The Dearly Departed (35 page)

“Fun enough to have set a date? Fun enough for a double funeral?”

“Have you been hanging around with my mother? Do you need an announcement in the society pages before you believe it was official?”

“Apparently I do,” said Sunny.

“They were definitely an item. Ask anyone. Maybe your mother didn't need a wedding to feel married to Miles—”

“Oh please. My mother was not some nonconformist who didn't need a wedding ring on her finger to feel committed. She didn't even like the way
single mother
sounded, so she made up a story about her widowhood.”

“People can change,” said Joey. “If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't be signing off on William Thomas Dube, would I? Your mother stopped worrying about King George Ladies' Auxiliary code of conduct and started having a little fun. She worked hard and she memorized her lines and when she got up there in her fancy costumes, she looked great and people noticed.”

“Do you mean men?”

“Sure I mean men.”

“Like, dozens?”

“Over the years, maybe. But when it comes down to the math—what's that? One a season? Big deal. Don't be an old lady.”

“More than that! There was a line out the door, if you listen to Fran Pope.”

“I used to have about four dates a year myself, and no one put
me
in the stockade.”

Sunny finally offered a pallid smile. “
Used
to have four dates a year? What happened?”

“I thought you knew.” He came out from behind his desk, sat down on the visitors' bench, and pulled her onto his lap. She resisted, then sat stiffly, spine tilted away from him. “A girl came back,” he began. “Someone I used to moon over in study hall. Seventh period, I think, during which she actually studied, unlike me, and therefore went off to college. I grew up, found out I had half a brain, found gainful employment. I didn't see her for years and years, though occasionally there would be an article about her in the local paper. Which I clipped. I went to some of her mother's plays, because what else was there to do and because they never filled the house. And because maybe, if I was very nice to the mother, she'd write to the daughter and say, ‘You know who didn't turn out so bad? Joe Loach. That dumb guy. His acne cleared up and his manners improved. Children look up to him.' Then tragedy struck her, and almost struck me, but it turned out for the best. I mean, not to take anything away from her mother's death, but it did bring the girl back to King George.”

Sunny said, “You clipped stories about me from the
Bulletin
?”

“Only the ones with pictures.”

“Go on,” she said.

He smoothed her hair back from her face and hooked it behind her ears. “And since I was in charge of the investigation, I had to walk her through a few things and explain the way the world works. Nothing big. Just life and death. And her mother's popularity.”

In their silence, the noise of station business grew louder—the clock, the faxes, the callers talking to the answering machine. “How well did you know my mother?” Sunny finally asked.

“Pretty well. Occasionally we shared a booth at The Dot during peak hours.”

“Really? Did you tell me this before?”

“I probably didn't because it didn't add up to much over the years. But enough, I think, for her to like me and vice versa.”

“Did you ever talk about me?”

“Sure we did.”

“What did she say?”

“Well, it wasn't so much what she said but how she looked. Like it was her favorite topic, and she was glad to be having breakfast with someone who knew you from high school and was rooting for you and didn't hold a grudge for that old stuff—making the boys' squad and getting the scholarship.”

“Besides that—besides looking pleased to be talking about me—did she seem happy?”

“Always,” said Joey. “That's why I never paid attention to any rumors. Not that I heard any—and I'm in an excellent position to have fielded whatever passed through town. But in retrospect, I know what really mattered was that she was always a good person and—I don't know—peaceful.”

“Peaceful?” said Sunny. “Really?”

“Sure. Like, whatever she was doing, it felt right.”

Sunny said, “I think you're making this up. I think you would have told me ages ago if you'd been having breakfast with my mother at The Dot and could report firsthand that she was so happy and proud and filled with alleged peace.”

“I didn't know you ages ago. And I couldn't confide any of this at the wake or at the funeral because I was out of range, directing traffic.”

“You might have told me Sunday night.”

Joey said, “Sunday night . . . I was a little distracted Sunday night.” His hands were on her shoulders, but he slid them down her arms. “I'm still distracted. In fact, five minutes ago I told an assistant attorney general to send my attempted murderer home to his mother.”

Sunny leaned back against him. “Maybe that's good. Maybe he'll turn his life around and won't ever do another felonious thing as long as he lives.”

“What's this?” he asked. “A new, sunnier, optimistic Sunny?”

“I'm just thinking of his poor mother. First he gets arrested and now he gets the chicken pox.”

“First he stole a truck and shot a police officer. Second he gets arrested.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen.”

“And his mother's willing to take him back?”

“Yeah. With a juvenile service officer and the state of New Hampshire paying for his therapy.”

“What about a father?”

“Not in the picture.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“Grown. Gone.”

“Then definitely do it. His mother's all alone. And this way she won't have to hang her head in the local diner when people say, ‘How's your baby? How's Junior? What's he up to?' ”

“Maybe,” he said. “We'll see.”

“I bet in ten years you'll get a thank-you note from him saying he found religion and he's a Big Brother, and has a degree in social work.”

“Ha,” said Joey.

“Will you keep me posted?” Sunny asked. “Will you forward his testimonials?”

His hands left her arms and he didn't answer.

She sat up. “Joey?”

“What?”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Nope. Not at all. I understand. You'll give me your forwarding address. I'll drop you a line and let you know the disposition of the case. Or Randy can tell Regina, and Regina can put it in her Christmas letter.”

“Back up a minute,” said Sunny. She found his right hand, which was gripping the bench. “Your synopsis? Of the girl who moved away and came back when tragedy befell her mother? I cut you off. You didn't finish.”

“You finish,” he said. “I lost my place.”

