A Marriage Made at Woodstock (16 page)

“Whatever it is, the answer is no,” said Herbert. He loosened his latest Impressionist tie, one on which Toulouse-Lautrec dancers kicked up narrow, red legs.

“Big brother, I've got a date with destiny,” Frederick said. “And destiny currently resides at 257 Bobbin Road.”

• • •

It was almost ten p.m. when they pulled up to the curb, just down the street from the yellow house, and sat there idling in Herbert's big Chrysler.

“Shut the engine off,” Frederick said. Herbert sighed to make his point that he would rather not be there, but Frederick ignored this. Instead, he surveyed the house, the narrow lawn, the sloping veranda that jutted out from the upper windows. The red maple was full and leafy. The same lamppost threw out its yellow beacon. A soft rain had begun to fall in thin threads, but Frederick refused to let Herbert use the wipers.

“That will only attract attention,” he said. “Why would wipers be going on a parked car?”

“Why would two grown men be
sitting
in a parked car?” Herbert asked.

“And who recently wanted
two
grown
men
to be sitting in a parked car with
two
young
cosmetologists
?”

Frederick patted about his feet for the paraphernalia he had picked up at the house after they'd left the bar. A paper bag rustled dramatically. He pulled out a woolen ski mask and fitted it over this head. Herbert watched as he adjusted the eye holes, the nose hole, and then inspected himself in the mirror. It would be hot as hell, but he'd be anonymous.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“Like Spider-Man,” Herbert said, “who also has an identity problem. I never should have driven you here. I'm what they call a codependent.”

“You had no choice,” Frederick said. He was pulling on Chandra's gardening gloves, lavender cotton things with round yellow flowers. “You're being swept along by destiny.”

“I'm being swept along by an idiot,” Herbert said. “It's apparent to even the mailman that this woman wants nothing more to do with you. So why can't you hire a good lawyer and give the hell up? Do you know what your trouble is, Freddy? You're as contrary as all the Stones before you. You're Uncle William all over again. Remember the story about
him
?” Frederick did remember. Uncle William had been taken prisoner during World War II. Three days later, the Japanese gave him back.

“I never believed that story,” Frederick said. “Now keep your eyes on the street.”

He didn't want to think of Stone men before him, failures in so many ways, failures except where cheekbones were concerned. He was in charge now for the first time in a long time. Maybe it was his lunch with Doris Bowen next to the millpond that had done it. Ponds, like happy hour at the China Boat, were teeming with life. Maybe it was everything Yeats
didn't
say about those damned shuddering loins, that torn wall—or was it
broken
?—that poor fragile neck in that impervious beak. Maybe it was Doris's own white breasts. He would
mount
the goddamn roof on Bobbin Road! He had been through a rainbow of lunatics the past month. He had lived through Reginald's brown Conestoga, Joyce's green hair, Lillian's vermilion lips, Valerie's maroon tights, Herbert's orange cigarette tips, Budgie's blue tail, Teddy's milky condoms, Geraldo's pink ass. He had survived the black silhouettes of his neighbors, those complacent beetles, their entire lives locked like shells about them. Yet he knew what his real motivation was, what had given him courage on that night. It was the knowledge of having seen her wheat-colored hair lace itself with gray, her red protest skirt fade into a soft rose. He had even watched the tissue that lines her eyelids and runs out over the balls of those beautiful eyes—Mr. Bator would know it as the
conjunctiva
—he had seen it turn yellow as an autumn vine. He had studied this Impressionist woman, her pats and dots and short strokes of pure emotion, with the tender and discerning eye of an art critic. For twenty-three years, since he first met her in August 1969, he had concerned himself with one single magnificent canvas. He had invested
time
with her, dammit, and it had not been time spent
unintelligibly
.

Frederick made sure the laces on his tennis shoes were tight, and then found the small flashlight in his jacket pocket. Already, he was beginning to sweat extravagantly.

