Текст книги "House of Sand and Fog"

Автор книги: Andre Dubus

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

And at night, lying beside Carol, he’d dream of the parking lot and all of them waiting for him. One night his own wife and children were out there too, and even figures from his childhood, Pablo Muñoz, standing there holding Charita’s severed head in his hands like it was something of Lester’s he’d left behind.

By the third or fourth week of training, Lester would feel he knew the young man behind the wheel fairly well. They’d been spending nine to ten hours a day, five days a week, in a car together. Most of them were gym-hardened and in their early twenties, a slight shaving rash on the throat or upper cheek. And as he and his fully armed student drove through their assigned territory, either the wide green estates of Portola Valley or past the tenements and broken blacktop playgrounds of East Palo Alto, the bodegas, the barrooms with painted-over windows, the boarded-up drugstores, Lester passed on some basic tools and practices of the shift: the proper way to write clear traffic collision and crime reports, what to do when you discover a stolen vehicle, how you go about calling in a vehicle ID over the radio and get access to the computer through the dispatcher.

But a deputy’s training wasn’t all filled with material from the FTO Manual. Lester made a point of asking them questions about their home life, their childhood, why they were going into law enforcement in the first place. One boy, his face still full and soft-looking, said he hadn’t made it through marine boot camp in San Diego, so he decided to try this instead. It was rare for Lester to hear such a naked admission from a trainee. Usually most of them spoke in slogans, the kind of language you see on military recruiting posters on bulletin boards in community colleges: I want to make a difference. I need to make a contribution. I don’t know, I feel the need to serve.And that was all fine, but Lester noticed that eventually, as one hour became the next, one day another, spilling into weeks, more than one trainee would begin to open up a bit about his family, the muscles in his face seeming to stiffen as he mentioned his father or mother, the one who was either gone when he was still very young, or else stayed around the house much longer than was good for anyone. They spoke in vague terms like this, hunched slightly over the wheel, looking out the windshield into the sunlight at all the civilians in cars or on foot, and once again Lester would see himself, someone who wanted not only to clean up everybody else’s act, but to make the world safe again by doing so, to make it right once and for all.

LESTER WENT INSIDE the cabin, lit the Coleman gas lantern, then took it out to the clearing and set it on the ground while he gathered an armful of logs for the iron stove. It was too dark now to see the fog in the trees and the clearing anymore, but the air was still heavy with it and he could smell the ocean, that and the almost earth-yielding scent of split hardwood. It wasn’t cool enough to light a fire really, but he wanted it there anyway.

The gas lantern let off a breathing hiss and gave off a white light that gave Lester no comfort at all, and as he carried an armful of wood inside, he felt a well of self-loathing that comfort was what he craved; his young daughter was at home practically holding her breath, and what he really wanted was for Kathy Nicolo to walk into this one-room cabin lit up by the flames from the stove, a sleeping bag laid out on the floor in front of it, for the two of them to undress without a word, to make love without a word, then lie there, their sweat reflecting the firelight, and just feel what they would be now, the two of them. Kathy and Lester.

He lit the balled newspaper under the kindling, then got on his hands and knees and blew the flames higher, the newspaper perforated with heat, glowing orange. And he wanted that fireball to be inside him, incinerating those black tentacles. But it wasn’t fear, was it? No, it was doubt. Black doubt. And it wasn’t comfort he wanted from Kathy, it was reassurance, the silent kind that can show itself in the stillness after lovemaking, the kind that lives beyond speech. He didn’t want to hear from Kathy that he was doing the right thing, because honestly, she could never know that. Only hecould know that. And he also knew this knowledge would not be complete until he held her again, right now. It was why he didn’t drive straight to Alvarez’s office, and it was why he didn’t take his daughter for a drive or walk and tell her the truth of what was happening. Everything and everyone was stuck in time. It seemed like a month since early this morning when he’d given Kathy a distracted kiss before she backed her car up for him to leave. Where wasshe?

