Cold Rain (20 page)

‘The old man,’ my brother told me with a shake of his head, ‘stayed at it too long. With the money he made, Tubs could have bought his own dealership.

Instead, he just kept trudging down to that Ford lot until it killed him.’

I shook my head. ‘Tubs was a lousy manager. As a dealer he would have lost his shirt.’

I was the baby in the family, my brother reminded me. I didn’t know how it was when Tubs was still fairly young. He remembered hearing Tubs talk about how much he hated the car lot. His comments sparked a memory: a long morning in the sun, Tubs making a rare offer to buy me lunch. He drove us out to a little restaurant at the edge of town famous for its pies.

Tubs was not a serious drinker. He might hold a drink all night, then set it down untouched. He would drink a beer on the Fourth of July and talk about how good it tasted, but that was it. He never went back for a second bottle and might not even touch another until the next Fourth. Pie was different. The man lived for pie. Sometimes his lunch was a store-bought apple pie.

Sometimes he would raid the vending machines with a stack of quarters and take every pie in sight. Given a choice, he naturally preferred freshly baked pies. He could talk about hot apple pie the way poets of old crooned about unrequited love.

On the afternoon that he took me to lunch, the air was rich with the odour of apple pie. The waitress knew Tubs just like bartenders know the alcoholics.

‘Fresh out of the oven this morning, Tubs!’

Tubs ordered a whole pie for each of us without asking me what I wanted. As we walked toward an open booth, he said to me, ‘The car business, Davey, is just too hard on a man. One of these days, I’m going to buy a little place like this and sell pies! You don’t have to twist a man’s arm to get him to take a piece of pie!’

I was still young. I hadn’t finished my undergraduate degree. I could make more money in three months than some people made in a whole year, and all because of what I had learned at my father’s knee. Tubs was, in my innocence, a man who could teach the world.

He knew the truth about people. He knew the words that could move a person to action. He read the hearts of people even if their words masked their intentions.

He could lead people to a crossroads and show them how to let go of their fear. In five minutes, sometimes in five seconds, Tubs could tell you who made the decisions in a marriage, the small ones and the big ones. He could wreck the tranquillity of the happiest couple without them understanding what he had done, if it would move them to a decision. He could neutralize the brother or cousin or meddling aunt if one or all of them were sitting in the closing booth and stopping a couple from making a decision. He could tell you a story and make you want to drive a brand-new Ford because of it, or even a used Chrysler if that was your heart’s desire. He had that power, and the only thing Tubs wanted from it was to settle his fat ass in front of all the pie he could eat and not have to pay retail for it.

The man’s fantasies broke my heart. I thought he didn’t love his talent, and it
was
a talent. I never saw the like of it, but if it was only to keep his fat belly full, as if he thought he might really go hungry if someone walked away from him, it was a waste of genius.

It was against family policy to defend Tubs. We had it written in the family handbook. He had left the house early every morning and come home late every night. Saturday was a workday. Sunday he went to church to pray to God to keep the Bogues away. When he bothered to deal with any of us at the house, it was usually something that got us fighting among ourselves so we would leave him alone. What worked at the lot worked at home. All Tubs wanted was to have his own way.

Old habits kicked in. I couldn’t tell my brother he was wrong about Tubs. I was not going to say Tubs did what he loved until the day he died, but I could disagree with the cause of death. ‘It wasn’t the car lot that killed the old bastard. It was the pie!’

The next day, Saturday, I wandered out to the Ford dealership. Milt was still the manager, the only face on the lot I knew. Though it had been a while, Milt recognized me at once and broke into a smile. ‘You need a job,’ he called out to me as I walked up, ‘I’ve got one for you! All I’ve got here are order-takers!’ A few heads turned, salespeople bristling at the insult or maybe just checking out the competition.

I shook his hand. Not today, I said. ‘I just came by because I wanted to give you something.’ I handed him an autographed copy of
Jinx
. Milt handled the book with the enthusiasm of a boy who has just received a pair of socks on Christmas morning.

His words were kinder. ‘Well that’s… that’s real thoughtful, David. I don’t read much, but I’ll give it a shot.’

‘It’s about us,’ I said.