“Honk twice if you see anyone approaching the house,” he told Herbert. “Especially if it's the police.” Herbert shook his head.

“That's a fine line of dialogue to pass between an accountant and a veterinarian,” he said. “‘If you see the police, honk twice.' Are we Canada geese?”

“Honk twice,” Frederick said. “Besides, I'm not an accountant, remember? I'm a top criminal lawyer. Now don't do anything to attract attention.” He got out and eased the door gently shut. Herbert whirred his window down.

“You get caught, I don't know you,” he said.

Hunched over, Frederick crept slowly past the lamppost light, toward the maple tree. He had noticed the tree on his first trip past the house on Bobbin Road, its height and thickness. And it had all those limbs for an estranged husband to climb. At first he had disliked that word
estrange
. But after a bitter month of estrangement, he had changed his mind. It came from the medieval Latin
extraneare
, to treat like a stranger. It was the best word possible. He hid behind a large clump of
something
—perhaps he
should
take up gardening one day—and crouched there for a moment. All seemed quiet in the house. The downstairs was in darkness, but a light beamed from the upstairs window, the one he had studied so diligently during his first visit, the Petrarchan window, Laura's window. The same maroon car was parked in the driveway, along with a small modern model. He didn't know cars anymore. Like shrubs, they all looked the same. Cars probably came from Home Depot these days.

As usual, Chandra's red Toyota was nowhere to be seen. He had no doubt she'd been hiding it in the garage. He felt the coil of rope bounce against his hip. Why he'd brought a rope hooked to his belt loop, he had no idea, except that it seemed
reasonable
to bring a rope. Keeping as low to the ground as he could, he eased away from the
something
and scuttled across the lawn to
something
else
. He squatted there behind the shrub, and waited. The triumvirate Bitches of Fate obviously owed him a bone, for they tossed one at him by allowing the rain to stop. He made an impressive dash to the maple. He hadn't climbed a tree since his boyhood and had no idea if he was still good at it. But wasn't climbing a tree a bit like riding a bicycle? Or sex? Didn't it come back instantaneously?
Disappearances
of
neurons
in
the
nervous
system
make
the
aging
person
less
agile
than
the
young.

“Fuck off, Mr. Bator,” Frederick whispered. The climb at first was easy enough. A few leaves on the smaller branches slapped against his face. By the time he'd pulled himself up to the fifth large branch his tennis shoes felt like balls of cement on his feet. He would begin a good exercise program, maybe even the next day. When he finally reached the stout limb that grew out over the slanted veranda, he paused to rest. But there was the lighted window. Indeed, there was Yeats's wall waiting to be broken. Frederick hoped it would be the wall and not his neck. He would wait a moment, let his breathing resume its normal rate, before he attempted the limb. He rested his face against the smooth bark of the tree. The window was curtained, but once he was on the veranda he could peek into that opening he noticed, right where the two panels are supposed to join snugly together but rarely do. He was thankful that Robbie had a distaste for blinds, for there could be no doubt this was where he lived. Unless Chandra had moved on to another man. Who knew what she might do these days?

Frederick studied the layout before him. He knew well that the sloping roof could be treacherous, what with that smattering of light rain that had just fallen. After all, he had spent those college summers in roofing, a job he would never want again. The roof of Robbie's house was a gable style, with a slope Frederick estimated to be nine in twelve, a steep mother, too steep for do-it-yourself roofers. The roofing was new slate. This must have cost Robbie an arm and a leg and the biceps he loved to flaunt. Slate was definitely expensive and had to be installed by professionals. How could Robbie afford a slate roof? He was a goddamn kid. But slate was a good choice. It lasted almost a lifetime, fifty years, the way some marriages were supposed to last. And it was durable as hell, fireproof, the way some marriages should be. Frederick hoped to God—in whom he didn't believe—that someone had been careless with the chimney flashings, perhaps allowing them to join instead of overlapping. And he prayed the roofers had forgotten to install a
cricket
, so that Maine's snow and spring water would build up behind the chimney and cause a myriad of leaks, preferably over the bedroom.

