The End of Vandalism (19 page)

They exchanged presents at the breakfast table. He gave her a coral necklace and earrings, and she put them on, and she gave him a long gray and purple scarf that she had knitted, and he put that on. They went upstairs to bed and stayed there until one o’clock, when it was time to watch college football. Louise had turned into a dedicated fan of college football since becoming pregnant. She felt that the college boys played a better game than the pros, because in college the plays seemed more earnest and at the same time less likely to work, and therefore more poignant when they failed.

She had watched the games every Saturday and knew the names of eight or ten colleges in Arkansas alone. She had developed a science of upsets. California teams always upset Great Lakes teams. Any college with “A & M” in the name could upset any college whose name ended in “State.” Teams called something “Poly,” on the other hand, might come close to an upset but would always lose in the end. The higher the male cheerleaders could throw the female cheerleaders, the more likely a team was to be upset, all else being equal. Michigan State was in a class by itself, a school that existed for no other purpose than to have its football team upset. As
her pregnancy progressed, Louise was both emotional and forgetful. She could not keep track of the score and grew pensive whenever a kicker, with his forlorn minimal face guard, squared his shoulders to try a field goal.

In the middle of the afternoon Dan and Louise walked up to Henry Hamilton’s place with a bottle of Grand Marnier. They all sat on the sun porch drinking it—even Louise had half a glass—and listened to the strange unseasonal wind.

Elsewhere in the county the public forms of Christmas were being observed. Paul Francis had drawn his first flying assignment since becoming a certified constable, playing Santa’s pilot to Russell Ford’s Santa for the benefit of a group of poor children from the Children’s Farm gathered on the tarmac at the Stone City airport. The plane rolled from wing to wing as it came down to land, leading the children to speculate with genuine excitement about the prospect of Santa crashing in flames before their eyes. But Paul got the plane down all right, and Russell climbed out in a red suit and white beard and that shiny black vinyl belt that seemed to have been added to Santa’s wardrobe sometime in the seventies. He gave out dolls and footballs and colored pencils, and one little boy said, “We already got colored pencils,” so Russell took back the gift, boarded Paul Francis’s plane, and, grabbing a microphone that did not work, said, “Clear the runway for departure.”

And over at the Little Church of the Redeemer in Margo, Johnny White and Tiny Darling were trying to cook Christmas goose for forty-five declared alcohol and drug abusers who participated in the programs offered by the Room. Two things that people fail to understand until it’s too late about the cooking of goose are how long it takes and
how much grease is produced. So at four-thirty, with a church full of hungry addicts, Tiny and Johnny huddled in front of an oven, stabbing at a tough goose in a gently swirling lake of grease. “Probably we should spoon some of this off,” said Tiny, and using an oven mitt that looked like the head of a goat, he attempted to pull the pan toward him. This little bit of motion spilled grease onto the grate of the oven, where it ignited with a fiery gust that singed Tiny’s forearms. Johnny shoved Tiny away from the oven door and blasted the goose with a fire extinguisher. When the fire was out, they tried to scrape the foam and ash from the main course, but this proved futile and the celebrants had deviled ham instead of goose with their string beans and sweet potatoes. But they had waited so long that even deviled ham seemed good, and they ate hungrily in the basement of the church.

In February, as scheduled, Russell Ford went to Wildlife Court to face the charge of shooting a protected species. Wildlife Court met on the second Tuesday of every month, presided over by Ken Hemphill, a retired judge and permanently tanned outdoorsman who ran his court in the affable style of Curt Gowdy on
The American Sportsman.
In the summer months the court mainly concerned itself with fishing violations, but during the winter most of the defendants were young or middle-aged men who had been keeping illegal trap lines. One innovative step taken by Ken Hemphill had been to order the surrender of any trap line deployed without a trap stamp, and defendants were accordingly required to bring their traps to court in case the verdict should go against them. Thus it was that in the cold months Wildlife Court became a sort of purgatory of downcast men wearing Red Wing boots and
orange coats and clinking their chains up and down the aisles of the courthouse. Dan ordinarily enjoyed this spectacle, but today he was testifying.

Russell’s lawyer was Ned Kuhlers, a mousy man who represented so many people in Grouse County that he more or less ran the court docket, and when he went on vacation the system slowed to a crawl. Ned’s strategy was simple. He tried to show that the witnesses for the prosecution could not know what they claimed to know. First he emphasized that Bev had not been at the slough and so could not say firsthand who shot what. Her response was typical of the flustered citizen trying to defend her common-sense conclusions only to be told that common sense has no place in the judicial system. “But he told me,” she said. “We had just finished our waffles and he said that he had shot this bird that he could not identify. I mean, I suppose that’s hearsay, but for heaven’s sakes, it’s hearsay from the guy who did the shooting.”

