The End of Vandalism (21 page)

THE SENIOR PLAY was set in the fifteenth century. Jocelyn Jewell had won the role of “the ill-fated Maria,” who would be bitten by a spider during the play and who would dance herself down to exhaustion and finally death. The spider was played by Dustin Tinbane of Morrisville.

Louise and Dan would have stayed home but for the involvement of Jocelyn. Louise was expected to deliver the baby in seventeen days. She wore a long black dress and a necklace of red beads to the play. Her cheeks were rosy and her hair hung thick and dark down her back. Under her arm she carried a green pillow, with which she hoped to cushion the hard dark bleachers of the Grafton gym.

Dan held Louise’s hand as they walked up the sidewalk. His thoughts were drifting, and the weather could not make up its mind. The sun balanced on the edge of the fields. The light was thin and clear, falling against the bricks of the school. Cheryl Jewell came up behind them and put her arm around Louise’s shoulders. Cheryl wore a pink hat with light green stitching. “This reminds me of being late for typing,” she said.

The Grafton School had been one of the last old prairie schools, and although the classrooms were empty the building
remained in decent shape. Three stories, each with a band of windows, rose between piers on the east and west. The top of the east pier had been the principal’s office, and the top of the west pier the Red Cross room, containing one chair, one desk, and one bed for children who were not feeling well or for young women with their periods. The gym, round-roofed and democratic, stood on the east end, connected to the school by a low lobby with oak doors. GRAFTON was spelled out—for pilots—in large yellow letters on the black roof. Only fragments of letters could be seen from the ground.

Dan, Louise, and Cheryl entered the lobby. Display cases held loving cups, oxidized to a smoky color, that had been won by people who were now either dead or very old. The shop and hygiene teacher Richard Boster sold tickets beneath a banner saying, “Tarantella—A Musical—Cast And Directed By Edith Jacoby.” Mr. Boster was an absent-minded teacher who habitually scratched the backs of his hands and who once totally confused a class of ninth-graders by saying that during sex the penis gets “hard and crusty.” Now he pushed three tickets across a counter. “They’ve got quite a production this year,” he said.

But this was said every year, and indeed it was hard to imagine a senior play so lame that it would not be considered outstanding. There were a couple of reasons for this. Coming on the eve of the students’ entry into perilous adulthood, the senior play took on the power of an omen. To find fault with a particular drama would be like jinxing the new generation, and no one wanted to do that. Also, people came to see the senior play who might not see another live drama all year, and for them even theatrical basics, such as lighting, costumes, and shots fired offstage, could be dazzling. It was backward
in a way—children acting sophisticated for the benefit of adults—but in Grouse County, as elsewhere, theater was not universally accepted as a worthwhile activity beyond the high school level. Making up stories, acting them out—people just got uneasy. Out in the country if a man were to go into a tavern and say he could not play cards that night because he was going to see
Finian’s Rainbow,
it would be an odd moment. But anyone can go to a school play.

The basic plot of
Tarantella
was the proven one of lovers who are separated and die. Jocelyn Jewell played a maiden who falls in love with a young shopkeeper. The shopkeeper agrees to cater a banquet for a haughty and powerful judge but instead escorts the maiden on a picnic after her date falls through. On the picnic they find an intriguing spider and put it in a jar. Meanwhile, the banquet is a disaster, the judge’s political hopes are dashed, and the judge, frustrated, kills the shopkeeper in a duel. The spider then grows to human size and bites Jocelyn, sending her into a dancing mania.

Thanks to Jocelyn Jewell, who seemed to be good at everything she tried, it really was quite a production. The singing was strong if sometimes uncertain, no one fell down during the dance sequences, and Edith Jacoby, whom a third of the audience could see standing in the wings, kept the action going and seemed particularly skilled in the staging of loud arguments. But Dan was not paying much attention and lost track of the story. Something had happened the night before that he could not stop thinking about.

The phone had rung late—say, ten or ten-thirty. It was Sergeant Sheila Geer of the Stone City police. “Can you meet me at Westey’s Farm Home?” she whispered. Dan drove over. It took twenty minutes or so. The yard was sparsely lit, and
Sheila’s cruiser had the parking lights on. Dan could see the outline of her head in the car.

