Henry listened to Riggs, his mind turning over rapidly. What the hell was this? Was this sincere, or just another misdirection?
“So,” Riggs went on, “I had Alvin look up some of this stuff, and he has a name and a town for you. Dates way back, ten, fifteen years, and maybe it ain’t gonna get you to her, but it’s something more than the nothing you’ve got right now. You go on over to Alvin’s place and he’ll give you what he found.”
“Seriously?” Henry asked. “You’re really giving me a hand with this?”
“No, son. I ain’t helpin’ you none. If I’m helpin’ anyone, it’s Evan.”
Riggs looked at Evie. “You know where Alvin lives, right?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“You go on over there now. He’s got the information I told you about.”
“That’s much appreciated, Sheriff,” Henry said.
“We shall see what happens, eh?” Riggs said. He put on his hat, his sunglasses, and he opened the door of the car. He paused, turned back. “Actually,” he added, “you can save me a journey.” He reached in through the window and took out a package.
“Just old parking tickets and whatever, all expired, but we gotta store ’em for two years. Old Alvin has a mountain of the things in his garage. Don’t have room for them in the office.”
Riggs tossed the package to Henry and Henry caught it. It was as it appeared—just a stack of tickets, all bound together and bagged in plastic.
“You just give that to Alvin for me, would you, son?”
“Sure thing, Sheriff,” Henry said.
Riggs got into the car and started the engine. He backed up, paused to look out the window at Henry.
“Too many years have gone by for me to stay angry, I guess,” he said. “Just the thought of it wears me out.”
Without another word, he turned onto the street and drove away.
“Something is fucked up,” Evie said. “I know it.”
“Let’s go see what Alvin Lang has to say for himself, then, shall we?”
“I don’t like it, Henry,” she said. “Somethin’ really ain’t right here.”
“So, what do you want to do? You want to quit on me now?”
“Not sayin’ that, and you know it,” she said. “Just sayin’ that it seems mighty strange for him to be doin’ the Mr. Helpful thing all of a sudden.”
“Maybe it’s one of those times when what someone says and what someone means are actually the same.”
Evie frowned. “Are you just dumb or naive or both, Henry Quinn?”
“Both, I guess,” he said, smiling. “It’s all part of the charm, you know?”
“Get in the car,” she said. “Let’s go see how deep this shit goes.”
Alvin Lang was on the porch when Henry and Evie pulled up in front of his house. He was in jeans and a T-shirt, seemed incongruous out of uniform, as if his head no longer suited his body.
“Howdy there,” he called as they exited the pickup.
Evie raised her hand in greeting. Henry picked up the package of spent tickets and walked up the drive. When he reached the steps, he said, “Got a package here from Sheriff Riggs.”
“That them tickets?”
“’S what he said.”
Alvin nodded at a small table beside the swing hammock. “Set it down there, son,” he said.
Henry did as he was asked.
“So, Sheriff Riggs asked me to make a few phone calls and check a few things out on this here Evan’s daughter business,” Lang said. “Said I should give you what I got, let you take it from there.”
“Did you find out her name, where she lives now?” Henry asked.
“Her name? Nope. Didn’t find that. However, I did find something. Doesn’t harm to have your granddaddy be the lieutenant governor of Texas. People tend to jump when you play that card.” He gave a self-satisfied smile, as if he had been personally responsible for his grandfather’s election success. “Anyway, it seems she went out to some place in Menard, far as I can figure. Some kinda orphanage, I guess. Whether it’s still there, where they kept records of where she went once she was growed up, who knows? But that’s what I got for you.”
“Is there any paperwork?” Henry asked.
“There is some paperwork, sure.”
“Can we look at it?”
Alvin smiled, shook his head. “We got ourselves a misunderstandin’ here. When I said there was paperwork, there
is
paperwork, of course, but ain’t no kind of paperwork we’re s’posed to be lookin’ at. This is confidential stuff, you know? Hell of a thing Sheriff Riggs done for his brother here, and if someone found out that he was snoopin’ around in stuff like this … well, let’s just say that it might compromise his pristine service record with the Sheriff’s Department. You just take what you got and be grateful, son. Orphanage in Menard, like I said.”
“That’s very much appreciated, Deputy,” Henry said.
