William Boyd - Stars and bars

He undressed wearily, switched out the light, and got into bed. He felt wide awake, his mind as active as a candidate’s, sitting a crucial exam. He heard the dull bass of rock music start up again. Duane, Alma-May’s son. How and why was his aural tyranny over the household tolerated? And who was Cora? What was he going to do with Bryant? Would Freeborn really bust his ass at noon tomorrow? Would the Gage collection solve Mulholland, Melhuish’s problems? Was it likely that Irene would forgive him? And Melissa? These and other thoughts jostled and elbowed their way through his mind as he turned on the left, then on the right, lay supine, then prone, discarded his pillow, retrieved it, doubled it, weighted the bedclothes with dressing gown and guilt, kicked them off and somehow, at some time, found some minutes of repose.

Cautiously, Henderson entered the Gage kitchen the next morning. He felt bad: tired and irritated, but not so irritated as to welcome a confrontation with Freeborn. But there was no sign of him, or anyone else for that matter. This was a little surprising as he had assumed that Bryant at least would be present as her room had been empty.

He poured himself a cup of coffee from a jug stewing on the cooker. Alma-May came in and nodded curtly in response to his ‘Good morning’.

“Is Mr Gage about?”

Alma-May indicated a letter propped on the breakfast table. It was addressed to Henderson, was from Loomis Gage, and informed him that he could view the paintings that afternoon when he, Gage, returned from unspecified business matters.

Henderson realized that this delay would of course violate Freeborn’s noon deadline; but surely, he reasoned, he could count on the protection of Gage senior? One thing was clear: he couldn’t move to a hotel until he’d seen the paintings.

“Have you seen Bryant — Miss Wax — by any chance?”

“She done gone off with Beckman, early this morning.”

“Good Lord. Where?” he said with alarm. Melissa would never forgive him if…He stopped. Alma-May’s head had jerked round sharply at this invocation of the Good Lord’s name.

“To Hamburg.”

He felt suddenly weak, then realized this must be Hamburg, Ga., or Hamburg, Ala., or wherever.

“Why? May I ask?”

“To the labrotory. Beckman’s lab.”

This was getting out of hand.

“His labrotory — laboratory — in Hamburg?”

“You got it.”

“I see…and Mr Freeborn? Is he…?”

“On the road.”

And what does that mean, he thought?

“What does he do, on the road?”

“He sails.”

“?”

“Sails things, Co-mercial traveller. Sails medical wadding. You know: lint, bandages, restraining straps. Got a line in mouthwashes, suppositories. That kind of thing.”

“So it’s just us alone in the house,” he said with a fatuous little laugh which he instantly regretted. No rock music emanated from Duane’s room so he assumed the boy was away.

“There’s Miss Cora,” Alma-May reminded him with heavy suspicion. “And Shanda.”

“Oh, yes.”

After breakfast — egg plant hash and some pale-grey tasteless sago⁄porridge-like substance — Henderson decided that the first priority was to phone Beeby.

Encouraged by Freeborn’s absence he approached the double-wide mobile home outside the front steps and knocked on the door.

It was opened by a young, quite pretty girl in an advanced stage of pregnancy. She wore a grubby white smock with blue piping and incongruous high-heeled strappy shoes. Her copious blond-streaked hair had been badly permed into what was meant to look like a mane of cascading curls, and two brittle wings were flicked back at each temple. A gold chain with an’S’ on it hung around her neck which was disfigured with a raw-looking love-bite.

“Are you the man from New York?”

Henderson confessed he was, after getting her to repeat the question a couple of times. This was no doubt the person who had answered the phone yesterday. She had a powerfully glottal, twanging, accent.

“Oh.” She stood in the doorway at the top of three steps twiddling a cigarette lighter in her hands, apparently content to stare.

“I wonder if it might be possible for me to make a telephone call?”

“A half-owned car?”

“A telephone call.”

“A left front hall?”

He picked up an invisible receiver and dialled the air.

“ Oh . You want to phone. C’mon in.”

Henderson climbed the steps. The trailer was surprisingly capacious, or rather would have been if the vast amount of junk inside had been removed. The room was dark, the curtains being drawn, and only one table lamp was lit. There were many anonymous-looking white parcels and packages stacked against the walls which he took to be supplies of medical wadding.

“I’m Shanda Gage.”

“Henderson Dores.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

She showed him to a glass and wrought-iron chair beside a small table, upon which stood a telephone. He sat down and smiled, not trusting the simplest words. Shanda moved listlessly about the room shifting packages with a knee, going through the motions of tidying up.

Henderson called Beeby, collect.

“How’s it going?” Beeby asked. “Gage called briefly this morning, said you’d arrived. Everything seems OK, looking good. What’s the place like?”

“It’s a mad house,” he said softly, glancing at Shanda.

“What? Speak up.”

“Fine. Lovely old place.” If Beeby thought things were going well there was no point in relaying Freeborn’s threat.

“What about the paintings?”

“Seeing them this afternoon.”

“Wonderful, wonderful. Keep in touch.”

“Bye, Thomas.”

Henderson hung up. Shanda came out of a doorway with a tray holding two coffee cups. Henderson braced himself.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling and nodding.

Shanda sat down opposite him. She pressed the top of a black lacquered toy roundabout-thing beside her and it began to rotate slowly, a music box somewhere in its innards playing ‘The Blue Danube’. After a second or two various little doors in its side sprang open to reveal niches filled with cigarettes. Shanda helped herself to one.

“Smoke?”

Henderson shook his head and held up a hand. He took a sip of his coffee and concentrated on what Shanda was saying. She had paused in the act of putting the cigarette in her mouth. She held it inches away from her lips, the lighter flaring in her other hand. She looked at the ceiling. Henderson noticed it was spattered with stains.

“Freeborn’s in Montgomery,” she said, with all the deliberation of an aphorist.

“I see.”

“He’s a good husband.” She stuck the cigarette between her pink lips and lit it, dragging avidly on the smoke. Henderson’s eyes smarted in sympathy for the infant in her womb. She sat back in her chair and scratched an ankle. She had thickened with pregnancy, her shoulders and upper arms were creamy and soft with excess fat. He suddenly thought of the loathsome Freeborn paying his vampiric attentions to her neck, which was also soft and creamy, he noticed, with three well-defined creases in it. Shanda blew smoke at the ceiling.

“Freeborn’s a salesman.”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Yeah. I don’t care for that Cora, do you?”

“Who?”

“Cora Gage. Freeborn’s sister.”

“I’ve yet to meet her.”

“No, Cora. Freeborn’s sister.”

“I. Don’t. Know. Her.”

“You will.” She rolled her eyes and scratched the underside of one heavy breast. She stubbed out her cigarette. Henderson and Freeborn Gage junior breathed a sigh of relief.

“Where you from?”