Strangers (17 page)

“Hmm,” Hogan said, nodding at his notebook without looking up at Michael. “Just as a guess, Zeller probably died within a couple hours of that. We’ll know more after the autopsy. Always do an autopsy for something like this. Would you say that Zeller was into a bad drunk when you came home?”

“Because of what happened,” Michael said, “I would have to say that now, but I didn’t realize it then. You see, when I first went over there, Zeller was pretty out of it. I even had to help him get to the john. But later he seemed to come around. I thought it was okay to go.”

Michael’s voice trailed off and then, suddenly, he slammed a fist on the table. Coffee sloshed over the rim of the cup he’d poured himself but from which he had not drunk. “I should have done something! It’s just that I’ve seen Brad drunk before and I figured he’d be okay, sleep it off like always, but this time, he’ll be sleeping if off forever. If I’d hauled him over here, put him to bed on the sofa in the rec room…

Michael pushed back his chair. He rose, walked away, and then, back to the table, stood with his hands on the counter, head bowed and shoulder hunched. “Goddamnit, Brad Zeller was my friend and I…

Michael turned, pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes glistened.

Beth saw pain on Michael’s face, in his weary, defeated stance. He was blaming himself, she thought, playing that anguishing mind game “If only I had…” She had never seen her husband more vulnerable, more in need of her comfort, and she knew just how very much—trulyandalways—she loved Michael Louden.

She got up and walked to him. Michael put an arm around her.

“I am sorry, folks,” Hogan said. He flapped shut the notebook and rose. “I’ve bothered you enough. Thanks for the coffee.”

“It’s all right,” Michael said. “And I’m sorry I got carried away. It’s just that Brad was a good man and…”

He didn’t continue. Shrugging, Hogan said, “And something bad happened to him. I know. It works that way sometimes and we can beat our heads against the wall trying to come up with answers. The only good thing about pounding your head on the wall is that it feels so good when you stop. So do me a favor, Mr. Louden.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t put any more lumps on your head. Zeller had an accident. That’s what it looks like, that’s what the autopsy will show. That’s what happened, period. Believe me, I’ve seen enough of these things to know. You seem to have good memories of your friend and that’s something, anyway. Keep those memories and don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault.”

“I…I guess you’re right,” Michael said, and Beth prayed that Michael—
her good, loving,
gentle
Michael—
did not
blame himself for poor Brad Zeller’s death.

He did not.

He wished he were free to take credit for it.

“Sorry we came?” Michael asked. It was the mid-afternoon, Saturday of Labor Day weekend, and they were at the Engelkings. There were four lawn chairs arranged in a circle in a corner of the redwood deck over the patio, but two of those chairs were unoccupied now; Laura Engelking, always the hostess, had gone off—“I
must
do something about those empty ‘glasses, Beth and Michael!”—
and
a moment later, Vern excused himself to greet some new arrivals.

It was a simple question, but Beth did not immediately answer; she thought it over. Michael had had to convince her they should go to the Engelkings’ party. She hadn’t felt like it. In fact, when she awoke this morning’ she felt like doing just what she’d felt like doing yesterday and the day before: nothing. But a grown-up person couldn’t lie in bed all day. An adult had responsibilities; there were things that had to be done and not to do them, simply to lie around feeling neither content nor sad, simply feeling
nothing
—that could not be.

So, all Thursday and Friday, feeling no more alive then a zombie in a grade Z horror movie, Beth had forced herself to meet her obligations, shopping and cleaning and cooking—her responsibilities to the household; talking to Marcy and Kim (their younger daughter seemed to be worried about the start of school because it meant “fractions” and she wasn’t sure she knew her times tables yet) and to Michael, her responsibilities to her loved ones; even reading a newspaper and glancing through the textbook for her abnormal psychology course that began next week, her responsibilities to herself.

She had done all this while diligently avoid—thinking about Brad Zeller. Joanie, Brad’s middle-aged daughter, had flown in from California and had stopped by for twenty minutes. She looked like a character from a West Coast version of
The Wizard of
Oz after it had been rewritten by a
New Wave
, Granola-eating Seeker of Higher Consciousness. Joanie philosophically accepted her father’s death. “His time, maybe
karma,
y’know” and “The flesh is merely flesh, y’know,” and so with Brad’s body released from the country morgue, the finding, “accidental death,” Joanie Zeller made arrangements for her father to be cremated. The house would go on sale next week—there were people “getting paid good money to handle it”—and Joanie was off and away. It was as though Brad Zeller had never existed, as though the reality of him had never been.

And oh, oh God, that was just so
wrong,
that a man could be blotted out like that! You couldn’t let yourself think about it, you couldn’t let yourself
feel it,
the heavy sadness imbedded in your bones…

“Hey,” Michael said, “penny for your thoughts and all that. I asked if you’re glad we came.”

Beth honestly answered, “Yes.” The temperature was in the low 80s, the few clouds in the blue sky puffy and picturesque; it was as if Nature favored America, giving its blessings to plans for beery picnics and softball games and holding hands—feeling young—for believing that everything will go on forever.

There were about forty guests at the Engelkings’ party, neighbors, employees of Superior Chemical, friends. Beth had met some before, others today for the first time. It seemed to her that everyone was genuinely glad to be gathering together here—now. And, of course, Laura and Vern… While the Engelkings lived only a half hour due west of Park Estates, High Wood was an exclusive suburb: Old Money and New Money with Taste. Still, Beth had always been more than comfortable with the Engelkings, Vern, so comic with his flamboyantly formal speech, the model of the goofily eccentric favorite uncle in your “pretend” family tree, and Laura, with her constant cheerfulness that never seemed artificial.