“Nothin’ at all to me, Mr. Quinn. Like I done said, Sheriff Riggs had a change o’ heart. After all that happened between him and that crazy son-of-a-bitch brother o’ his, I think that shows the kind of forgiveness you rarely see in a man.”
“What—” Henry started, and knew immediately that it was one question too far.
“Conversation’s done, Mr. Quinn. You go on about your business. Oh, and if you want a word of advice, I wouldn’t go drivin’ on up to Menard today. It is Sunday, after all, and some folks don’t take too kindly to unexpected visits on a Sunday.”
“Understood,” Henry said. “And thank you.”
Alvin Lang merely nodded, turned, and went back into the house.
Henry and Evie got back in the truck.
“I don’t like this even more than I thought,” Evie said. “Somethin’ seems really fuckin’ out of whack here.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Henry said, and started the motor.
Despite strenuous efforts to locate Evan Riggs, he could not be found. His mother, ever the wisest of the Riggs clan, suspected this was due to the fact that he did not wish to be found.
“To hell with him,” was Carson’s response when—two days before the wedding—he was informed that the likelihood of his younger brother being there was growing ever more unlikely.
“Warren can be best man,” Carson said.
“Warren Garfield?” his mother asked.
“Sure, why the hell not? He’s a good man. Reliable, you know?” Carson seemed settled on the idea. “I’m sure he’ll do it,” he added soberly, as if what was being proposed was a posse heading for the Diablo Plateau after cutthroats and brigands of the worst kind.
“Town lawyer seems an odd choice,” Grace told William.
William shook his head. “Garfield’s a little man trying to be bigger,” he said. “He’ll do whatever Carson tells him to do—always has done, always will. Not a good situation for the sheriff to have the law in his pocket like that.”
“You don’t think Carson’s doing a good job as sheriff?” Grace asked.
William smiled wryly. “I have no doubt that he’s doing a good job, my sweet. My only concern is that he’s doing
too
good a job.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“Man thinks he’s being done a favor when the sheriff lets the odd traffic ticket slide, when some complaint about steer grazing where they shouldn’t is overlooked. Sometimes things a little more serious, you know? All well and good until the sheriff comes asking for a favor in return.”
Grace frowned. “In plain English, if you don’t mind, William Riggs,” she said, but William would not be further pressed for details.
She wondered if there wasn’t some sort of small-town conspiracy going on, her sense of unease precipitated more by ignorance than indirect involvement.
Thus it was: Warren Garfield was asked, and Warren Garfield accepted. It was a substantial wedding by Calvary standards, and after word got out that Grace Riggs would not be pleased to once again be asked as to the whereabouts of her youngest, the subject was no longer raised. Truth was, Evan knew all about the wedding, had received at least two of the telegrams, but the prospect of watching his older brother marry Rebecca Wyatt could not be faced. On the day in question—Saturday, March 12, 1949—Evan could have been found in a bar near the junction of Red River and East 7th, and though he did raise a glass to his brother and new sister-in-law, it was his fifth or sixth glass, and he would have happily raised a glass to the revocation of American independence. Their marriage was a fleeting thought; the memory of that night with Rebecca was not.
Evan was alone again, and Evan did not believe he was at his best when alone. That was a viewpoint unshared by those who considered him a friend. When Evan was in love, he was besotted. When Evan was angered, he was, in fact, outraged and terrifying. When Evan was morose or nostalgic, he was closer to abject depression. Evan Riggs did nothing by halves. Just as when he drank, everything was in doubles and triples, sometimes forgoing the glass altogether and swallowing life straight from the bottle.
He made money, but he just as quickly lost it. He was not extravagant, just irresponsible. He bought guitars, pawned them, retrieved them only to pawn them again three days later. He slept on couches, floors, one time in a doorway and was tanked for the night by the cops. That he had made a moderately successful record counted for nothing. It was Austin; everyone and his cousin had made a moderately successful record.
The Whiskey Poet
, though acknowledged as an adequate representation of a more-than-adequate talent, was six months old, and that flurry of excited sales right before Christmas had tailed off. Herman Russell and Leland Soames were after him for another record. Crooked Cow was not a sufficiently established label to survive on back catalog alone. They needed new material, and if that material wasn’t coming from signed names, then it had to come from new blood. Only so many times would Herman drive from Abilene to Austin to drag Evan Riggs out of some drunken self-loathing funk. Soon that gas would be put to better use taking him to those selfsame county fairs and talent shows where Henry Quinn would later be discovered. There were new singer-songwriters everywhere. Texas was good for oil, good barbecue rubs, longhorn steers, and balladeers. That’s what it did best, and Herman was a hound for the latter.
