“Not at all,” I said. “You prefer Margaret or Maine? I know Dolores refers to you as Maine.”
“Either one is fine. Suit yourself.”
I followed her to the kitchen at the end of the hall. She was in the process of preparing food, platters of cold cuts on the long wood-grained Formica counter. There were bowls of chips, two containers of some kind of dip made with sour cream, and a mixture of nuts and Chex cereals tossed with butter and garlic powder. I know this because all the ingredients were still in plain view. “If you’ll help me move these snacks to the dining room, we can get ’em out of the way and we can talk.”
“Sure thing.”
She picked up two bowls and shoved the swinging door open with a hip, holding it for me while I moved through with the tray of sliced cheeses and processed meats. Of course, it was all so unwholesome I was immediately hungry, but my appetite didn’t last long. Through an archway to my left, I saw Hatch and his five buddies sitting on metal folding chairs at the poker table in the den. There were countless beer bottles and beer mugs in evidence, cigarettes, ashtrays, poker chips, dollar bills, coins, bowls of peanuts. To a man, the entire gathering turned to look at me. I recognized Wayne, James Tennyson and Brant; the other two fellows I’d never seen before. Hatch made a comment and James laughed. Brant raised his hand in greeting. Margaret paid little attention to the lot of them, but the chill from the room was unmistakable.
I placed bowls on the table and moved back to the kitchen, trying to behave as though unaffected by their presence. Here’s the truth about my life. Just about any jeopardy I encounter in adulthood I experienced first in elementary school. Guys making private jokes have struck me as sinister since I was forced to pass the sixth-grade boys every morning on my way to “kinney garden.” Even then, I knew no good could come of such assemblages and I avoid them where possible.
I picked up a platter from the kitchen counter and intercepted Margaret as she reached the swinging door. “Why don’t I pass these to you and you can put them on the table,” I said, feigning helpfulness. In truth, I couldn’t bear subjecting myself to that collective stare.
She took the platter without comment, holding the door open with her hip. “You might want to open a couple more beers. There’s some on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator out on the utility porch.”
I found six bottles of beer and the beer flip and made myself useful removing caps. Once we’d assembled the eats, Margaret pulled the swinging door shut and sighed with relief. “Lucky they don’t play more than once a month,” she said. “I told Hatch they should rotate, but he likes to have ’em here. Usually Earlene tags along with Wayne and helps me set up, but she’s coming down with a cold and I told her to stay home. Shit . . . excuse my language . . . I forgot to put out the paper plates. I’ll be right back.” She snatched up a giant package of flimsy paper plates and moved toward the dining room. “You want anything to eat, you can help yourself,” she said. As I was still burping meatloaf, I thought it wise to decline.
She came back to the kitchen and tossed the cellophane packaging in the trash, then turned and leaned against the counter, crossing her arms in front. “What can I help you with?” The question suggested cooperation, but her manner was all business.
“I’m just wondering what you can tell me about his last visit. I’m assuming he and Alfie Toth came to the area to see you that spring.”
“That’s right,” she said. As though to distract herself, she began to screw lids on the pickle jars, stowing mustard and mayonnaise back in the refrigerator. “I hope you don’t think this is disrespectful, but my father was a loser and we all knew that. Truthfully, I was happiest when he was in jail. He always seemed to cause trouble.”
“Was he a problem on this visit?”
“Of course. Mostly chasing women. Like any woman here was that hard up,” she said.
“From what little I know, I never pictured him as a ladies’ man.”
“He wasn’t, but he’d just gotten out of jail and he was itching to get laid. He’d be at Tiny’s at four, the minute the doors opened. Once he started drinking, he’d hit on anyone who crossed his path. He thought he was irresistible and he’d be angry and combative when his ham-handed flirtations didn’t net him what he wanted.”
“Anybody in particular?”
Margaret shrugged. “A waitress at the Rainbow and one at Tiny’s. Alice, the one with red hair.”