He squatted in front of the stove and laid in two split logs, the ash rising up, some clinging lightly to his forearm. He stepped back and watched the wood begin to burn. The fire seemed to at first diminish but then grow, blue-and-green flames flicking like snake tongues up through gaps between both logs, rising up around the smooth bark, lighting up what it would soon devour. The room felt suddenly too small, and Lester went back outside and stood on the porch, his hands in his back pockets. He thought of Alvarez probably writing up a report on his having disobeyed a direct order. That wasn’t good. Men got terminated for that. But they also had sloppy jackets, a code violation here, a write-up there. Despite Lester’s excessive arrests, his jacket was clean, not a coffee ring on it. And every time the Civil Service exam was announced, he’d get a memo from Captain Baldini’s office suggesting he take it, move to the top seven, then complete the Civil Service Board interview for promotion to sergeant. Career enhancement, the captain called it.

But now there was the colonel incident to contend with. Only a couple of hours ago Lester could have driven into Redwood City and denied it all. His word against some rich Iranian son of a bitch who most likely wasn’t even a U.S. citizen. But now, because he hadn’t shown up, Lester’s integrity and judgment would be called into question and so too would his innocence. Assuming that’s what Alvarez wanted to confront him about in the first place. But Lester felt reasonably certain it could be nothing else. It would have been relatively easy for the colonel to go to Redwood City and file a complaint against a Deputy Sheriff Gonzalez only to find out he did not exist. This would have definitely piqued the curiosity of a prick like Alvarez. He’d probably served the colonel coffee and had him go through the department’s photo ID catalog. And Lester thought again how he should have considered all this before he ever put on his uniform and went to Kathy’s house, once again his emotion overruling his better judgment.

But he didn’t want to get caught up in a vortex of “should haves.” Regret was Fear’s big sister, the one he believed should never be let in the door. Lester preferred to watch Regret from the safety of an interior window, watch her standing there on the stoop beneath the light waiting patiently, always patiently, to be let in, her long hair prematurely gray, stiff with cold. Sometimes Regret would turn to him and smile at him through the window, beckoning him, her teeth straight and clean and transparent as wet ice. For years now she had been standing at Lester’s door, waiting, and sometimes she wore a wedding gown, a constant reminder that only two or three years into his marriage with Carol, he realized it was her conviction he had proposed to, her way of looking at the world with such an angry and compassionate eye.

He had assumed, because of her defense of organized religion in their ethics class, that she was some kind of born-again evangelist. But then he’d see her between classes working a political leaflet table on one of the library patios under the sun. Her blond hair was long then, and she usually let it hang freely past her shoulders and down her back. She’d wear shorts, and her legs were thick and tanned and muscular. One afternoon she’d be volunteering at the Palestinians for Self-Rule table, on another day it would be the South African Alliance to End Apartheid, and on another the Coalition Against Intervention and Oppression. She was working that one alone, sitting in the shade of a conifer eating a falafel pita sandwich when Lester walked over and introduced himself. She nodded and said she recognized him from class, which emboldened him because it was a class of a hundred and fifty students. He asked her what kind of intervention and oppression her coalition addressed.

“Multinational corporate intervention,” she said, chewing slowly.

“Like what?”

She looked him up and down, from his cowboy boots to his black Waylon Jennings road tour T-shirt. Then she drank from her bottled mineral water and pushed a pamphlet toward him. He told her he was a sociology major and had too much to read as it was, could she just give him a sentence or two? Months later, she said she was used to getting baited by Young Republicans and frat boys who would just end up cutting her off, calling her anti-American and a slut, but there was something in the way he had asked that made her talk; it was the sincerity in his voice, the lanky, slope-shouldered way he stood in front of her, his deep brown eyes empty of any judgment. And so she began to talk, and talk, unloading three history courses worth of news: the United States Marines being sent into Nicarauga in the early thirties to kill hungry peasants for United Fruit, the CIA killing the elected leader of Iran in 1953 for oil fields for the Rockefellers, the U.S. government supporting the fourteen murderous families who own all the land of El Salvador. She talked and talked, her cheeks flushed red, her voice getting raspy. Lester finally sat on the ground next to the table, listening, feeling he was in the presence of someone he hadn’t seen in a long, long time, someone who was as easily outraged by the unfairness of things as he was. The campus streetlamps began to come on, she began to run out of gas, and he asked her across town to an outdoor hamburger and beer stand overlooking a pink flamingo miniature golf course. They drank two and a half pitchers of beer and ate very little and they talked of their plans after school; she was going to travel to all the battle zones of the world with a camera and notebook and capture the truth of American imperialism, and Lester said he had no idea what he wanted to do, but whatever it was he wanted it to be good, he wanted to do good.And this seemed to touch something in her. She stopped talking and looked at him, her eyes slightly glazed, her lips parted as if she couldn’t quite take in what she had just heard. She looked to him the way he felt, sweetly, almost sadly drunk; and they went back to her dorm room, wedged a chair beneath the knob in case Carol’s roommate came home, and made love on the floor with their shirts still on.

