Out by the pool, that day, she said,
“I’m like a horse in the bullring. I’ve got bags of sawdust in me.”
And I said, “Is that a Welsh thing? I thought it was an Irish thing, having a ton of kids.”
“No, not reely. It was him. Billy. It was him wanted them. I only wanted two. Even after little Alan he was on at me to have more.”
“More?”
“Day and night. Just one more. I’d say, ‘Come on, Billy. Give it a rest. I’m awl awl as it is.’ “
“You’re what?”
She pronounced the two words the same. Awl
awl. All hole.
That’s what I sometimes think this case is.
All hole.
CHANGING ALL THE GIVENS
Tonight’s my date with Trader.
One thing I do, before I go over there, is dig out the transcript of the interrogation I conducted downtown. My effort, there in the small interrogation room, was misdirected. But I’m impressed by its tenacity. Now I see this:
I have a witness that puts you outside the
house at seven thirty-five. Looking distressed.
“Mad.” Riled-up. Sound familiar, Trader?
Yes. The time. And the mood.
I missed that earlier, and I now remind myself to pick up on it tonight. Why distressed?
Another thing I do, before I leave, is spend about an hour in the bathroom with the concealer. And the contour powder and the lip-liner. And the tweezers for Christ’s sake. Too, I’d washed my hair the night before, and had an early one. I guess a person will sometimes do this, no real reason attaching except for herself, to feel at her best around a man she likes. Another explanation may be that I have a crush on Trader. Well? So? It doesn’t mean anything. Say only this: If he wants comfort, I will give it to him. On my way out the door Tobe looked at me oddly. Tobe’s okay. He’s a gentle giant. As opposed to a violent one. As opposed to Deniss, Shawn, Jon, Duwain.
Long ago I learned that I cannot get the good guys.
I am one of the good guys, and I go out there and get the bad guys. I can get the bad guys.
But I cannot get the good guys.
I just cannot get the good guys.
It was a long evening, and it went in drifts.
Trader has moved back into the apartment. My death scene has been destroyed: It’s been redecorated. The chair in the bedroom—the same chair?—sits swathed in a white sheet. A stepladder still stands in the corner. Trader says he hasn’t yet slept in there. He ends up on the couch. Watching TV.
“Hey. A TV. You got a life at last,” I said. Innocent words were proving difficult to find. “What’s it like, being here?”
“It’s better being here than not being here.”
Again: Taken generally, this was not an opinion that Jennifer Rockwell would have shared.
I stood around in the kitchen while he fixed me a soda. Ice and lemon. Trader’s body was always slow-moving. This night his face, too, seemed to bear the shadow of ponderousness. If it wasn’t for the math and everything, at odd moments you might almost have figured him for one of those morons in a matinee mask—one of those guys given good looks for no good reason. Except to spread a little more grief. But then the light of intelligence would return to the brown softness of his eyes. I tried to remember if he’d always had this frown, this shadow. Or did he pick it up a month ago, on March fourth? The birthdate of so much stupefaction. He was drinking. He drank steadily all evening. Jack Daniel’s. Rocks.
Raising his glass, he turned to me and said, “Well,
Mike?”
But he never turned to me and said, What have you got? What did you learn? I wanted to know what he knew. He didn’t want to know what I knew.
At times, our talk was very—what shall I say?—orderly:
How about children, Trader? I guess I’m still looking for a precipitant that’s the right shape and size. Might she have had anxiety about that?
There was no pressure on her. I was pretty keen but I’d never push it. If she wanted none—fine. If she wanted ten—also fine. It’s like abortion. It’s the woman’s call.