“Okay. Give me a sec.” She closed her eyes and settled back against him. “The girl came back. She met the aforementioned boy, now a full-grown man, who was indeed helpful. Very. She had to get to know him herself, because her mother had been too busy to fill her in, too busy to write her to say he wasn't the same Joey Loach from tenth grade. That children looked up to him now. That his manners
had
improved—not only did he no longer get detention, but he was the chief of police. And the girl took one look at him, and, embarrassingly enough—I say ‘embarrassingly' because she'd been summoned home for a very tragic reason—more or less fell at his feet. Amazingly enough—‘amazing' because he'd grown up to be extremely handsome—he wasn't married, engaged, gay, or on anyone's dance card. Also amazingly, the feeling appeared to be mutual—as much as one can assess these things across police tape and from riding in the front seat of a cruiser. A few days after her mother was laid to rest, they had their first date. After an awkward start, it took a turn for the truly great. At least
she
thought so. Before long, Fran Pope would spread rumors that the girl was lap-dancing with said officer while visiting him at the police station, or so it appeared when viewed through her pocket binoculars from the diner across the street. But the girl ignored Fran Pope, because—not to take anything away from her mother's death—she was happy for the first time since she could remember. And the part about forwarding the kid's letters in ten years? That's called fishing. That's a line that a calculating woman throws out in hopes that the man says, ‘I want you to stay.' ”

“I want you to stay,” said Joey.

“Even if I hate it here?”

“I hate it here too,” said Joey.

“Good,” said Sunny. “That'll be our bond when the sexual flame burns out.”

He laughed. She could feel it next to her ear, buried in her hair.

“When's our date?” he murmured.

“Tomorrow.”

“Can we move it up, like, twenty-four hours?”

Sunny looked at the wall clock. “How's seven?”

“How's the minute I get off work?”

“My place?” she asked.

He laughed again. “It's either there, or here, or the King's Nite.”

“Should we go out to eat first and pretend it's a real date?”

Joey said, “If you want to dine first, in public, and keep your hands to yourself, we can do that. Sure.”

Sunny slipped off his lap, took a step toward the door. He pulled her back. “Maybe I'll cut out early.”

“Like, what time?”

“Like—don't you need a ride home now?”

She looked down at her threadbare sneakers, at the woeful tread on their soles. “You're right. But I'm buying a car as soon as I get a job. Your gallantry is costing the taxpayers too much money.”

“It's their pleasure,” said Joey. “They almost lost me. I know they'd insist I drive you home and secure the perimeters and make love to you in the afternoon to the original cast album of
I Can Get It for You Wholesale,
because they want what I want.”

“What a generous town,” said Sunny. “To think that I blamed them for all of my grief.” She leaned over to kiss him—a kiss unsuited to a public space or a man hampered by a bullet-proof vest.

The footsteps on the stairs announced an intruder. Joey jumped to his feet. Mrs. Loach came through the door, slightly out of breath, rubber gloves in one hand and a bottle of bleach in the other.

“Hi, Ma,” he said.

She stopped, appraised the scene, tried not to look too pleased.

“Oh, go ahead,” she said.

 

I
t was Fletcher knocking at her front door, in what had to be Miles's seersucker shirt, speaking from behind a full-grown azalea.

“You didn't have to,” said Sunny. She stepped out onto the porch, wearing her mother's red satin kimono over its matching slip.

“I thought I did,” he said.

There was a clanging of pipes from inside the house, then the sound of a shower sputtering and a muffled male voice singing.

“I take it that a police car in your driveway first thing in the morning is no longer a cause for concern,” said Fletcher.

“That's right,” said Sunny. “I'm entertaining the troops. Like mother, like daughter.”

“Very amusing. Now read the card,” he said, transferring the plant to her.

It was not a card but a check, creased and canceled, drawn on the First National Bank of Philadelphia, signed carelessly by Miles H. Finn, paid to the order of Margaret Batten. Dated February 1, 1982. Stapled to a budding branch.

“What's this?” she asked.

He sat down, smiling smugly, arm flung across the back of the glider. “Oh, nothing much. A canceled check made out to your mother.”

“I can see that.”

“One of many such canceled checks. Always paid on the first of the month. Always for the same amount.”

She pried it off the branch for a closer inspection. It looked like checks of old, blue tweed waves, watermark, good paper. Margaret had endorsed it in her modest, pre-autograph hand.

“Well?” he demanded.

“It's certainly made out to my mother.”

“And?”

“It's almost twenty years old.”

“It's a child-support payment! Isn't that obvious?”

“Not really,” she said. “There's no notation on the memo line. Maybe he was paying for sexual favors.”

“Sunny! You're ruining my moment here. This was not me hiring a detective. This was not me putting a stethoscope to a wall safe. This wasn't even me going through Miles's papers. This was me looking for nutcrackers, and unable to open a desk drawer because it was jammed with canceled checks.”

“Why were you looking for nutcrackers in your father's desk drawers?”

“Because I bought lobsters, two-pounders—live and kicking from a tank at Foodland. His desk happens to be in the kitchen. Adjacent and contiguous to the utensil and junk drawers. Voilà. I never found the nutcrackers, but we spread some newspapers on the deck and used a mallet. Would you believe Emily Ann ate a whole lobster? Even one or two bites dipped in drawn butter?”

“No, I would not,” said Sunny. Her mother's name and the date were typewritten. Miles's signature was an
M,
an impatient dash, a nod to an
F,
a squiggle. She could picture him, fountain pen uncapped, checks placed on his executive blotter by a secretary—for electric, gas, telephone, mortgage, Diners Club, love child.

“Aren't you even mildly dumbfounded?” Fletcher asked.

“How many of these did you find?”

“Enough! One in every statement.”

Sunny murmured, “Two hundred dollars and no cents. Fifty dollars a week. I wonder what judge awarded that amount?”

“Not my point,” said Fletcher. “And frankly, I was expecting a little more enthusiasm.”