Milt looked at me without quite getting it.

‘Life in the wastelands,’ I said, gesturing toward the lot, using Milt’s own phrase.

He flashed his big yellow horse teeth at me. ‘You wrote a book about us? Is it X-rated?’

‘You remember Debbie?’

‘Debbie does DeKalb? You put that in?’

‘Her name is Connie Q.’

‘What’s the page?’

‘Start at the beginning.’

‘Is Tubs in it?’

‘Tubs is Jinx. You’re Stitch, and Larry the Liar...well, he’s Larry the Liar.’

‘Hey! That lopsided set of duck nuts has himself a little church down in Peoria! Can you believe it?

Preaching Jesus once a week and raising hell the rest of the time!’

I shook my head for Milt’s sake, but I wasn’t surprised. Larry had always had a soft spot for the Baptist girls.

We talked about the car business. Milt asked me about school. I expect we both lied. While we talked, different sales people approached with deals or troubles. Milt ran the place and never lost track of what he was telling me, but it was obvious he was busy. I said that I had better go. I had a plane to catch. Milt kicked the tire of one of the cars in the showroom.

‘Ol’ Tubs,’ he said nostalgically, the first mention of my dad since I had handed him my novel. ‘I mean but that man could sell cars!’

‘Did he like it, you think?’ I asked. I wanted to believe Tubs knew the gift he possessed. I wanted assurance that the thing with pie, that was just a moment of weakness.

Milt grinned at me with his horse teeth. ‘You remember the first time you turned a hard case around, David? The very first tough sale you brought in with no one’s help?’

‘The first sale I made,’ I answered.

Milt nodded. I knew he wasn’t thinking about my first sale, though he had been there. He was thinking about his own. ‘Every sale was like that for your dad.’

He thought about it for a moment. ‘The day he died he said to me, “I got some folks coming in tomorrow, Milt. If I’m not here, you take them yourself. They’re buyers. I don’t want them to get away!” So I asked him why he wouldn’t be here. Tubs never missed a day of work in his life. He said he thought he had a touch of the flu. Hadn’t felt good all day. David, your old man sold three cars for me thinking he had the flu. Turned out he’d had a heart attack that morning!

Most people can’t sell three cars on their best day.

And all he could think about was making sure we got the next one. Did he
like
it? He lived it, brother! You had his talent, too. Tubs said so himself.’ Milt shook his head with a bit of sadness. ‘But I could see after the first couple of summers you weren’t going to stay with it. Your skills got better but your heart wasn’t in it!’

‘I guess I just realized I was never going to be as good as the old man.’

Milt shook his head, but he wasn’t disagreeing with me. ‘Tubs used to say God calls the preachers, but the Devil calls the salesmen, and the worst of us peddle cars. You don’t spend your life out here in the wastelands unless it’s your calling. Not that I wouldn’t trade places with you! You go into that classroom and even if you’re not having a good day they hand you a pay check! Huh? Am I right? They ever cut your check back for a bad lecture?’

‘It’s a hell of a gig,’ I said.

‘Just don’t let it turn you soft, friend. You lose the edge, you lose everything. Your dad taught me that!’

I GOT HOME FROM DEKALB late Saturday afternoon. The horses were already in the barn. I walked down the hill and went across the road to the little house where Billy Wade lived. Wade was in a cheerful mood as usual. He got in a better mood after I handed him the money for taking care of Ahab and Jezebel.

‘Any problems?’ I asked. The giant shook his head.

‘You see that Mercury Marquis drive by?’

‘He came out every day!’ I reached for my wallet.

‘Naw, Dave. I’m funning you! He only came out one time!’

I handed Wade another twenty. ‘What did he do?’

‘It was after dark. I walked out to that service road way on out there. It was that Merc you was asking about, all right.’

‘You write down the license plate number?’

Wade seemed embarrassed. ‘I sure didn’t. You didn’t tell me to, did you?’ I told him it was my mistake. I said to go on. ‘Nothing more to tell. I went back to the house and watched. He drove away maybe an hour after that. Maybe an hour-and-a-half in all.’

‘Next time, you come up to the house and let me know while he’s still here. Can you do that?’