“I’m afraid I object to that,” said Ned.

Judge Ken Hemphill chuckled softly. “Overruled,” he said.

Dan took the stand next. Ned spoke to the bailiff, who went out and returned after several minutes with a large stuffed bird. There was a moment of surprise as Ned held the bird up before the members of the jury.

The jury foreman, who had seemed uncertain of his role throughout the trial, said, “Excellent taxidermy.”

“Sheriff,” said Ned. “You have testified that Russell shot a waterfowl. I would ask you now to look very carefully at this example, who comes to us courtesy of the folks at the Stone City Museum of Natural History. Please take your time, because this is important. Is this the same species as the bird that you have testified was shot by Russell?”

Dan looked at the bird. It was gray and spindly with a red mark over the eye. The courtroom was hushed. “I don’t know,” said Dan.

“In other words,” said Ned, “it might be, or it might not be? What kind of answer is that? Don’t look at Bev. We want your opinion, Sheriff. Isn’t it true that you don’t know what kind of bird Russell shot?”

“I’m not an ornithologist,” said Dan. “I think the two birds are similar. But whether it was this exact one, no, I don’t know.”

“Sheriff,” said Ned Kuhlers, “what if I were to tell you that this is a sandhill crane, who spends his winters in Texas and Mexico. And what if I were to tell you there is virtually no way a sandhill crane could have been in Lapoint Slough on that day in November.”

“What does that prove?” said Dan.

“What indeed,” said Ned. “The defense rests.”

The jury deliberated all morning and all afternoon. At twelve-thirty they were given a lunch of deli sandwiches, cole slaw, and chips. At three they requested a snack and received two bags of pretzels and some Rolos. At four-thirty a message came from the foreman informing Judge Hemphill that one of the jurors was on a salt-free diet and that this should be kept in mind when ordering the evening meal. At this point Russell entered a plea of
nolo
, or no contest, and Ken Hemphill called the jury in and told them they were free to go home and make their own suppers.

THE GROCERY STORE in Grafton closed in the spring. No one had really expected Alvin Getty to make a go of it. There will always be people who are drawn to a business on the skids and, given the chance, will take the thing over and finish it off.

That winter everyone had known what was happening. The shelves emptied while novelty displays appeared in an effort to jolt the store from its decline. You could get jam made by Trappist monks but not the bread to spread it on.

Later, Alvin had the idea that some new form of pudding would turn things around. “This will create a light and happy atmosphere,” he told Mary Montrose. “Come on, admit it—it’s a popular dessert.”

Mary did not want the store to fail, so she couldn’t decide whether to nod encouragement or laugh. She and Alvin had never got along. That fight they’d had over his dog, King, was no coincidence.

“There is hardly a grocery store in the world that doesn’t sell pudding,” said Mary.

“Not in ready-to-eat canisters.”

“I’m afraid you haven’t done your homework.”

“Not with a little spoon attached.”

“I don’t know about the spoon,” said Mary.

“The spoon is what makes it,” said Alvin.

Then he tried lending videos. By this time the store commanded so little respect that few customers bothered to return the tapes they had borrowed. Alvin lost three copies of
Fatal Attraction
in the first week, and they were not his to lose. One morning in April while walking up to get her mail, Mary saw a fat guy in a Cubs jacket lugging Alvin’s cash register out of the store.

“What happened?” Mary asked.

“We’re closed,” the man said.

“Where’s Alvin?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“Is the store out of business?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it is.”

“I’ll give you a loaf of bread for a nickel,” said the man. “You won’t find a better deal than that. Could you open the door on that car? I also have some nice rib eyes.”

“Rib eyes to eat?”

“No, for a doorstop—of course to eat.”

Mary opened the passenger door of a black Eldorado and the man eased the cash register onto the seat. “I knew Alvin wouldn’t last,” said Mary.

“I don’t know this Alvin,” said the man. “I try not to know them. I’m what you call in the industry a take-down man. In other words, I come in and take everything down. It’s no easy life. People get emotional when everything they have is on the auction block. Once a guy pulled a gun on me. It’s better for all concerned if I don’t know them.”

“I had hoped somebody else would take over,” said Mary. “Every town needs a grocery store.”

“Today, who wants the hassle,” said the take-down man. “The best you can hope for in these little one-horse places is some sort of mini-mart.”

“Fine,” said Mary.

“I don’t mean to be callous,” said the man. “I’m the bad guy in this situation. I know it.”