As he was about to crawl out the limb that would deliver him to the veranda, he heard a buzz from down on the street, an electronic trill that pierced the quiet of Bobbin Road. Herbert's car phone.

“Hello?” he heard Herbert say. There was a pause and then, “What have I done wrong now?” Frederick held his breath and waited. But Herbert was far from finished. “Don't get on my ass, Maggie. I pay enough alimony that you can take care of house repairs yourself. Don't call me again. If you have a problem, get your Jaws to call my Minnow.” His voice resonated from inside the car. Frederick would kill Herbert Stone. He waited through a few seconds of silence. Herbert must have hung up. As Frederick was about to move on, he heard him again.

“Hey, Susan? How's it going? This is Herb. Oh, fine, fine. A little skirmish with the ex-wife now and then, a little unfriendly fire, but fine. And you? You still in that photography course?” Frederick would kill him
slowly
. “You coming down to the China Boat tonight? Well, if I can ever get free of my crazy brother, I'll try to catch you there. Huh? A month today. He's taking it very well, same as I did, same as Dustin Hoffman in
Kramer
Versus
Kramer
.”

Up in his canopy of maple leaves, Frederick decided that he would sauté each of Herbert's testicles in wine and garlic butter, and then serve them up to Maggie Stone on a silver platter. Couldn't he at least put up his blasted window? Waiting long enough to satisfy himself that Herbert wasn't going to phone up Charles Schwab and invest a quarter, Frederick shimmied out the limb, mowing down maple leaves as he went. Now, to let himself drop as noiselessly as possible onto the roof.

No one seemed to be in the room, which was a bedroom. The bed was unmade—this caused an emotional flutter—and was scattered with male clothing. But there were no people in the untidy room. Frederick was kneeling before the window, waiting, when he heard a distinct
toot
emerge from the Chrysler, followed by a second.
Honk
twice
if
you
see
anyone…especially the police.
He felt a panic coming on. He was already in trouble with the law over those traffic tickets. And then, what if it was Chandra? What would she say if she caught him like this? His legs felt frozen but they still catapulted him toward the edge of the veranda. But he misjudged the slant of the thing, the slope. Weren't there a zillion rules roofers were taught? Yes, there were. Two zillion, maybe, and he had learned them all well. Even squirrels probably know the biggest rule: You don't go up on any roof when it's been raining. And you certainly don't
run
on a wet roof. Tree frogs, with their excellent suction cups, probably know this rain rule. Spider-Man would know it. And there were lots of other rules. Work from the top down when removing an old roof. Stay away from power lines. Keep your work area clean of debris. Wear gloves when working with metal. Plenty of safeguards. But nowhere in his collective memory of Roof Rules could Frederick recall:
Never
even
go
near
a
roof
if
you've been driven there by Herbert D. Stone, DVM.

The shrub that tried desperately to break his fall was simply not bushy enough, but it did seem to be sprouting some kind of thorn. As Frederick felt it flatten beneath his falling weight, he had to wonder why people planted such insubstantial plants. The doughnut he carried in his shirt pocket, one he had grabbed in his kitchen when he went home for the mask and gloves, had probably worked better toward breaking his fall. The shrub smelled distinctly of talcum, even baby powder. He bounced to the side of the house, his breath dislodging in a great
whoomph
from his lungs. As he lay there waiting for air to return to his lungs, his first consideration was for the gutters of the house. From his ground-level view, they appeared to be copper. What was Robbie's last name? Rockefeller? His second consideration was one of relief that Mr. Bator had not bothered to elaborate on the ankle—the tibia, the fibula, the astragalus—because Frederick was quite sure that his own was broken.

“Sorry,” he heard Herbert whisper loudly from the edge of the lawn. “I didn't mean to honk.”

Frederick knew then why he had brought the rope. He had brought it to hang Herbert Stone from the maple tree.