Энн Тайлер - Searching for Caleb

By four o’clock Two still hadn’t made a move to go. And he was the one who hated night driving! He said he had to get everything straight with the detective first. Lucy could tell he was beginning to regret his choice, not that there was much choice in a town like Caro Mill. This Mr. Everjohn was turning out to be a little peculiar. The more peculiar he got the grimmer Two’s face grew, and the gayer Duncan’s. Justine became downright hospitable and offered Mr. Everjohn root beer and birthday cake. By now they were all in the living room, the aunts in a row on the couch and the others in kitchen chairs, having been lured there one after another by the goings-on. Grandfather Peck was giving Mr. Everjohn the names of every classmate Uncle Caleb had ever had. Every teacher, friend, and business associate. Where did he get them all? Then Uncle Caleb’s church, school, barber, tailor, doctor, tavern . . . she had never known a Peck to frequent a tavern. But Mr. Everjohn did not look surprised. He continued filling his spiral notebook, scribbling away at unexpected moments for unexplainable lengths of time. He requested and pocketed the grandfather’s treasured photo, saying he would have a copy made, but why, when it was half a century out of date? He listened to a recital of the entire attendance sheet of a vacation Bible school that had opened, and closed forever, in the summer of 1893. Whole strings of names were allowed to slip by, but then he would pounce on one and fill two pages. What was he writing? Lucy sat up very straight, but she couldn’t see into his lap.

Now another peculiar thing was, how a man of business could spare so many hours. Naturally a detective was not like a lawyer or anything, but still you would think he had appointments and commitments. Mr. Everjohn seemed ready to give the Pecks the rest of his life. He sat without fidgeting, keeping his sharp knees clamped together and his elbows close to his body. One trouser leg was rucked up to show a shin like a stick of timber. He wrote with his pen held so awkwardly that it made Lucy’s hand ache. When he asked questions, they were always the least likely. For instance, he wanted to know Uncle Caleb’s smoking habits, the name of his childhood nursemaid, his mother’s birthday, and his preference in shoes. He asked about Laura’s reading matter and Justin’s will, about religious beliefs and shipping schedules. The stranger the questions, the more excited Grandfather Peck became. It was like going to the doctor for a headache and having him examine your toenails. What undreamed-of things he must know! Even when Mr. Everjohn asked about Margaret Rose, Grandfather Peck barely flinched. “Of course, that’s something I never think about,” he said. “I’ve forgotten her entirely.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Everjohn. When he opened his mouth like that, his face became impossibly long and his cheeks sank in.

“Anyway, she left before Caleb did,” said the grandfather.

“Now where was it she went to?”

You could have heard a pin drop.

“Washington,” said the grandfather.

“Oh yes.”

“She got a job. But she died.”

“What kind of job?”

“There’s not much point in going into this,” the grandfather said.

“I got to know anyway, Mr. Peck.”

“Uh, she laundered money.”

“Money.”

“She worked for the U.S. Treasury. She washed old bills.”

Mr. Everjohn’s deep, bruised-looking eyes searched mournfully around the room.

“It’s perfectly possible,” Duncan told him. “They used to wash them and coat them with rosin. For crispness. In the past they weren’t so quick to throw things away. They had a machine that—”

“I see,” said Mr. Everjohn. “Cause of death?”

“Boardinghouse fire,” said Grandfather Peck.

“She lived in a boardinghouse?”

“Her parents wouldn’t let her stay with them, you see. In those days women were expected to be better behaved. They tried to make her come back to Baltimore. Her father wrote and told me.”

“Now. You sure she really died.”

“They buried her, didn’t they?”

“I was thinking maybe that was where your brother went to: Washington. Maybe the two of them. You ever consider that?”

Lucy had. But Grandfather Peck was merely impatient. “If he were such a scoundrel, why would I be looking for him?” he asked.

“ Oh yes,” said Mr. Everjohn, and he seemed perfectly satisfied. He slipped the notebook and pencil back into his pocket. “Well, I think I got something here to start on.”

“We certainly appreciate your making a housecall, Mr. Everjohn,” Two said.

“Why, that’s all right.”

“I never expected to take so much of your time, but of course I am fully prepared to—”

“Think nothing of it,” Mr. Everjohn said. “To be honest, this town don’t keep a man very busy.” He felt beneath his chair for his hat and then rose, unfolding foot by foot. With a hat on he looked more like Lincoln than ever. The crown was even slightly squared, the brim oddly curved. “There’s so little call for us, me and my partner have to shadow each other’s wives for practice,” he said.

“Really,” said Two.

“Women’s lives are right dull, I’ve found. My partner’s wife goes to one store for toothpaste and another for mouthwash, just to get herself two outings.”

“Well, I know you have to be getting back,” said Two.

“Now my wife takes lessons . She will sign up for anything. You wouldn’t believe the places Joe has got to follow her to.”

“May I expect your bill on a monthly basis?”

“Pet grooming. Exotic dance. Kung-fu. Stretch-’n-Sew.”

“Oh, Eli!” cried Justine, making one of her shocking leaps to a first-name friendship. “Won’t you take your wife a piece of birthday cake?”

“She’s on this diet,” Mr. Everjohn said gloomily. “She goes to Weight Watchers and Slenderella, and every Thursday from two to four she’s got her this class in low-carbohydrate food preparation.” He shook Justine’s hand too hard. “I’ll keep in touch,” he told her.

“Well, drop in any time. Grandfather will want to hear.”

“And thank you again for your patience,” Two said.

But the minute Mr. Everjohn was out the door, Two collapsed in his chair. “I knew we should have used a Baltimore man,” he told Lucy.

“Well, there, dear.”

“I must have the names of twenty good detectives back home. But no, Marcus said it had to be a Caro Mill fellow. That way Father could handle things, he said. Otherwise we’d be the ones to—”

‘Well, I thought he was very nice,” Justine said, returning from the front door.

“If you children would live in a civilized area, Justine—”

“Caro Mill is civilized.”

Two turned to Duncan, who was playing with what looked to be an auto part over by the window. “You need to come back to Baltimore, boy,” he said. “What’s stopping you? Jobs? You know there’s lots to do in a law office that wouldn’t take a degree. Your cousins could fix you up. Quick mind like yours, there’s lots to—”

“Thanks anyway,” Duncan said.

“Do Justine good. See there? She’s looking a little tired.”

Lucy glanced over at her. Why, she was. It was true. Now that she was not running or laughing or talking too much, her face seemed strained and pale. Blame Meg, that’s who. Children! She shifted her gaze to Duncan, an aging little boy. Secretly her favorite son, and she had always imagined what a fine man he would be once he was grown and mellowed. But that had never happened. He was preserved forever as he had been at ten, reckless and inconsiderate, not kind at all, not even willing to make allowance for other people’s weaknesses. He had needed a good strong wife to settle him down and round his sharp edges, but he hadn’t got one. Only Justine. Was Justine the way she was deliberately? Had she just flat out decided one day that she would refuse to take responsibility, that Duncan could go caroming straight to hell taking wife and daughter along before she would say a word? Something made Lucy speak up suddenly, when she hadn’t even known she was going to. “Oh,” she said, “if only poor dear Caroline could have been with us today!”