The following spring they were married a month before commencement and three months before Bethany was born. Lester got a job with a custodial company cleaning restaurants from midnight to dawn, spending the mornings sleeping and the afternoons caring for Bethany while Carol took a photography course at the community college. Some days he’d tuck the baby into her carrier and go too, staying in the vocational guidance office to peruse graduate school manuals while Bethany slept or cried and he’d hold her and walk around the small office humming his daughter a tune, glancing at the announcements and posters on the walls. One afternoon a new one caught his eye, a huge color photograph of a young cop, barely thirty, a handsome Latino, standing between a man and woman, one hand pressed gently against the man’s chest, the fingers of the cop’s other hand just barely touching the woman’s wrist. Her red hair was tousled and her eyes were wet from crying. The man’s hands hung at his sides in loose fists, and he was looking down at the ground listening to or enduring what the cop had to say. Beneath this photo was WORLD PEACE BEGINS AT HOME, the phone number of the local police department, and a hotline number for the victims of domestic abuse. And there was something about the young cop’s face—the strong jut of his jaw that seemed to keep the man in line that Lester had seen always on other men, and standing there holding his baby daughter to his chest, it felt like the time had come to finally try and take on that look himself. Soon he was at the academy, then out on patrol as a trainee, and when he became a deputy sheriff they bought the small house in the Eureka Fields complex in Millbrae. Carol got work as a part-time stringer for two local newspapers, and she covered town meetings, dog shows, and land dispute hearings. She was paid twenty-five dollars a story, and even though they weren’t the kind of muckraking exposés she was still interested in, she told Lester she was content to be working at a job that challenged her, yet also gave her the time and flexibility to be a mother and a wife.

And there was the trouble; once the university life was behind them, once Carol’s intellectual fires and righteous indignation had died down, Lester began to feel something wasn’t quite there between the two of them, something as essential as this: that despite her loving company, her dry wit and erudite conversation, her good south-of-the-border cooking, even the warm timbre of her voice, Lester was no longer drawn to touch her, to hold her, kiss her, taste her, or smell her. And when he did, it never felt quite right. It was as if he was gearing himself to make love with a close relative, someone from his own family. It saddened and nearly disgusted him that this was all that seemed to separate him from Carol. It made him feel shallow and immature, almost scatological. Over the years, out on the street or on patrol, Lester saw women he could imagine loving, and sometimes he would take their image home with him—the bounce of one’s hair, the sway of another’s hips beneath her skirt, or the dark eyes of another that held the promise of something more sensual than intellectual. And while his wife and two small children were downstairs or outside, sometimes he’d lock himself in the bathroom, turn on the faucets, and like a teenage boy masturbate into the sink. And Regret grew only more insistent. She didn’t just wait on his stoop any longer, she began to rap her icy knuckles against the door.

Lester began to feel as inauthentic a man as was possible, living in a marriage he no longer felt, working as a law enforcer when he’d never been able to face any man down on his own, to serve or protect anyone without the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department behind him. He began to imagine leaving Carol, just packing up and renting an apartment on the other side of town. But then he would think immediately of Bethany and Nate, their small round faces looking up at him in mute disbelief just before they cried, and cried. Also, he would be responsible for supporting two households. There would be child support, maybe even alimony, and the mortgage payments too, none of which, combined, he would ever be able to handle with his salary.