“I know her,” I said.
“That’s all he talked about, how horny he was. Poontang, he called it. I was embarrassed. I mean, what kind of talk is that coming from your dad? He couldn’t have been more obnoxious. He got in fights. He borrowed money. He dinged the truck. People around here won’t tolerate behavior like that. It drove Hatch insane so, of course, the two of us were fighting. Hatch wanted them out of here and I can’t say I blamed him. What are you going to do though, your own dad? I could hardly ask him to leave. He’d been here less than a week.”
“So what finally happened?”
“We sent him and Alfie off on a fishing trip. Anything to get them out from underfoot for a couple of days. Hatch lent ’em a couple of fishing rods he never did get back. He was p.o.’d about that. Anyway, I don’t know what happened, but something must have gone wrong. Next morning, Alfie showed up and said they’d decided to take off and he’d come for their things.”
“Where was your father?”
“Alfie told us Daddy was waiting for him and he had to get a move on or Pinkie’d be furious with him. I didn’t think anything about it. I mean, it did sound like him. He was always trying to get Alfie to fetch and carry for him.”
“Did Tom know all this?”
“I told him in March when Daddy’s remains turned up. Once the body was identified, Tom notified me and I passed the news on to the rest of the family. Before that, as far as I knew, Dad was fine.”
“Didn’t it strike you as odd that no one in the family ever heard from him once he supposedly left here?”
“Why should it? Bad news travels fast. We always figured if something happened to him, someone would be in touch. Police or a hospital. He always carried ID. Besides, we heard from Alfie now and then. I guess the two of them split up, or that’s the impression he gave.”
“Why did he call?”
Margaret shrugged. “Beats me. Just to see how we were doing is what he said.”
“Did he ever ask about your dad?”
“Well, yes, but it wasn’t like he really wanted to get in touch. You know how it is. How’s your dad? . . .
What do you hear from him? . . . And that sort of thing.”
“So he was wondering if Pinkie ever showed up again. Is that it?”
“I guess. Finally, he stopped calling and we lost touch with him.”
“Maybe he realized Pinkie wasn’t ever going to put in an appearance.”
“That’s what Tom said. He thought Daddy might have been murdered the very day Alfie left, though there was never any way to prove it. One thing they found was a gas receipt he’d tucked in his pocket. That was dated the day before. Him and Alfie filled up the tank on their way to the lake. You think Alfie knew something?”
“Almost certainly,” I said.
“Maybe the two of them quarreled.”
“It’s always possible,” I said. “Judging from his behavior, he was either trying to create the impression that Pinkie was alive, or he really wasn’t sure himself.
The last time you saw him . . . when he stopped by to pick up their belongings . . . did he seem okay to you?”
“Like what?”
“He wasn’t nervous or in a hurry?”
“He was in a hurry for sure, but no more than he’d be with Daddy waiting.”
“Any signs he’d been in a scuffle?”
“Nothing that I noticed. There wasn’t any dirt or scratches.”
“How did they plan to travel? Bus, train, plane? Hitchhiking?”
“They must have gone by bus. I mean, that was my assumption because the truck was left over at the Greyhound station. Hatch spotted it in the parking lot later that same day,” she said.
NINETEEN
By the time I left Margaret’s, it was close to nine-thirty. I unlocked the VW and slid under the wheel, sticking the key in the ignition. A car approached and as it pulled up alongside, I could see that it was Macon, driving a black-and-white. Even through the car window I could tell he was better dressed for the cold than I was. I was wearing my brown leather bomber jacket, but was short the gloves, scarf, and cap. I rolled down my window. His car idled, static from the radio filling the air. The temperature had dropped. I blew on my fingers briefly and then turned the key in the ignition, firing up the VW just to get the engine warm. I adjusted the heat, which in a VW consists of moving one lever from OFF to ON. “What’s up?” I asked.