Authors: Nevada Barr
13 1/2 (10 page)
And poor stupid Miss Polly was lapping it up.
Man, was there ever going to be a shitload of stuff to talk about.
11
A week passed, and the lovely Mr. Marchand did not call. Polly might have called him but, though the rules in the new millennium had changed, Polly’s had not. She was not averse to making the first move; it was the second. A second date set the tone for a relationship. In a man’s world, it was necessary that he desire a woman a shade more than she desired him.
Since her marriage to Carver had imploded, Polly had not invested much of herself in the society of men. With the advent of the lovely Mr. Marchand, this was changing. Stifling a sigh, she looked out over the bent heads of her English literature class: Barbara scribbling madly, Tyrell gazing out the window, Bethany staring at the paper the way a bird might stare at a cobra.
After Katrina, New Orleans was a city without children. Schools had been shut down, the students evacuated, enrolled in schools miles—and sometimes states—away. During the last months of 2005, the adults who came back would meet in the rubble-filled streets, mops and shovels in hand, cheering one another with the phrase, “Come January.” January was the date the schools were to reopen and, like those left bereft by the Pied Piper, they waited for the children to return and save New Orleans.
Where children were, parents were: living, working, buying, selling, renovating, recreating the cycle of supply and demand the city needed to recover. Images of New Orleanians rebuilding morphed into images of Marshall Marchand re-creating the city’s historic homes, then to his sudden rare smile. Surreptitiously and undoubtedly with the same sneaky look her students wore when they pulled a similar stunt, Polly eased her cell phone out of her purse and checked to see if she had any calls. Four: one from Marshall Marchand.
Feeling like an idiot, she slipped out of the classroom. In the faculty lounge she checked her messages.
“What are you giggling about?” Mr. Andrews, the eternally sour teacher of American history, had come into the lounge.
“Hot date,” Polly drawled and batted her eyes.
He grunted.
“I wanted to show you my neighborhood,” Marshall said as they parked on a side street beneath three tall pine trees. “If you’d be more comfortable in a public place, I’d be glad to take you out for dinner.”
Polly enjoyed Marshall’s old-world manners. She reached across the console and touched his hand lightly. “I’ll just keep my cell phone on 911.”
A look akin to pain flashed in his eyes. It was gone so quickly she scarcely noticed the spark of alarm it triggered in her.
He walked around the car to open her door. It was rather grand to sit quietly and compose one’s self while a man did manly things.
Because he was a restoration architect Polly assumed he would live in a monument to old money on St. Charles or in a classic home in an undamaged area of Metairie. But his house was in a pioneer neighborhood. The front yard of the duplex where Marshall and his brother lived contrasted starkly with the weed-filled yard of their neighbor. In the Marchands’ yard was a mosaic of brick and moss framed by elephant ears and surrounded by a wrought iron fence, the bottom brown with rust from the floodwaters.
They stopped on the sidewalk outside the garden gate as if Marshall was reticent about taking her inside. “I’ve got the top two floors; Danny lives downstairs. Below him is an aboveground basement. When the levees broke, we got twenty-six inches of water but cleaning out the cellar is a whole lot easier than gutting the front room,” Marshall told her.
A man, Danny of course, came out the front door of the lower unit and leaned on the porch rail at the top of the stairs. There was a strong family resemblance. Danny looked younger and had a less somber cast to his face; the lines of strain that fanned out from the corners of Marshall’s eyes were missing from his brother’s and, when Danny smiled, there was a playfulness Marshall lacked.
“Who’s the lady, Marsh?” he called.
Marshall had not mentioned her to his brother.
Not a good sign,
Polly thought and was annoyed that she was looking for signs.
Not a good sign,
Polly thought and was annoyed that she was looking for signs.
Marshall made the introductions from where they stood, outside the fence. Only when Danny invited them in for a drink before dinner did he reach for the gate. Because this was New Orleans, and Anne Rice had educated the world on the habits and manners of the undead, it crossed Polly’s mind that vampires cannot enter unless invited. A B-movie shiver passed down her spine. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant.