Sheila suggested they go for a walk. The yard was enclosed by a chain-link fence, but Sheila had a key, as one who patrols the area well might. She led the way past cinder blocks, clothesline posts, and the dull black blades of tractor tires.

Finally they sat together on a bench swing. “Let’s talk about the election,” said Sheila.

“O.K.”

“Look, there’s someone on your side who should not be trusted,” said Sheila.

“There aren’t that many on my side,” said Dan.

Then Sheila said that Deputy Earl Kellogg was providing department files to Johnny White. “I can’t prove this in a court of law,” she said. “But they consider you vulnerable. They think the cases go against you. You remember the heavy machines that disappeared.”

“Of course.”

“And the gamblers.”

“Right.”

“And Quinn. That baby Quinn.”

“What about him,” said Dan.

“I don’t know,” said Sheila. “They think the mother should have been prosecuted.”

“We never found the mother.”

“Yeah, except everyone knows you did.”

“All right,” said Dan. “This was a woman with mental disorders going back years ago. She was not capable of deciding for herself. And you’re going to prosecute her? Why? Put her name all over the paper? There’s no reason… And besides, read the charter. Prosecution isn’t up to the sheriff.”

“They know her name. They know everything about her.”

“If they make an issue out of her, they will be sorry,” said Dan. “And you can tell Johnny I said that.”

“We don’t have contact.”

“You know a lot for not having contact.”

“Well, I can’t say. I really can’t say.”

“Earl’s worked seven years for me,” said Dan.

“I always wondered why that is.”

“He knows the county better than anyone, and he’s very good at stopping fights.”

“I think he sells pornography.”

“He doesn’t sell,” said Dan. “He has a collection of his own, but selling, no.”

“He goes to a club called the Basement, in Morrisville, to watch the strippers.”

“How do you know?”

Sheila shrugged. “Word gets around.”

“The Basement is legal entertainment,” said Dan. “You may not think much of it, but it isn’t grounds for dismissal.”

“And that poor wife of his, home knitting blankets.”

“Quilts,” said Dan.

“I think you kept him around too long,” said Sheila.

“If what you say is true.”

“You might check his cruiser.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“I never wished you bad luck.”

They got up and walked along, with Sheila’s flashlight glancing over sawhorses and garden carts. A cellar window of Westey’s was broken. They went in the back door with guns drawn, but found no one.

“Children must play,” said Sheila.

Now Louise was clutching his arm. Jocelyn had started her final dance, in a long dark skirt and white blouse. The skirt traced poignant circles in the air.

This was the last of five performances, and there were many curtain calls. Jocelyn’s face shone as she lifted the hands of her fellow actors. The lights came up on a gym full of roses and weeping teenagers. Jocelyn was in the middle of a group that would take some time to disperse. Cheryl said she would wait but Louise and Dan should go. Louise smiled uncertainly and started walking up the stairs to the stage.

“That’s not the way,” said Dan. He took her hand.

At home they had dried venison and salad, but Louise ate only a few bites. She put her fork down beside her plate and reached for the back of her neck to unhook the red beads.

“I think I did too much today,” she said.

Dan looked up from the records he had taken from the trunk of Earl’s cruiser. “What all did you do?” he said.

“Mom and I went to the Lighthouse to eat,” said Louise. “We got some bumpers for the crib. And then the play.”

Dan took a drink from a bottle of beer. “Why don’t you go lay down,” he said.

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You have been all night.”

“I want you to lay down and take care of yourself.”

Louise pushed her chair back and stood by the stove. She put her hands on her stomach. “You know what I think it is. I think I’ve lightened. The baby feels much lower. This is what happens as birth approaches. The baby moves down into the canal. I was reading about this.”

“Lightened,” said Dan.

“Put your hand on my stomach.”

“It won’t be long, will it?”

“No, darling. I am going to lay down.”

“Why don’t you.”

Dan read for a while and then sat staring at the knobs of the stove. Waves of light seemed to wash over him. How many times he would remember this moment, these waves of light in the kitchen. He went upstairs and massaged Louise’s back.

