hewitt and that guy he found? Who the fuck is the individual?” He called out, “Hey, Marge, for God’s sake, honey, you got two orders sitting there getting cold!” Nick held a trio of white plates like playing cards in one hand and with the other rapidly shoveled pancakes off the griddle. “You hear anything more about that guy that shot himself? You talked to Jack?”

All along the counter, men looked up at Wade and waited for him to answer. Wade glanced beyond them and saw that most of the men in the booths were waiting too. “No. No, I mean, not since last night,” he mumbled. “He took a guy named Twombley up to Parker Mountain early.”

Nick handed the three plates of pancakes to Margie and came down the counter to Wade and rang up his coffee. “You heard, didn’t you?” he said quietly.

“What?”

“About the fucking guy shooting himself.” Nick pointed an index finger at one temple and pulled the trigger and said, “Bang. Least that’s what it sounds like. Not on purpose, I mean. I assume accidental.”

“Where … how’d you hear that?”

“CB. Little while ago. One of the boys on the way in, Chick, I think, picked up Jack on the CB calling for the state troopers. Jack told the staties he was up to Parker Mountain with a guy who shot himself, and wanted help. Couple of the boys started over from here to give him a hand, but the troopers were already all over the fucking place up there and sent them on back. I figured you’d know the whole story,” he said. “I figured you’d know what really happened, I mean. The fucking guy kill himself? This Twombley, who the fuck is he, anyhow?”

“No. I … I didn’t know. I was … Jesus, where was I? I was out plowing — I been out in the grader all morning,” Wade said. “And up the school before that,” he quickly added. He felt vaguely guilty, as if he were somehow lying and were struggling to find an alibi, when all he was trying to do was answer the man’s simple innocent question. He took a deep breath and tried again. “Twombley … Evan Twombley is summer people, from Massachusetts. He’s got a place over on Lake Agaway. Friend of LaRiviere’s or something, which is how Jack come to take him out hunting. For Gordon. It was his idea. Gordon’s, I mean.” Wade started for the door. “I shouldn’t say any more about it. I was out plowing the whole time,” he said, and he swung the door open and stepped into the blowing snow, where he paused for a second, as if to clear his head, turned and saw the pink neon sign on the low roof of the restaurant.

HOME MADE COOKING. It should be Home Cooking, Wade suddenly realized. Or Home Made Pies, or some damned thing. Stupid. He is stupid. She is stupid. We are all stupid.

WADE WANTED ONLY to get rid of the grader, shuck it, cast it away and never drive it again — huge lumbering ridiculous machine. It humiliated him. It was only a thing, but he despised it. It was inept, and slow. It belonged to LaRiviere, and driving it made Wade feel that he belonged to LaRiviere too, as if he were painted the same wimpy shade of blue and had that dumb motto on his back, OUR BUSINESS IS GOING IN THE HOLE!

He had an excuse to get off the machine now. Let LaRiviere find somebody else to finish the plowing; Wade had official business to attend to. Thanks to Twombley. The state troopers might turn away Chick and Frankie and their crummy friends from Littleton, but they would have to let him through. Let Wade through, he’s okay. No matter if it was an accidental shooting, it still took place in his jurisdiction, and he was obliged to turn in a report to the Fish and Game Commission, so they would have to let him talk to Twombley, assuming Twombley could talk, and he would have to take statements from Jack and anyone else who happened to witness the shooting. Sonofabitch was probably half drunk or too hung over to handle his gun properly.

But as he climbed back up into the cab of the grader, Wade sighed. No, he would end up spending the whole damned day driving that damned grader. Gordon LaRiviere the well driller was also Gordon LaRiviere the chairman of the Board of Selectmen, who hired and fired the town cop. LaRiviere would tell Wade to make his goddamned investigation on his own time and turn in his report later. For now, until five o’clock this afternoon anyhow, Wade Whitehouse the snow-plow driver belonged to Gordon LaRiviere the town road agent. Only then would he belong to the Board of Selectmen. And at no time would he belong to himself.