Danny’s home was beautifully appointed in stark, modern blacks and whites and impeccably kept. A framed magazine cover picturing him cutting a ribbon at the opening of the first Le Cure explained his wealth. He owned a chain of high-end boutique drugstores.
“I keep Marsh out of trouble,” Danny said, as he handed Polly a glass of white wine without asking what she preferred. He winked, “And you look like trouble to me.”
“I have never given anyone a moment’s difficulty,” she drawled. “Not even as a very small child.”
Danny poured a meager whiskey for himself, neat, and sat on the end of the sofa. The leather was soft and matte black, stark to look at, but luxurious to sit on. “So, how did my brother lure you into his clutches?” he said.
“He invited me to tea,” Polly said and smiled at Marshall.
“Ah, the old tea gambit,” Danny said. “Marshall lives on the edge.”
The brothers shared an inner communion Polly had occasionally noted in the twins she had taught. Having no family—or, as she said in her archer moments, none to speak of—she held familial ties in high regard. Whoever married one brother would have to be aware that there was sacred ground between them and tread lightly.
Whoever married.
She was doing it again.
She was doing it again.
Dinner was as much a surprise as Marshall’s home had been. While she leaned on the counter in a kitchen better furnished than her own and sipped wine, Marshall made iced asparagus and seasoned sautéed goat cheese on toast. He felt her eyes on him and looked up from his work. “I cook,” he said. Apparently he’d read her mind. “I’ve also mastered the art of free-range grazing. In this town, a guy can pretty much live on the spread at special events. Kind of like a dog knocking over garbage cans but with a tux and a caterer.”
After dinner they walked. Knowledge that another hurricane season was soon to begin lent a sense of preciousness to those who had survived the last. People sat on their front porches or stoops drinking beer and talking with neighbors.
“I came here to invest,” Marshall said. “I had a notion of gentrifying, pocketing the money, and moving to a good neighborhood. Turns out this
is
a good neighborhood.”
is
a good neighborhood.”
He took Polly’s hand. His was warm, and dry, and callused like a working man’s. Most of the men she’d dated had hands as manicured as her own.
The neighbors were mostly black or Hispanic, and Polly remembered Ma Danko. She hadn’t thought of the old woman in years. Ma had been kind to her. To remember something good about the trailer park startled her, and anger she’d not known she harbored eased, loosening the muscles across her back.
Marshall pointed out schools, showed her homes being renovated, told her which businesses were up and running north, south, east, and west and how this ephemeral box of progress would bring the neighborhood up. The talk was dry and serious, and Polly wondered what he was afraid he would say if he didn’t talk about urban renewal.
“Did you lure me all the way out here to sell me a house?” she asked to upset whatever applecart he was pushing.
He stopped walking and looked at her. The setting sun dyed his hair red and limned the strong line of his jaw. “In a way,” he said quietly.
12
Marshall handed Polly out of his vintage truck, highly cognizant of the pressure of her hand, the way she swung her legs, ankles neatly together. He walked with her to the door but did not kiss her goodnight.
She shook his hand—just the ends of her fingers in his—not the hard pumping as of a well handle that women had adopted from their male counterparts. “I had a splendid evening, Mr. Marchand. You are a darling man.” With a glance up at him through her lashes, she turned and disappeared inside.
For a moment, long enough to savor the last whisper of her perfume but not so long as to seem a stalker, Marshall remained on the steps. He could not remember when he’d wanted to kiss a woman as much as he did Polly. Never, he expected. The strength of his desire was why he hadn’t. He’d been afraid he’d step over the line—or swoon and make a fool of himself.
Next time,
he promised, and returned to his truck. Thirty years ago when he’d bought it, it was a beat-up, old workhorse, and he’d used it as such. He still had a toolbox in the back full of carpenters’ tools, but the truck was no longer a beast of burden. It was mint: a refurbished, spit-shined, cherry-red, 1949 pickup. He didn’t take it out as much as he once had but something about Ms. Deschamps had decided him to bring her home in it. She’d loved it.
he promised, and returned to his truck. Thirty years ago when he’d bought it, it was a beat-up, old workhorse, and he’d used it as such. He still had a toolbox in the back full of carpenters’ tools, but the truck was no longer a beast of burden. It was mint: a refurbished, spit-shined, cherry-red, 1949 pickup. He didn’t take it out as much as he once had but something about Ms. Deschamps had decided him to bring her home in it. She’d loved it.