“I feel a little sick to my stomach,” she said. “That’s what I get for eating at the Lighthouse.”

“Maybe a bath would make you feel better.”

“Yeah,” she said.

The faucet turned with a loud squeak and water thundered into the bathtub. When Louise got in she closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the old claw-foot tub. She smiled faintly, her dark hair veiling the porcelain.

“Dan, I might be in labor,” she said quietly. “I think I’m contracting, and I’m kind of scared.”

“Really,” said Dan.

“It hurts,” said Louise. He helped her gently to her feet and wrapped her in a big green towel, her favorite. But before she was dry she asked him to leave the room, and as he stood outside the door he could hear her throwing up.

“Louise,” he said.

“Why did I have to eat that goddamned food.”

Dan went into the bedroom and called the hospital. A nurse came on the line. She had the low and steady voice of those who make their living reassuring people at night. “Is the pressure rhythmic or would you say it is steady?”

“I don’t know,” said Dan. “She’s throwing up. She had some food that didn’t agree with her.”

“Who is her physician?”

“Beth Pickett,” said Dan.

“Is Louise close by?” said the nurse. “May I speak to her?” Louise stood in the hallway with the green towel around her shoulders. Dan brought the phone to her. She listened. She touched her stomach with spread fingers.

“Yes,” she said. “Very much so.”

They had to drive three miles on gravel roads to get to the hospital; there was no getting around this. They could pick up the blacktop in Chesley. Louise felt sick and took the ride badly. She wore the dress she had worn to the play. A cooking pot rested on her knees in case she had to vomit. The pot had black marks in the bottom from times they had burned popcorn. Dan flashed the blue lights but went very slowly to keep Louise out of pain. Even so, she leaned heavily on the armrest of the cruiser and sometimes asked him to slow down.

Due to a construction project, the logic of which was not readily apparent, the Mercy Hospital emergency room entrance had been moved since the last time Dan had been there. They followed a makeshift sign, winding up at a pair of dark doors; Louise sat in the car while Dan tried them. One would not open and the other would, but the area beyond was empty and Dan turned away. Then the door opened again and a security man appeared. He was in silhouette and Dan could not make out his features. “This is right,” the man said. Dan helped Louise into the hospital and down a corridor until they found the emergency room. Louise slumped in a small chair at the admissions counter, and a man with drowsy eyes looked at her and then into a computer screen. “Are you in labor?” he said.

“I don’t know,” said Louise.

“Who’s your insurance carrier?”

“Danny, I’m going to be sick,” said Louise.

“What’s going on?” said Dan. “Blue Cross—for Christ’s sake, don’t make her wait because of paperwork.”

“We’re not,” said the man. “When they are ready to take her, she will go.”

Soon a tall pale nurse with platinum hair and red lipstick helped Louise into a wheelchair, and guided the chair to a large treatment room curtained into sections. The lights were low. Someone moaned softly in a corner. The nurse helped Louise onto a gurney, took her blood pressure, listened to her account of what had been happening.

“Is the pressure cyclical, like a rhythm?” the nurse asked.

“I don’t know anymore,” said Louise. She lay on her back, looking at the ceiling. “I don’t think so.”

“All right,” said the nurse. “Let’s listen to the baby.” She touched a stethoscope to Louise’s stomach. The heartbeat often took a moment to locate. “How far along?” she asked.

“Thirty-six weeks,” said Louise.

“Hmm.” The nurse moved the head of the stethoscope. Her dark brows knit and a dazed little smile appeared on her face. “This baby’s hiding from us.” Her voice was musical, forlorn. “This baby is hiding from us.”

The pale nurse left and came back with a stout, swift nurse who said nothing to Louise or Dan. She took a stethoscope from the pocket of her coat and listened for the heartbeat.

Dan stood on the other side of the gurney. “What’s the matter?” he said.

“I can’t tell you,” she said. Turning to the pale nurse, she said, “Get a monitor.” She folded her stethoscope and put it
away. The nurse rolled a fetal monitor in. Then Dr. Pickett arrived.

“Beth, we’re glad to see you,” said Dan. “They’re saying something about the baby hiding.”