Back in Calvary, the newly-married Riggses were spoiled for choice. There was ample space at both the Riggs and Wyatt spreads, and then there was Carson’s place in town. Alongside the badge and the salary, the sheriff was afforded a comfortable two-bedroom apartment in Calvary center. It was here that Rebecca chose to live, excited at the prospect of furnishing it the way she wanted, having her own place away from home, she and Carson maintaining their own schedule, eating at their own table, waking in their own bed. Carson gave her what she wanted. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind, least of all Carson’s, that he had secured himself the best wife a man could have wished for east of the Pecos. He was not infatuated or smitten; he was not Evan when it came to such matters, but he was altogether satiated with love for the girl. See him on the street, he in uniform, she in whatever finery he had paid for, and he was big boss with the hot sauce. All that Calvary was waiting for was news of a baby, and that news came soon enough.
Rebecca told Carson that he was going to be a father in April. He lit up like a Roman candle and whirled through Calvary in pretty much the same fashion, telling everyone who crossed his path that he was going to be a daddy, and those who didn’t cross his path as well.
They headed out to see her father, dragged him along to the Riggs farm, and there they made the announcement. William, old-school when it came to such things, saw the Riggs name passing down the line with the farm. Had he ever doubted that Carson would give him grandchildren? No, he had not. Had he doubted Evan would do the same? Most definitely. He was reassured, at least, that neither the county nor the state would be selling his farm and donating the proceeds to some so-called community purse.
“Couldn’t be more proud of you, son,” William told his eldest. They stood on the veranda together, smoking a ritual cigar. William had kept a box for such occasions, though knowing nothing about the correct manner in which to store good cigars, they had dried out. Tasted like maize stalks rolled in damp newspaper, but neither uttered a word of complaint.
“She’s a great girl,” Carson said. “Love her dearly, Pa. I really do. And she’s gonna be an excellent mother.”
“No doubt about that,” William said. “Heart the size of Texas and then some.”
“You heard word from Evan?”
“Not a sound,” William said. “But that don’t trouble me none. Evan is Evan. He’s his own start and finish, and no one knows how he gets from one to the other.”
“He wasn’t here for the wedding, and now he’s not here for this.”
William turned to Carson. “You worried about him?”
Carson smiled. “’S what brothers do, Pa. Worry for one another even when there’s no reason for it. Just sad that he ain’t as close to the family.”
William shrugged. “You don’t choose family, son. Family gets chose for you. I know he loves us just as much as we love him, but that don’t mean he’s gotta see us three times a week.”
“I know, Pa. I know. Just a shame that he ain’t here, that he don’t know he’s gonna be an uncle.”
“Oh, I’ll guess we’ll get word to him soon enough, and I am sure he’s gonna be overjoyed. He was always good with the little ’uns. Kids always gravitated to him for some reason. Maybe ’cause he has some kinda artistic thing, you know?”
“Sure he’ll be overjoyed,” Carson echoed, and the conversation drifted away in some other direction and Evan was not mentioned again until later.
“You will tell Evan, won’t you?” was the next time his name was raised, and it was raised by Rebecca as she dried dishes with Grace in the Riggses’ kitchen. Dinner had been nothing but smiles and laughter, and had anyone missed Evan, they did not show it.
“Of course we’ll tell him,” Grace replied. And then with a knowing smile, she added, “Once we manage to track him down.”
“I’m still sad that he didn’t come to the wedding.”
“No need for that,” Grace said. “What’s done is done.”
“I guess I’d just like to know why.”
Grace turned and looked at her daughter-in-law. “If you are trying to draw me into a conversation about you and Evan, then it ain’t gonna work, girl,” she said. “And if you really don’t know why he didn’t come, then you’re a great deal dumber than you look, and I’ll be advising Carson to divorce you as soon as he possibly can.”
Rebecca colored up.
Grace handed her another dish from the sink.
There were words on Grace’s lips that she couldn’t bring herself to utter, and so she did not.
