What You Have Left: The Turner Trilogy (10 page)

“Where does Carl fit in?”

“Mother was along in years when she had me. Her health was never good after. As I said before, where we belong, our families, we’re able to choose those. Mother always said they pulled me out and pulled her plumbing right after.”

A mockingbird swooped down at the grasshopper from behind, realized it didn’t have time to clear Ben McAllister’s truck coming towards them, bed crisscrossed with feed sacks, and flew back up. I waved at Ben, who nodded his usual quarter-inch. The grasshopper emerged from underneath and hopped on.

“One day Dad was out hunting. He happened to pass close by the neighbor’s house a mile or so up the hill and heard a baby crying. He knocked, got no answer, and went on in. The house wasn’t much more than a shack. A man named Amos Wright had been living there for as long as anyone could remember. Then a year or so back he’d suddenly turned up with a wife. No one knew where she came from, or how the two of them ever met. Amos had always kept to himself.

“Dad said he could smell the stench before he set foot on the porch. And when he went in there, the place was full of flies. They were buzzing all around the baby laying in its crib. The baby’s mother was on the floor by the bed. Flies had laid eggs in her wounds and maggots were boiling up out of them.”

“The baby—”

“The baby was Carl. Amos didn’t have family that anyone knew of, and no one knew anything at all about the mother, so my folks took the boy in and raised him, the way country people will. Amos wasn’t ever seen again, and they never did find out anything more about what happened. Some said it was an accident, others claimed someone must have broken in and beat the woman to death, maybe even a relative. A lot of people assumed Amos just up and killed her, of course, then ran.”

“Carl knew about this?”

“Most of it. It was never easy to be sure how much or what Carl understood. Sometimes you’d be sitting there talking to him and you could all but see what you were telling him get . . . bent. You’d watch it start turning to something else inside him.”

“Troubles came early, then.”

“He seemed all right at first, Dad said. And for a while they shrugged it off. Hill folk have a high tolerance for peculiarities. Later, doctors told them it could have been from those days he was alone there in the cabin without food or water, no one knew for how long.”

“Brain damage.”

She nodded. “Possibly. But he’d had no prenatal care— or postnatal, for that matter. He’d been born right there in the cabin to all appearances. Easily could have suffered insult during birth, deprived of oxygen, too much pressure on the head, causing a bleed. Or he could have picked up an infection, either then or later on, passed on from his mother, carried by insects. Simple heredity? The mother never looked healthy or quite right herself, most said. For all that, my folks brought Carl up the same as me. They tried to, anyway. Not much about it was easy for them.”

“Or for you, would be my guess.”

“I liked having a brother. And it’s not as though he was ever violent, anything like that. He just wasn’t always
there
. I did have a few fights back when he started school. You know, taking up for him. But pretty soon the others left us alone.”

“He finished school?”

“And got a job, working at Nelson Ranch. We’d moved by then, to the closest town. Called it a ranch, but what they raised was chickens.”

“Takes a small lariat.”

She looked at me oddly a moment, then laughed.

“Carl had been getting worse the past year or so. His mind would wander off and he’d go looking for it, Dad said. He got fired after a month or so. Mrs. Nelson came over herself to talk to Dad and tell him how bad they all felt. After that, he just hung around the house, I guess. I was off at college. At first I wrote to him, but he never answered, and we soon lost touch. We never had much of anything to say to one another the few times I came home.”

“You didn’t get home regularly?”

“I was paying my own way. I had a half-scholarship, but that didn’t go near far enough. Every weekend, most breaks and holidays, most days after class, I was working.”

“Good grades?”

“Good enough that I got my degree in three and a half years. I wanted to go on to law school, but there was no way I could afford it. The cupboards were bare.”

“You’re still young. You could go back.”

She shook her head. “It’s a question of confidence— confidence and momentum. Back then it never occurred to me that anything could stop me. I know too many things that can stop me now.”

For reasons known only to himself (turndown on a date? bad test grade? failure to make the football squad?) a teenager leaning from a passing car shouted “I’m soooo disappointed.”

Sarah Hazelwood smiled. “Well. There it is. What more need be said? For any of us.”

Chapter Sixteen

DOORS SLAMMING SHUT
and locks falling: you never forget that sound, the way it makes you feel. That was something waiting in my own future, something I’d get used to, inasmuch as one ever does. Looking back even now, a familiar horror clutches at my throat, squeezes my heart in its fist.

When the buzzer sounded, I pushed through double doors into Wonderland. Here’s another hall, another birth passage. Up two levels in an elevator crowded with bodies, down a cluttered hall—linen carts, food carriers, house-cleaning trucks—to the tollbooth. Nurses in a patchwork of whites, scrubs, Ban-Lon and T-shirts, jeans, slacks. One of them showed me into a double room where Randy, dressed in a jogging suit I’d packed for him, sat on one of the beds. Everything in the room, bedspread, curtains, towel folded neatly on the bedside table, was pastel. Randy’s jogging suit was sky blue.

He looked up at me. “Stupid, huh?”

I had no idea how much he remembered, and asked him.