Being here
—hereandnow—
with everybody, with them
all,
was like a confirmation of what Michael had said that morning, the final argument that persuaded her they should attend the party: “Life has to go on, Beth.”

And Beth felt ready to go on with life.

“Honey,” Michael said, “
are
you getting a little drunk?”

“Yes,” Beth answered. She laughed quietly. The wine punch was potent. She felt as though her level of perception had been raised so that sounds—the group in conversation at the other end of the deck, the people below on the patio, in the back yard, and at the poolside, the radio somewhere playing easy listening music—were particularly clear. No one sound meant anything of itself but all blended together to form an aural blanket as soothing as the night noises of
an idyllic
woodland. “A little drunk, Michael, and you know what?”

“What’s
that,
honey?”

“It feels fine.”

“Guess I’m a little drunk, too,” Michael said. “It’s been some kind of week, so you’re right. It feels good.”

He didn’t look drunk, Beth thought. And hey! Had he
ever
been drunk? Had she ever seen Michael juiced to the gills,
el blotto,
wiped out, bonkers? Wasn’t one monumental “drunken husband” scene obligatory in every middle-class marriage?

Giggling, she decided she would definitely have to ask Michael to get drunk for her some time. When somebody was totally smashed, you had a chance to see the
real
person—that was simple folk wisdom.

When Laura Engelking returned, handing Beth another cup of wine punch, she told Michael that Vern wanted him to join him in the house for a minute.

“Probably business,” Michael said with a theatrical sigh. “Work, work, work, that’s all Vern ever thinks about.”

“Business?” Laura laughed. “Michael, please! Vern wants to show you his new videogame! Everytime he manages to kill another ‘alien invader,’ he lets out a whoop—like we’ve won the lottery.”

Michael smiled. “You know, Laura, Vern might seem like an easy-going guy, but you have to be careful.”

“Oh, What is that, Michael?”

Michael laughed. “The boss has the old killer instinct.”

On the diving board, a fourteen-year-old stood poised, arms raised, concentrating, while determinedly paying no attention to the cute thirteen-year-old girl in shorts and a halter who sat in a chaise lounge, working just as hard at not noticing him. The boy took a deep breath, jumped, and smacked the water in a noisy, explosively spraying
belly-flop
. He didn’t look at the laughing thirteen-year-old girl as he swam to the side and hoisted himself from the pool, thighs, chest and belly turning crimson.

In the shallow end, a mother encouraged her pre-schooler to try to float and a heavyset woman sat on the edge, dangling her feet in the water.

The man watched the two children who were in the third lap of a race across the pool’s width on the “safe” side of the rope marking the deep end. The smaller child looked like a seal pup in her brown swimsuit, but she fought the water, kicking and splashing, wasting energy, while the older girl, in a flowered swim-cap and two piece red suit, glided smoothly, easily and almost effortlessly staying in the lead.

The man took a sip from a can of Michelob. Without being handsome, he was distinguished looking, tall and tanned, in his mid-forties, his black hair peppered with gray, his full beard neatly trimmed. His eyes were an intense dark blue. There were lines across his forehead that made him look more weathered than worried and a curlicued wrinkle seemed to splice together his heavy eyebrows.

Marcy reached the side of the pool and hooked her elbows on it. “I won,” she said.

Kim, sputtering and splashing, gasped, “Oh yeah?” Then, springing on Marcy from behind, she dunked her and kept her under.

The man stepped to the edge of the pool. Looking down, he said, “Okay, that’s enough of that. Let her up.”

Kim angrily squinted at the interference, but released Marcy, who bobbed up, blinking and coughing.

The man squatted, looked into Kim’s eyes. “I understand,” he said softly. “She won your race and you’re angry. It’s all right to feel that, but it’s not all right to try to hurt someone else.”

A short time later, Beth, who’d decided to see what the girls were up to, found them standing by the pool, wrapped in their towels, animatedly talking to the bearded man who continued to squat, keeping himself at their level.

“Hi, Mom!” Kim called. “This is…”

Rising, the bearded man shook her hand and introduced himself.

“I’m Beth Louden,” she replied. There were few men she’d met who were comfortable shaking hands with a woman; either they were into light finger-touching, or trying to revise their standard “businessman’s hearty grip” to show their belief in feminine equality, but most men didn’t find shaking a woman’s hand at all a natural experience, and so it made for awkward first meetings.

There was nothing unnatural about this man’s hand, holding hers for just the right amount of time and then releasing it. “Mom,” Kim said, “is the food ready?”

Beth didn’t know, but she said the girls might want to go find out. They scurried off.

“You have lovely children. You must be proud of them.”

“Thank you,” Beth said. “And yes, I
am
proud of them.”

A few minutes later, Beth thought her “handshake impression” had been absolutely right. This “handshaker” was one of those rare individuals with whom one almost immediately felt at ease. Conversation flowed spontaneously, moving quickly from superficial to serious, and Beth found herself talking about some of the pressures of the past week. She wondered if liquor was making her too talkative, deciding that—even if it was she didn’t mind—and how she hoped that the bad period was over and done. She learned that he had known Vern Engelking for many years, that he had only recently moved to the south suburbs after living out east, and that he was a psychiatrist.