Wade slapped my shoulder. He told me not to worry.

The house was cold, and I nudged the thermostat up and surveyed the house for some evidence of a break-in. The windows and doors were all secure. My papers were all in place. Nothing had changed, but I had the feeling Buddy had been inside the house.

I glanced at the mail, flipped through the newspapers, then went to my office and checked my e-mail.

In the kitchen I noticed the light on the answering machine blinking. I pushed the button. Eight messages.

The first was a prof I knew in Sociology. He wanted to know if I had heard anything about Walt’s suicide.

I didn’t bothering listening to the rest. I went back to my office and got the papers out. I found the article in Saturday’s paper. Hardly more than a note in Regional News, actually, it reported that the bodies of Walter and Barbara Beery had been discovered at their residence Friday evening by their son Roger. The sheriff’s department was investigating the possibility of foul play.

I went online, hoping for more details, but there were no updates. I went back to the answering machine.

Six calls from different people at the university, two hang-ups. I started calling until I got what I wanted.

Randy Winston had the details. Walt had apparently visited Barbara on Thursday, Thanksgiving Day. I said I knew about that. What happened? Nobody knew. At some point during the afternoon Walt had walked up behind Barbara and drove a carving knife into her back.

Walt had then hanged himself from a rafter in the garage.

I called the McBrides. Doc answered. He told me Molly was out for the evening. Did I want to talk to Lucy? I said no, but I needed to talk to Molly as soon as possible. Could he leave a message for her to call me the minute she got in? He could do that.

Because I didn’t want to break off too abruptly, I thanked Doc for calling Judge Hollis.

‘Glad I could help, David. I told Jimmy that wasn’t like you at all.’

‘No, sir, it wasn’t,’ I answered equably. ‘I usually land the first punch, and that’s the end of it.’

Doc McBride laughed as if I had made a joke.

Molly called me the following morning. ‘Sorry I missed your call,’ she told me when I answered, ‘but I thought if he’s going out I might as well too.’

The two hang-ups on the machine now made sense.

‘I went to DeKalb,’ I said.

‘You tell them about us?’

‘Molly,’ I said, ‘listen to me. I’ve got some bad news.’

AS SOON AS I TOLD HER about Walt and Barbara, Molly said she wanted to fly up for the funeral.

I didn’t have the details just then, so I hung up and started calling around again. By the time I got the information and called back, Molly had switched Lucy’s return flight. The two of them would be coming in that night. I said I would pick them up, but she told me not to bother. She had to rent a car anyway. Best just to get it at the airport, since she would be flying back the following Sunday. One week, I thought. One last chance.

THE TWO OF THEM GOT in late that evening. I had the master bedroom set up for Molly, and I took a little monk’s cell on the third floor with a view to the back one-forty.

We got Lucy off to school the next morning and settled ourselves down so we could go through the tragedy of Walt and Barbara. The Sunday and Monday papers filled in some of the gaps, but I had found no one who knew more than Randy Winston. The paper was now calling it a murder-suicide, but that was all we knew. There was a nice summation of Walt’s early career, however. It mentioned both of his books,
The
Origins of Chivalry
and
On Courtly Love
, calling
Courtly Love
the definitive text in the field, even thirty years after its initial publication. There were several quotes included from various colleagues. The irony was even his most vitriolic detractors had sweet words for the man now. There were hints of course among these same people that the whole thing made sense. Words appeared in their remarks like stress, counselling, separation, difficulties. With a bit of imagination a reader could understand that Walt was a raging alcoholic with a bad marriage and troubles at work. Other than that it was a tasteful enough send off.

None of it, though, made sense to Molly or me. I suppose we knew Walt too well. Walt wasn’t a violent drunk. Walt could be a laughing drunk or a sad drunk, even a bashful drunk, but never a violent one. The closest I had ever seen him to rage was the time another scholar quoted him out of context. Walt had slapped his hand on the table, rattling his bottles, and announced that the Inquisition had not been an entirely bad idea.

Pick up a knife? The man couldn’t even carve a Thanksgiving turkey. I went through the last talk Walt and I had. Optimistic, I told Molly. ‘He told me Barbara had agreed to talk about reconciliation.’