David Gates - Preston Falls

"Wait. Since when is one thing a history}''

"Hey," says Petrosky. "All I'm telling you, this is the profile people would see. I'm not one of your husband's intimates." He picks up a Sucrets box from the desktop and takes out a foil-wrapped lozenge.

"His intimates}'' Jean says. "That's like really a sick joke."

He looks at her. "Okay, whatever word you want to describe," he

PRESTON FALLS

says. "But you start to wonder." He examines both sides of the Sucret, puts it back and closes the lid. "Especially when this person suddenly disappears from the face of the earth." The bill of sale vanishes, and I can't go on I'll go on begins crawling across the screen from right to left. The change in the light makes Petrosky look back at the screen. He watches the words crawl, then nudges the mouse on its pad, and the bill of sale reappears. "That's what a lot of this job is,"" he says. "You wonder about things and you talk to people. For example. Who's been bringing all this cocaine into the Rutland area for the past six, nine months? Or here's another thing. Why did Mr. Casdeman fly to L.A. last week? Picture him in California?"

"I don't get any of this," Jean says. "I can't imagine Willis was into any sort of drug thing. But you know, I lost track of him." Petrosky's rolling the strip of paper up like a party noisemaker. "I guess Tm not one of his intimates"

Petrosky puts the coil down on the corner of the desk; Jean watches it expand.

"Mother?" Mel, from downstairs. "It s getting cold.''

"I'll be right down," Jean calls.

Petrosky stands up. "Sounds like we got our marching orders." You'd swear his smile is real. "Tell me something. Were you planning to get that roofing work finished before snow flies? It'd be a good idea."

"I don't know what he was planning." Jean gets to her feet, then has to sit: roaring in her ears, black butterflies before her eyes. The chair's still warm from him.

"You all right?" Petrosky sounds far away.

Jean takes a breath, lets it out. "I think I must be hungry."

"Need a hand?"

She reaches up; he grasps her hand — his skin feels rough and hard— and lets her puU down to get herself up.

"Thank you." She braces her palm against the doorframe. She breathes. She starts downstairs; he pushes the chair in and follows. His eyes on her ass, she feels like.

They stop in the kitchen doorway.

Mel has set three places at the table: three spoons on three folded paper towels, three mugs with tea bag tags dangling down the sides, three bowls of steaming soup. A leftover inch of white candle flaming. "Oh sweetheart, thank you," says Jean. "It's beautiiuV

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"You can sit here if you want," Mel says to Petrosky, pulling out the middle chair.

"Hey, this looks terrific." The gun bobs at his side as he walks over and sits down.

"Me here?" says Jean. She's stupidly worried about that beltful of bullets so close to a lighted candle.

"It doesn't matter," Mel says.

"This was so nice of you, sweetie."

''O-kay, Mother." What it is, Mel must not want it to seem that this is unusual for her to do. Jean sits, and Mel brings a saucepan from the stove and pours hot water — seltzer, actually, with the bubbles boiled away — into their mugs.

"Thank you," says Petrosky.

"You're welcome."

"Thank you," says Jean.

"Welcome."

Mel puts the saucepan back on the stove and sits down across from Jean.

"Good soup," says Petrosky.

"Delicious," says Jean. Campbell's minestrone. "I was so hungry. How's yours?"

Mel shrugs. "It's the same soup, Mother." She looks down at her bowl, picks up her spoon, tastes. Remembers and puts the paper towel in her lap.

"You know, I don't think we ever heard the other side of Sgt. P^-ppd-r 5," Petrosky says.

"My mom's not real into the Beatles," says Mel.

"7 don't mind the Beatles," Jean says.

Mel shrugs again. "I don't really feel like it. Does anybody want any crackers? I found some saltines that're a little stale, but I can put them in the toaster oven."

"No, I'm fine," says Petrosky. "This hits the spot."

"No, thanks, dear," Jean says.

Mel takes another spoonful of soup. "It's weird to think of Daddy up here eating saltines."

"Why is that weird?" says Jean.

"It just is."

Jean lifts her tea bag out, lets it back down. "It is, sort of."

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""You don't know." Mel bangs her spoon down and stalks into the dining room, Jean looks at Petrosky, who's looking down at his bowl.

"I don't think me being here makes it any easier," he says. He lifts the bowl to his mouth, tips it back and sets it down empty.

"It's not you," says Jean. She hears Mel clomping up the stairs. "Listen, I can't thank you enough for bringing her and taking care of her. She obviously likes you." She can't keep that from sounding like an accusation.

"In a way, I'm more sorry for her father than I am for her," Petrosky says. "What he's missing out on."

"I'm not," says Jean. "But that's nice of you to say. Especially considering her behavior." She lifts the tea bag again; there's no place to put it. She drops it into her soup.

"Oh, I don't mind a little behavior." He gets up and takes his bowl and spoon to the sink. "You weren't planning on driving back tonight.

were you

P"

"She has to be in school tomorrow," Jean says. "I have to be at work."

"Tomorrow's Saturday."

"It is} God, it is, isn't it." Jean feels her legs just aching, like a buzzing in the bones. She takes a long gulp of tea and shakes her head. "We need to get home, though."

"Just so you get there in one piece." Petrosky comes and sits down again. "I were you, I'd get some sleep and go down in the morning."

"You're not me," says Jean. "You're not my husband, you're not my father —"

He holds up a hand and says, "Okay. Enough said. You do what you think best."

"Sorry. I shouldn't open up on you. I just really need to get out of here, and get her out of here, and get home, you know? Plus my son just—"

He puts up the hand again. "Your decision."

Jean closes her eyes. She opens them and stares at the flame of that little stub of candle.

"Looks like you've had it with your soup," he says.

"I guess so." She only ate a couple of spoonfuls, and now she's getting these stabbing cramps. She's still gazing at that candle flame. "Do you remember E. Gordon Liddy?" she says.

"Hey, Watergate. But I thought it was G. Gordon."

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"I'm sure you must know," she says.

That makes him look at her.

"The thing I remember," she says, "he supposedly held his finger over a lighted candle." She starts switching her index finger back and forth through the flame. "And they asked him what the secret was, and he said. The secret is not to mind. " Back and forth with her finger, her gaze fixed on the flame. "I always thought that was amazing," she says. "Am I scaring you?"

"No. Are you scaring yourself?"

"No." She looks him in the eyes, still switching her finger through the flame.

He lowers his eyes and stands up. "Let's get your house shut down so you can be on your way."

"Oh my God,'' says Jean. She blows the candle out. "Shit. Captain Petrosky, I am so sorry — I'm just completely raw. I really need to get some rest, and I need this thing to^ be over. I don't want you to think I'm some crazy-woman."

"Well. This isn't the easiest circumstances, I don't imagine."

She gets up — her legs are killing her — and brings her bowl and Mel's over to the sink. Where she can't wash dishes. "Crap," she says. "What am I going to do with this soup?"

"Do exactly whatever you want," he says.

"Look, I said I was sorry. God. Scenes from a marriage."

Petrosky actually laughs. "Tell me about it," he says. "I been there too. Once or twice. Why don't you just pitch it out the door."