David Gates - Preston Falls

Willis feels suddenly weary. "Shit, do what you have to do," he says. "This is getting away from me."

He sees the cop's eyes narrow. A crazy man, about to go for my gun? Willis could almost smile at him in pity. This is that feeling you always hear about: the clarity you attain by submission. He's been fighting it all this long day, and it's the very thing he needed.

"Sir? I'm asking you very politely to come along. Now, are we doing this the easy way or not?" The cop hasn't understood; he's still stuck back in the thing they were playing out before. "I don't think you want to do anything foolish with your family here," he says. "And we sure don't want anybody getting hurt."

Willis sees the creases around the man's eyes, and the places he missed shaving: this sheriff's deputy, too, is a weary soul.

Jean says, "Officer, is there any way you could — not do this?"

"Not at this point, ma'am. I'm sorry."

"Oh God,'" she says. "We don't even know a lawyer up here. Where are you taking him?"

"County lockup. Basement of the courthouse."

"Listen, Calvin Castleman knows a lawyer," Willis says to Jean. "If you could get hold of Calvin."

"Great. He must be a—"

"But wait. The thing is, Calvin had his phone taken out."

"Well, then I can't call him, can I?"

"Let's get moving," says the sheriff's guy. "You're allowed a phone call at the lockup. You can work it all out then."

"Can I just give her the keys?" says Willis. "My dog is—"

"Don't go in your pocket, sir," says the cop. "Keep your hands where I can see them." And, at last, he touches the back of WiUis's arm.

"Oh fuck," says Willis. "Listen, where will you be later?"

"Taking care of my children," she says.

"Right," he says. "Okay. Got it." He wrenches his arm free of the cop's hand. "Come on, come on. If we're really doing this, let's do the whole fucking thing." He turns around, slowly, and slowly walks toward the lifeguard chair. He counts: eleven steps. If he gets shot in the back before he makes it there, fine. He puts his hands on a chalky white two-by-four. Spreads his legs, bows his head.

How could he have asked her to do this? Drive all the way back to Preston Falls, deal with the wood man, whom she's never spoken two words to, and then turn around and make the endless drive down to Chesterton? But what was she supposed to do? Just let him sit in jail? Which she actually should have done. Would have done, if the kids weren't with her. Or likes to think she would have done. So as Mel and Roger wait with Rathbone in the Cherokee, she finds herself knocking on the door of this trailer and asking this filthy man for the name and number of the lawyer who'd kept him out of prison.

The tv's blaring behind him in the dark, and he doesn't even ask her to come in. Not that she'd dream of it. She stands there on the cinder-block doorstep while he goes looking. Finally he comes back with a surprisingly white business card she's loath to take from his grimy hand. Philip Reed, Attorney at Law. She can just imagine.

Well, since they're here, why not go on to the house to make the call. And while she's doing that, might as well let Rathbone out to stretch his legs and pee; should give him some water too. When they pull in, Roger says he has to go to the bathroom, and then Mel gets out too and sits on the hood of the Cherokee, legs in full lotus. Jean goes into the kitchen (Willis left the door unlocked), calls the number, gets a machine and babbles a message, leaving the number in Chesterton and then the one here as well — just on the off chance he should call back in the next minute or two. Though actually, since they are here, doesn't it make sense to feed the kids now rather than stop at some awful place on the road? There's food in the cooler that's just going to go to waste, plus leftovers from yesterday in the fridge. {Yesterday} Amazing.) They could be on their way in an hour. Which would still get them home, what, probably midnight, a Utde after.

She goes out to the Cherokee, tells Mel the plan (zero response) and

PRESTON FALLS

brings the cooler inside. She hears Roger flush, but no faucet running afterwards. When he opens the bathroom door, she asks if he washed his hands. "Yes," he says.

She starts taking stuff out of the cooler. Roger wanders into the dining room, probably headed upstairs, then she hears him yell, "Hey, Mom? What happened in here?"

"What?" she calls. He doesn't answer.

She goes in and finds the dining room crammed with furniture from the living room and the living room completely bare. There's plastic over one of the living room windows and a ragged hole in one part of the ugly old ceiling. He's taking out the windows? To paint them? The door to the front hall is leaning against the wall, the sofa's wedged in there diagonally and books are piled everywhere. "I guess your father started work," she says.

"Can you break handcuffs if you're strong enough?" says Roger.

"You'd have to be pretty strong. If you were Superman, I guess."

"I mean real."

"No," she says. "Somebody has to unlock them."

"Do they hurt?"

"I wouldn't know. I don't imagine they're too comfortable. Did it bother you, seeing that happen to Daddy?"

"No," he says.

"Well, it bothered me. And it made me angry"

Roger says nothing.

"I was angry at the poUceman for not Ustening to Daddy," she says. ''And I was angry at Daddy, for not staying out of trouble."

No go. Nothing.

"What are you thinking?" she says.

"About a frog."

"What? \^te about a frog?"

"They make you mad when you can't catch them," he says.

Jean tries to think how this connects up. The idea of getting mad, maybe. ''God you're impervious," she says. Should she be saying that? Well, most likely he doesn't know what it means. "But sometimes, when something upsetting happens, it's best to let yourself get upset, you know? "

"Can I turn on Daddy's computer?" he says.

"To do what?"

"Play Mortal Kombat," he says.

Well, maybe he'll process what she said on his own. "Sure, go ahead," she says. "We'll be eating in about ten minutes."

Jean goes back into the kitchen and looks out the window: the first stars have appeared. She finds herself saying Star light, star bright (she must be desperate) but can't honestly decide which one is the actual first star she sees tonight. Mel's still sitting out there on the Cherokee. Must be getting chilly. But maybe the engine's warm under her. Mel's already talked about what she's feeling: she's feeling that the cop was a pig. And she's furious at Jean for suggesting that Willis might also have been at fault. Jean gets out two skillets — one for the hot dogs, one for Mel's vegetables — and the double boiler for the leftover chicken and stuff. Mel will ask why she has to eat couscous that was in with chicken. Easy one: she doesn't have to.

The phone rings just as the hot dogs' skins are starting to split; Jean rolls them over with the fork, turns off the burner and gets the phone in the middle of the third ring, before the machine can pick up. It's the lawyer, Philip Reed, who actually sounds civilized. He's calling from California and will be flying in to Burlington late tomorrow night. He'll be glad to help out — based on what she's telling him, it's completely outrageous — and he'll see Willis first thing Tuesday morning. No, unfortunately, because of the holiday, that's the soonest anything could be done anyway. But what he will do, as soon as he gets off the phone, is send Willis a fax introducing himself and letting him know help is on the way. Sure, they've got a fax in the hoosegow — all the modern conveniences. Would she like the fax number? Got a pen handy? And how is she bearing up? Not to worry, this is all going to work out.