Mary picked up her mail—a bulb catalogue and a letter saying she had won a vacation home in Florida, a Jeep Wrangler, or a radio. She walked home discouraged. Services were leaving Grafton like seeds from a dandelion. Twenty-five years ago the town had two taverns, three churches, a lumberyard, a barbershop, and a bank. Of these, one tavern and two churches remained. On the plus side, Lindsey Coale had opened the beauty shop and a man named Carl Mallory had put up a quonset in which custom gun barrels were said to be manufactured. Ronnie Lapoint had expanded the bodywork part of the gas station, but since he owned and operated stock cars it was not always clear whether the welding you saw him doing produced income or simply amounted to doodling.

Mary had an aerial photograph somewhere of Grafton in the happy days of the early sixties. How dramatic and instructive it would be to enlarge it and wave the enlargement around at the next council meeting. It was as if they had all been sleepwalking through the decline of their town. She looked in the boxes at the bottom of the basement stairs. She found June’s Barbie suitcase, Louise’s lunch pail, the black ice skates of her late husband, Dwight. These things were musty and faintly sad compared with how she remembered them.
She rested for a moment on the green and white cardboard box in which the
World Book Encyclopedia
had once arrived, full of facts and pictures for the girls.

After a while Mary realized that she had heard something. She climbed the stairs with hurting ankles. The living room was full of ivy and afternoon light. She stood at the picture window and saw a wren on the ground outside. This was not unusual. Birds had been smacking into the picture window lately. Mary considered it part of the season. They get to mating and not watching where they’re going and smack.

She had thought about hanging a fake owl in the window but heard they can cause crows to congregate in your trees. She went out to the garage and found a snow shovel with which to scoop up the wren, but when she got around to the front of the house it had evidently dusted itself off and flown. Or it had been carried away by a dog. Then a delivery van pulled up. “Package for Mary Montrose,” said the driver. He unloaded four boxes that June had sent from Colorado—hand-me-downs for the baby Louise was seven months pregnant with.

Louise waited for an ultrasound examination at the Mixerton Clinic. This was located in the former Mixers Hall, five miles southwest of Stone City. The building was low and rambling, made of sandstone, and strangely modern for something built at the turn of the century. The Mixers had not lasted long but undoubtedly had their share of good ideas. For example, they developed an elaborate system of body language, enabling them to be quiet most of the time. They opposed the planting of wheat, because beer and whiskey could be made from it, although this was somewhat contradictory, since they did
drink beer and whiskey. The community fell apart soon after World War I, but some of the Mixer offspring are still alive, and every once in a while you will see an obituary along these lines:

Louise wore a white T-shirt, a pink and white dress, and a rust-colored canvas jacket. Her bladder was full, and she sat in an indirectly lighted room with three other pregnant women who also had full bladders. To prepare for a sonogram, you were required to drink three big glasses of water and refrain from peeing. Otherwise, Jimmy, the kid who ran the ultrasound machine, might not get a clear picture of the baby. Holding so much water was not an easy task for anyone, let alone a pregnant woman, and now one of the women began sobbing softly, and a nurse named Maridee entered the room and reluctantly placed the key to the bathroom in her hand, with the instruction not to give the key to anyone else. Another woman tried to take their minds off the pressure inside by telling how she always found playing cards on the ground. She wore a blue maternity shirt with a ruffled collar. Her eyes were big and glazed. “I don’t know what it is,” she said. “I can’t explain it. I wish someone could explain it to me. Other people find quarters. If they’re lucky they find a dollar. My brother found ten dollars at the movies. Ten dollars! But me, I find the seven of diamonds. I find the jack of clubs under my shoe. The other day, for some reason I was thinking about New Mexico, and when I got in the car what do you think I found? A matchbook that said ‘New Mexico.’”

“I thought you were going to say a playing card,” said Louise.

“That’s what I mean,” said the woman. “That was the only weird thing I ever found that wasn’t a playing card.”

Jimmy had long curly hair and a gold tooth. He used to tune up the ambulances, but his life had changed when he read a sign posted in the cafeteria about the growing field of sonography. “I’m glad I did it, don’t get me wrong,” he said. “But I do miss the camaraderie. In the motor pool we used to play softball behind the middle school. I was a scrappy player and always found a way to get a hit. Singles, doubles, take the extra base. That I miss.”

“Maybe they would still let you play,” said Louise, who was on her back with her dress pulled up over her taut round abdomen.

Jimmy shook his head and applied blue gel thoughtfully to her stomach. “Tried it,” he said. “You’d be surprised at the turnover down there. I didn’t hardly see nobody that I recognized. And then I fell down running after a screaming liner and tore up my knee.”

“That’s too bad,” said Louise.

“It was like a telegram saying youth is over,” said Jimmy.

He put plates of film into the top of the machine. The screen was just off Louise’s right shoulder. She turned her head to see. Jimmy skated the transducer over her skin, pointing out the fluttering chambers of the baby’s heart and the curve of its spine. Louise wished that Dan would walk in. He was supposed to be debating Johnny White before the Lions Club in Stone City.