But this was not the whole story of why he stayed, and he knew it. Sometimes, while out on overnight patrol, driving down the dark empty streets or back roads at three or four in the morning, his dispatch radio turned low, sipping a cool coffee, he knew what it was, and he would allow himself to acknowledge that bright Saturday morning in his boyhood in June, the used white station wagon their father had bought for his move to Brownsville, Texas, parked in front of their house on Natoma Street. It was the trunk and two suitcases on top. It was the way the late-morning sun made everything almost too bright to look at, the white wagon and its whitewall tires, his father’s white button-down shirt, the way his gut always pushed his belt buckle out, which was bright too. It was Lester’s twelve-year-old brother’s T-shirt as he helped their father tie the canvas to the shining chrome rack. It was the smell of coffee and biscuits coming from the house, the way his mother had made everyone breakfast as though this was a normal Saturday morning. It was the way she’d served them plates of eggs, pouring the boys juice and milk, their father coffee, all the while asking her husband sincere-sounding questions about his new job with the border patrol in Brownsville, as if he didn’t already have a job in Chula Vista, as if he was moving to Texas for them. But mostly it was the way she stayed in the house when it was time for their father to leave, the way he patted her shoulder once on his way out the door, like she’d just gotten some bad news he had nothing to do with. Lester sat on the porch steps and he could feel the whole quiet house at his back. And his father just stood there on the bright sidewalk, his hands on his hips, a package of Tareyton’s straining against his heart pocket, and he looked at sixteen-year-old Lester sitting on the steps like he was waiting for his firstborn son to do the polite thing and stand and see him off. His father glanced at the house behind Lester, then looked at him again, nodding once, as if to say, “Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it.” Then he shook his youngest son’s hand. Lester’s brother began to cry, and their father turned as quickly away as if it was something private he wasn’t supposed to see. It was hearing the wagon’s engine start up, watching the car pull away from the curb and move past the adobe row houses in the open sunlight for the stop sign at the corner of Las Lomas. It was seeing just the side of his crying brother’s face as he watched the car grow smaller, his thin shoulders jerking up and down, his hands hanging loose at his sides. It was looking back at the corner and seeing no car at all. It was how hot it got that day, the way you could smell the old paint in the trim boards, the dog shit in the adjoining yard, the dry concrete of the sidewalk, the lumber from the building supply warehouse across the street.

For almost a decade with Carol, all the heat and light of that one day was enough to keep the cool regret of his own marital decision at bay. But everything changed when he walked into that little house on the hill in Corona with a suit from the civil division, Kathy Nicolo Lazaro appearing in her terry-cloth bathrobe, her toenails painted pink, her hair wild, her small dark face all incredulous but brave about the news they delivered. Lester had felt a wanting rise in him so deep and immediate his throat flushed, but still he couldn’t look away from this Mrs. Lazaro as he watched her take in the bad news about her house, as he stood there in his uniform and gun belt, his desire so fierce it could almost be a noise in the room. And that changed too, his feeling there was no room to move. With his hunger for Kathy came the new belief that maybe it wasn’t too late. And this feeling only grew when on a hard wide bed at the Eureka Motor Lodge she actually took him inside her, took in his hunger with a hunger of her own that was dark and slick and more heated than any day in Chula Vista. Regret seemed to slide away from his stoop, and with her absence came a picture in his head of having a place of his own, a house where his children would have their own rooms. Maybe a house on a hill in Corona. Kathy had hinted at this scenario, the fact her house had three bedrooms. Then Lester would only have to deal with child support payments and maybe half the mortgage on the house in Millbrae that wouldn’t be his anymore. He could manage that. Maybe it was time he did take Captain Baldini up on one of his memos and go for his sergeant’s stripes and the raise in salary that went with it. And with a sudden heat in his face Lester thought again of shirking off Alvarez; that wasn’t smart. Maybe he should drive down there now and slip a note under Alvarez’s door, offer his apologies and explain that circumstances beyond his control had kept him from reporting in. And that would be accurate, wouldn’t it? But that would take too long, and Kathy might show up while he was gone.

Lester went back inside the cabin and in the light from the fire in the stove he wrote her a note on the back of a grocery bag:

It’s almost eight. Don’t go anywhere, Kathy Nicolo. I’m off to make a call to work.

I love you.