There was a fear in Rebecca’s mind—more than a fear, a terrifying certainty—and she would no more have voiced it than she would have told Grace Riggs what happened between herself and Evan that night of the party. The fact that the one might have led directly to the other was the issue, and she hoped against all odds that this was not the case. However, whatever she might have wished for, there was a line in one of Evan Riggs’s songs that was coming back to haunt her like a ghost.
Even if no one else ever knows the truth, I still know I done you wrong.
Like someone would later comment,
Take those pretty tunes away and you may as well have called it a confession
. Not solely for the singer, but for the listener as well.
By the time the first trimester came up, Rebecca was already talking nursery colors and Carson was doing his damnedest to appear enthused. To be frank, he didn’t see a great deal of difference between
sunshine yellow
and
French marigold
, but he tried not to make his limited spectral differentiation skills become a topic for heated discussion. He was excited, yes; he was nervous, of course, but the color of a nursery wall seemed relatively insignificant in the face of the pregnancy itself. He wanted Doc Sperling to do all the checks he needed to do and tell them that there was a baby in there and that everything was A-OK.
Doc Sperling did the checkup. It was Thursday, July twenty-first, and Carson translated Rebecca’s nervousness as only natural considering what was going on. He was anxious, too, but for the right reason; he just wanted to know that everything was as it should be, that there were no
complications
. He had heard this word in such a context before, and to him they sounded less like
complications
and more like natural disasters.
Doc Sperling said nothing beyond the routine as the examination was undertaken, but Rebecca sensed there were questions unasked.
“What?” she eventually said.
Sperling tried to look surprised, but he was no natural-born liar.
“Seriously, Roy … You look like you got a fly in your ear. What’s bugging you?”
“I gotta ask, Rebecca … I just gotta ask, but I don’t want to.”
Rebecca’s color visibly paled. Had she said she didn’t know what was coming, she would have been lying.
“I need to ask whether you and Carson were … well, whether you were intimate before you got married.”
Rebecca closed her eyes. Her heart deflated like a slow-punctured balloon. That feeling in the pit of her stomach, a feeling that had sat there like a cold stone ever since that night with Evan, suddenly became burning hot, hot enough to sear right through her and kill her where she sat.
“W-w-why d-d’you ask, Doc?”
“You gonna answer the question, Rebecca?”
“Tell me why you’re asking, Roy …” she said, her voice faltering at the end, because she knew well enough why he was asking. She prayed that what she feared most and what he was about tell her were not one and the same thing.
“You’re into your second trimester, my dear … no question. I’d say you were not so far from the start of your third.”
Rebecca didn’t speak.
“So, my question stands,” Sperling said. “Do we got a problem here?”
It was a long time before she responded, and when she did, it was a barely noticeable nod of the head.
“Evan?” Sperling asked, to which Rebecca said nothing, and Sperling merely repeated Evan’s name, this time as a statement rather than a question.
“Night of the party,” Sperling said, almost to himself. “When was that? Start of February. That would put you at about twenty-three weeks. Makes sense, from what I can see.”
“Oh, God—” she said.
“Calm yourself,” Sperling said. “Let’s work this out now, my dear. There’s no need for Carson to know—”
“What do you mean, there’s no need for him to know?” Rebecca said, suddenly coming to life. “I’m going to have his brother’s baby. And to answer your question, no, we were never intimate before we were married. I am two months further along than I should be, Roy … How the hell do you hide something like that, and what kind of wife would I be to have such a secret? He has to know.” And with that she got up, almost as if marching out to the waiting room and announcing this revelation was her immediate plan.
“Sit,” Sperling said, and grabbed her arm.
Rebecca sat.
“Listen to me, Rebecca. You have more than yourself and your husband to think about now. You have to think about your father, Carson’s folks, the entirety of Calvary, if you want me to be brutally honest. Carson is the sheriff here. He has a certain position, a certain reputation. You have any idea of the damage that could be done if this comes out without some sort of strategy?”
A sense of numbness was overtaking Rebecca’s emotions. Not knowing what to feel beyond utter terror, she had perhaps decided that the safest option was to try to feel nothing. Maybe there was no conscious decision at all, her mind just shutting down on her like a worn-out engine.
“Of course he needs to know, Rebecca,” Sperling said. “But I don’t think you should be the one to tell him, and I don’t think he should know now.”