“What are we looking for?” said Jimmy.

“Due date,” said Louise. “Dr. Pickett thinks I’m big.”

“O.K.”

Jimmy made some measurements by moving an electronic
star across the screen. “I get May the twenty-first,” said Jimmy. “Hey, do you know the sex?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

“Well, do you know?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t want to,” said Louise.

“O.K.”

“No, I don’t think so.” She believed the baby was a girl.

“It’s up to you.”

“I mean, in a way I’d like to.” She had a feeling and wanted to leave it at that.

“There’s her hand.”

Louise held her breath. The baby’s fingers moved, making white sparks on the blue screen.

After the sonogram Louise went to see Cheryl Jewell, who had flown in from Kansas City the night before. Jocelyn, Cheryl’s daughter, was about to begin rehearsals for the starring role in the senior play at Morrisville-Wylie High School.

“I didn’t have a sonogram when I was pregnant with Jocelyn,” said Cheryl. She stood at the counter of her Aunt Nan’s kitchen, making chocolate malts in an old green mixer.

“They’re not bad,” said Louise.

“Don’t they feel strange?”

“Not really,” said Louise. “You get used to them.”

“And did you have that other thing?”

“Amnio?”

“Yeah.”

“Amnio was tough.”

“That’s what I heard,” said Cheryl.

“It’s true.”

“Here’s your malt,” said Cheryl. “My doctor was pretty laid back. I had a blood test.”

“I don’t mind medical things,” said Louise. “I’ll tell you what I don’t like.”

“What don’t you like?”

“When people you hardly know want to touch your stomach. I find this happens more and more.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember that.”

“People who would never ask to touch your stomach if you weren’t pregnant.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Here’s what I do,” said Louise. “As they go for my stomach, I step back and shake their hand.”

“You should write to Ann Landers with that clever tip,” said Cheryl.

“My way would be too polite for Ann Landers. She’d advise you to say, ‘Keep your hands to yourself, bub.’ “

“‘Cut out the funny business, mac.’”

They laughed and drank malt from cold aluminum glasses. Cheryl said, “Here’s what used to bother me. When I was pregnant, it seemed like an awful lot of people would look at me and say, ‘Whoa, somebody’s been busy.’ Like they were imagining me in bed or something.”

“People don’t know what to say,” said Louise.

“Well, they shouldn’t say that.”

“It’s like they’re embarrassed. It’s like you’re doing something embarrassing in public just by being pregnant.”

“Just by being,” said Cheryl.

Mary called her friend Hans Cook to drive the hand-me-downs
out to the farm. He came over in coveralls and a St. Louis Cardinals baseball hat.

“I wear this on the days I don’t wash my hair,” he said.

“Well, that’s pleasant to know,” said Mary. “You are getting on the shaggy side.”

“Lindsey Coale does not do a good job with men,” said Hans. “This is nothing against Lindsey. With women there’s no one better. She just doesn’t have the knack for cutting male hair.”

“Why don’t you go to Morrisville?” said Mary. “That’s where everything is now.”

“You know, in olden times everybody had their hair like this,” said Hans.

“You go live in olden times,” said Mary.

Hans loaded the boxes into the back of his pickup. “I don’t mind the lifting, and it’s none of my business, but this seems like a lot of stuff. How big is a baby? About like so?”

They discussed the question for a while, moving their hands to show the possible sizes. Eventually Mary conceded that June had perhaps been overly generous.

“How is June?” said Hans.

“She seems well,” said Mary.

“What’s her husband’s name again?”

“Dave Green.”

“That’s right.”

“He just put an addition on their house.”

“Mr. Moneybags,” said Hans.

“Let me tell you something about Dave Green,” said Mary. “It’s true that he has more money than you and I will ever see in a lifetime. But as for common sense, you and I have riches untold compared to Dave Green. Did you ever hear about the time he flew to Hawaii by accident?”

“No.”

“By accident. I mean, my God, think of all the people with legitimate reason to go to Hawaii and no ticket.”

“They say rich people are unhappy.”

“That’s all hype.”

“I’d give it a whirl,” said Hans. “I would be the exception that proves the rule.”

“You would be happy whatever you’re doing. You’re a happy man. Some would say too happy.”

“I never will be rich, though.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you will.”

“The little man’s got a hard row to hoe in this world.”

“As does the big man,” said Mary.

Hans yawned. “What were we talking about?”

“Louise.”

“I admire her a lot,” said Hans. “Nothing bothers Louise. Things roll off her back.”

“To an extent. Somewhat. She has Dan. She has a baby on the way. I believe without question that Louise and Dan love each other. Now, am I saying there haven’t been ups and downs? No. Every relationship has ups and downs.”

“I heard they weren’t living together,” said Hans.