And I love her.
The thought sent a stab of terror through him. “Where in the hell did that come from?” he asked aloud. It reminded him of the selling-her-a-house comment he’d made. There wasn’t a whole lot of ways a woman could take that. It was a wonder she didn’t run screaming down the street.
The thought sent a stab of terror through him. “Where in the hell did that come from?” he asked aloud. It reminded him of the selling-her-a-house comment he’d made. There wasn’t a whole lot of ways a woman could take that. It was a wonder she didn’t run screaming down the street.
Marshall buckled his seat belt and resisted the urge to sit in the truck in front of her house just to be near her. He felt as if the day he’d seen her in the square he’d woken up, like Rip Van Winkle; that, until then, he’d been sleepwalking for twenty-five years. This rush of life was heady. With a cold fear that threatened to turn into panic he knew, if Polly were to vanish, he’d fall back into that self-induced coma. Or worse.
Marshall stomped the starter button so hard the old truck virtually leapt to attention. Did he think if he swept her off her feet and up the aisle quickly enough, by the time she found out what membership in the Marchand family entailed, it would be too late?
And how long could he keep lying to her? He found lying to Polly almost physically painful, even when done by omission.
Telling the tragic tale of Elaine’s dog and the freezer, he had omitted little things, like the dog hadn’t actually jumped into the freezer; its paws were taped together and its little muzzle taped shut so it couldn’t bark.
Details like that.
Like how he wrenched the freezer drawer off its runners and saw the little creature, jaws rimed with frost, shivering on a bag of frozen peas, eyes big, paws together, silently begging not to be killed.
That was a long time ago,
Marshall thought.
Things changed.
Marshall thought.
Things changed.
In a sudden rage he pounded the steering wheel. “Damn it, things change!” he shouted.
MINNESOTA, 1973
Ronald “Butch” Dafoe. Killed six family members. 1974. Now this guy is one mean son of a bitch. You look at old Butch, and the rest of us seem like the boys next door. Six! I thought three was bad. Looks like I’m Snow White. Okay, I can sort of see doing it. Here’s old Butch kid. Dad is always whaling on him. Mom’s a doormat. His dad tells him not to take any shit off the kids at school but heaps shit on him at home. Heaps shit on the mom and the other kids. Yelling all the time. Huge fights. Four brothers and sisters. So Butch turns out to be a chip off the old block. He starts hitting back, and it works great. Gets him all this stuff, this boat, and his own room, and stuff. Dad kind of secretly respects him. I mean, he’s been preaching this Butchie’s whole life, right? Now, not only is Butch not getting the tar smacked out of him, but his dad is paying him to be cool. Big money, too. I can see where Butch might think he earned that money, what with getting whaled on and listening to screaming matches and whatever. But after he gets used to that for a while, he thinks, Hey, I could get more. These fucks owe me more. Way more. First thing is, he’s got to kill the old man. No biggie; he’s been hating the bastard forever. Then, probably Mom should bite the dust, too. She watched his dad beat up on him when he was little, so fuck her. The little kids. That’s harder. But why not? I mean, who is going to look after them? Not our Butch. Hell, he’s doing them a favor. Shoots them in their sleep. I think he’s sorry about the little kids. You know, like when Dad had to kill a kitten we had because it got sick and went blind, and he felt sad about that.But he got over it.
13
Dr. Kowalski had grown old treating Dylan. A few years with Butcher Boy, and the psychiatrist’s sandy gray hair was thinning, the incongruous red beard flecked with dull white hairs.
Dylan had grown, if not wiser, then more cunning. He figured he’d learned more than Kowalski had. For one thing, he’d learned that Kowalski was not so much treating him—as if there were any treatment for boys who ran with axes—as exploiting him. He also realized that the thinning hair and graying beard had little to do with the fact that Dylan was a murderer, or even a poor tragic boy in juvie, and all to do with the fact that Dylan still wouldn’t remember.
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