David Wroblewski - The Story of Edgar Sawtelle

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” he said, “but on the other hand, I don’t like keeping secrets, either.”

“Tell me what?”

“About your pop.”

“What about him? I suppose you’re going to tell me that he was a hell-raiser, too?” Glen laughed at the idea. If his father hadn’t been a veterinarian, he would have been a school teacher-more likely a principal. He liked being an authority figure, the one who told people what was what.

“No, nothing like that,” Claude said. “You understand everything I’m going to tell you is secondhand-I wasn’t there when it happened, okay? I was in the house, and the first thing I really saw-with my own eyes-was when I walked into the barn and Page was lying there.”

And then, though it was a warm summer night, Glen felt a chill.

“Thing is, after Edgar ran off, I found out from Trudy that Page didn’t just trip. It sounds like he fell down those stairs because Edgar was coming after him.”

There was a long silence during which blood began to pound in Glen’s ears.

“Coming after him.”

“Yeah.”

“You mean, coming after him to hit him?”

“Yeah. That’s what I mean.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Well, that’s the part we don’t understand. After Gar died, he clammed up. And when Edgar wants to clam up, there isn’t a thing anyone can do about it. That night, we were talking to a breeder interested in operating a branch kennel. Had some interesting ideas about approaching the Carruthers catalog people. That really disturbed Edgar. He opened up that big mow door and dragged Trudy over to it and nearly pushed her out. Who knows what would have happened if he hadn’t stopped. Plus, he was none too happy about me spending so much time out there, which I suppose I can understand. Fact is, most nights he slept out in the mow. Like that was his place instead of in the house.”

“Claude,” Glen said. “For Christ’s sake.”

“I don’t know, Glen. Maybe Trudy got it wrong. It’s not my place to tell you this anyway. I’ve gone over it and over it in my mind, and no matter how you slice it, it was a freak accident. Pick up the Milwaukee Journal tomorrow and check the obituaries; I’d bet you fifty dollars you find someone who died in some sort of freak accident. Remember when Odin Kunkler fell out of his apple tree trying to shake a porcupine off a branch? He could have broke his neck instead of both arms. Who knows what made the difference? Even if Trudy had it right, Edgar didn’t touch your pop. He just ran at him and Page fell.”

“That’s still manslaughter,” Glen said.

“Besides…”

“Besides, what?”

“Well, I didn’t know if you were all that close to your dad. Some people are glad when the old man is gone.”

“Aw, god. Aw, shit. Jesus fucking Christ, Claude! We had some words sometimes, who doesn’t? But he was my father.” Glen looked at Claude to see if he’d meant to provoke him, but Claude looked genuinely sincere. If anything, a little puzzled by the vehemence of Glen’s reaction.

“Aha. Well, it isn’t always that way. Between father and son, I mean. I wasn’t sure.”

“Well, now you know.”

“No offense intended, okay? I’m just telling you to be straight. I think a person needs to keep things aboveboard,” Claude said. “Look, if you wanted to, you could sue us. After all, your dad was on our property, he did fall down our stairs. Whether Edgar scared him into falling or not probably wouldn’t even come into it; the right lawyer would just argue that we didn’t do something we should have, like we didn’t have good enough handrails or whatnot. Though there is a handrail…”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Maybe, but the point is, I was always taught that, in a case like this, where nothing is black and white, we’d have to be the ones to decide what’s right. I’m not talking about courts; I mean, the people themselves decide. But if you want legal justice, there it is. You could shut down the kennel if you wanted. No more Sawtelle dogs, ever again. That’s got to be your decision, and that’s okay. I can’t speak for Trudy, of course. She’s awfully dependent on those dogs now, especially with Edgar run off. I have to argue with her to place every single one.”

“I don’t want that and you know it.”

“Don’t you? Wait and see. Maybe tomorrow you’ll wake up discouraged and depressed. That’s the way these things work. You won’t be angry, not then, just laid out, like all the wind’s been taken out of your sails. But the day after that, or the day after that you might wake up and before you have a chance to think about it, you’ll get dressed and head over to your pop’s place, out the door and down the street before you remember your pop is gone for good. And that’s when it’ll hit you. That’s when you’re going to get angry. It’ll be over some little thing that really doesn’t matter. So don’t tell me what sort of justice you want, Glen. That’s a promise you can’t keep.”

“Well, I can tell you this much: I’m not going to sue you and Trudy for something Edgar did.”

“Why the hell not?” Claude said. “He’s a minor. Trudy’s his mother and I’m his uncle. Trudy raised him. She must have done something wrong or he wouldn’t have come after Page.”

“No, no, it doesn’t work that way. Well, maybe it does. I don’t know. I mean, think about me-I was a mixed bag at best. But Pop, he did the best he could. There wasn’t one time he didn’t tell me just how to…why I should have…”

Then Glen realized he was crying. It was embarrassing, but it just came up out of him, and there was no way to stop it. And that was the moment he’d realized he wasn’t done mourning-in fact, maybe he’d hardly begun. A person who was done mourning didn’t cry into his beer.

“I was pretty much of a fuckup, if you recall,” Glen said, when he could talk without blubbering. “Maybe you don’t know what it feels like to know what the wrong thing to do is, and just watch yourself do it anyway. Like you don’t even control it. But I do. My pop stuck with me through a whole bunch of times when I thought I’d end up in juvie jail.”

Claude sipped his beer and nodded.

“Pretty ironic that I ended up as the cop here, don’t you think?”

“I think it fits you. I think you do a good job.”

“Thanks,” Glen said. “I try.” There was something else he wanted to say, some other point he’d been trying to make, but the beers had finally added up, and he couldn’t remember. His head would have been swimming even if he was sober, and Claude had a way of making things confusingly complex.

“Tell you what,” Claude said at last. Glen could see Claude was troubled by the whole thing, maybe more troubled than Glen himself. “You have the power here. You know it and I know it and there’s no point in pretending otherwise, or thinking that you know this minute what you want to do about it. That day when you get angry is coming. When it arrives, all I can think to offer is that you call me, and we’ll find a place to sit and drink some beers and talk about what to do. That’s the least I could do-hear you out.”

Glen looked at him. Claude seemed like he might be about to cry himself.

“Way back when, the old guys had all the answers,” Claude said. “Your dad. My dad.”

“Yup.”

“We’re the ones, now. We’ve got to have the answers.”

“They’re not all gone yet.”

“No. Mostly, though.”

“Ida Paine is still around.”

Claude shuddered. “Ida Paine has always been around,” he said. “Ida Paine will be around long after you and I are gone.”

“I was out to the store just last week. If anything, she’s gotten creepier.”