Les

He put the bag on the table. Then, to draw her attention to it, he placed the empty wine bottle on top. He swung the fire door shut on the stove, then went out to the clearing lit by the stark light of the hissing Coleman lantern, picked it up, and walked back up the trail to his car. He hoped Kathy’s Bonneville would pull into the turnoff road right then. But the road was dark and quiet, the cracked asphalt covered by a fog bed that, when he drove through it, rose swirling over his hood and windshield like spirits. He felt momentarily that he was somewhere exotic and dangerous, and he thought of the Iranian colonel, the photograph of him at a party with one of the richest sons of bitches in the world, a man with his own secret police force. The night Lester paid him a visit, the colonel had seemed to be in his walking-around clothes, but Lester had noticed how finely tailored the pants had been, the shirt too. And when Behrani spoke, his words were clear and unhurried, like a man used to being listened to. It would be hard for Alvarez to resist a slick bastard like that, Les thought, and as he drove through the fog up the coast highway, keeping his eye out for Kathy’s Bonneville in the opposite lane, he wondered just how far this thing could go. Would he be charged simply with conduct unbecoming an officer? Maybe receive a letter of reprimand? Or a day’s suspension without pay? Or could it get hotter than that? Would his threat to Behrani be interpreted as the extortion it was? Leave this property or else? But you needed evidence or corroborating witnesses for that kind of charge, so he was probably in the clear on that count. Still, there would be the dark spot in his file, which might very well hurt his chances with the Civil Service Board.

On the coast road in Montara, Les pulled the car into the lot of a gas station convenience store and used an outside phone to call the department in Redwood City. He left a message on Alvarez’s voice mail, apologizing for missing him and saying he would be in the lieutenant’s office first thing tomorrow morning. He hung up, then called the number that until this moment he had associated with home. He wanted to talk to both his children, even if it meant waking them up. Nothing too lengthy or serious, just tell them he was working and that he loved them and would see them tomorrow sometime. But on the fourth ring, the machine picked it up. He hadn’t expected that. He pictured Carol probably reading a story to one or both of them, and he felt wounded at this image of her, holding herself up for the children. Then he heard her cheerful voice tell him the Burdon Family couldn’t come to the phone right now, please leave your name and number or call us back. Les waited for the beep, but the silence that followed felt like a black emptiness he could not imagine speaking through to his son and daughter. He hung up, then felt like a fool because Carol would surely know it was him. A car passed on the beach road behind him and he turned quickly to its sound, but it was a black El Camino with mud-splattered wheel wells and he stood there and watched its taillights get engulfed into the fog. He could hear the surf out on the beach. He looked up the highway but saw no more headlights piercing the mist.

Something was wrong.

But then everything was wrong; he shouldn’t be standing at some outdoor pay phone hoping for Kathy to drive by. And they shouldn’t have to rendezvous at a place like Doug’s fish camp either. Not tonight, squatting in some poker shack as if they were both on the run. Lester stood in the electric light of the pay phone and watched the fog move along the sandy surface of the parking lot. His hunger had vanished, but now he felt scattered and shaky, not quite rooted in his own feet. Nothing was rooted. Everything was suspended in midair until Kathy’s presence—and then what they would do next—made it all move again. He could go inside the store for a chili dog or cup of coffee, but he knew the owner from night patrols, a big gray-bearded man who liked to talk and would never take Lester’s money but seemed instead to expect conversation as payment. And usually Lester didn’t mind this. The man was intelligent and genuinely warm, and speaking with him felt rarely like a waste of time. But Lester didn’t want to talk. You had to look into a person’s face then, let him look back into yours, and he didn’t feel capable of either.

He was beginning to feel something was truly wrong. No longer demons of the Whore 24. And no longer simply the image of his daughter’s face peering up at him so still from her bed. The stillness he felt was the kind a deer goes into right after the hunter’s boot breaks a fallen twig; it raises its head and sniffs the air, the unlucky ones taking the moment to turn their glistening dark eyes to the trouble they smell, to the bright orange vest, the oiled bore of a large-caliber exit out of this life.

Lester got into his Toyota and pulled into the fog of the coast highway, heading north for Point San Pedro and Corona. The fog was so thick his headlights were reflected off it and he had to drive slow, and careful.