“All of it. But it’s like a TV show I saw, or a movie. Like it’s not me, I’m standing off somewhere watching: who
is
this asshole? Beats all, doesn’t it?”

“I spoke with the Captain this morning. He’s the only one back at the station house who knows what’s going on. Wants me to tell you don’t worry, he’s got you covered.”

Neither of us said anything else for a time.

“I appreciate this, buddy,” Randy said finally.

“Hey. Don’t get me wrong, you’re no prize. But with you gone, either I head out alone or wind up having to take care of some half-assed retard no one else’ll have. At least I’m used to you.”

We both let the silence have its way again. After a while he said: “She’s gone, isn’t she?”

“Looks like it.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Besides get your shit together and get back on the job, you mean.”

“Yeah . . . besides that.”

A nurse came in with a tray. He held out his hand. She upended a fez-shaped container of pills onto it, handed him a small waxed cup of water. He drank and swallowed. She went away.

Anything I can get for you? I said. Anything I need to take care of?

He shook his head.

“Bills are all paid up. Plenty of food in the house. . . . Unless you want to try to get in touch with Dorey, find out where she is.”

I’d already done that, but I wasn’t going to tell him. I said I’d look into it.

“I can’t, I just can’t,” Dorey had told me. She was staying with a friend on Clark Place, in an old red-brick house behind a screen of fig trees. We sat in wicker chairs on the enclosed front porch, behind a checkerboard of glass, struts and putty. Full of imperfections, each pane warped the world in a different way, reducing, enlarging, folding edges into centers, bending right angles to curves. Mockingbirds thrashed and sang in the fig trees. “Will you let me know how he is?” Dorey asked. I said I would.

“Gotta get back on the horse,” I told Randy. “Anything you need, you’ll call me, right?”

He promised he would.

“I’m so sorry,” Marsha said that night over Mexican food. We’d been together six or eight weeks. A band looking like something from
The Cisco Kid
or a Roy Rogers movie, guitar,
bajo sexto
and trumpet, emerged from the kitchen playing “Happy Birthday” and stepped up to a table nearby. Our enchilada plates emerged moments later, pedestrian by comparison.

Marsha was a librarian. We’d met when a drunk fell asleep at one of the reading tables, she’d been unable to wake him at closing time, and, being right around the corner, I took the call. She was strikingly attractive, all the more so for never giving her appearance a thought one way or the other. Her mind was agile, the angle it might take at any given time unpredictable; good conversation sprang up spontaneously whenever she was around. Ten minutes after meeting someone, she’d be winnowing her way to the very best that person had. Despite my protests that it was important work I was good at, she kept insisting I was wasting my time as a detective.

“You remind me of my sister,” I told her when she first brought it up. “Always going on about how when I was young I’d been a natural leader, and she wondered why that changed.”

“Did it?”

I shoveled about half a cup of salsa onto a chip and threw it back, washed it down with a long sip of Miller’s.

“What happened, I think, was we grew apart.”

“You and your sister?”

“Me and the other kids. We had everything in common at first. They weren’t a particularly vocal or imaginative lot, and I’d just step up there, speak for them, pull them together. But as time went on, as we became individuals, our interests diverged. They took to sports, which I couldn’t care about. I just never got it, you know? Still don’t. Then I gravitated to books—every bit as mysterious to them, or more so.”

Marsha reached over and got my beer, took a swig. Things liberated always taste better. “Just listen to yourself,” she said. “Exactly what I mean.”

Flagging down the waitress, I ordered another beer.

“Don’t suppose you want one?” I asked Marsha.

“Me? A beer? Why on earth would I?”

“Just as I thought.”

She forged ahead into enchiladas, refried beans and soggy pimiento-shot rice, bolstering same with occasional forksful from my plate, though it was identical with hers. Neither of us did well, finally, by the challenge. Fully half the food remained heaped on our plates when we were done, foil-wrapped tortillas untouched. I had another beer. We declined offers of take-home containers.

Out, then, into a typically fine southern evening, cicadae singing, moths beating at screens, quarter-moon above. My car waited. Beneath artificial lights its shiny, hard, blue-green body resembled nothing so much as the carapace of another insect.

“Randy doesn’t have much to look forward to, does he?”

“Not right now.”

“Without you, he’d have far less.” She laid her head back against the seat. “It’s so beautiful, you almost forget.”

Years later in similar circumstances, in what might have been the same night inhabited by the great-great-grand-children of those same cicadae, Val Bjorn turned her head to me and said, “A real Hank Williams night.” As she hummed softly, the words came to me. A night so long . . . Time goes slowly by . . . His heart’s as lonesome as mine.

Chapter Seventeen

MUCH PRISON CONVERSATION
consists of homilies, catchphrases, familiar incantations passed back and forth without thought. Someone gave voice to one of them, others within hearing would nod, that was an entire conversation. A particular favorite was: You don’t use your time, it’ll sure use you.

From every indication Carl Hazelwood had been well used by time, long before he wound up pinned like a specimen moth to a carport wall.

I’d barely got back to the office from talking to Sarah, who’d been picked up by Adrienne after she put their exhausted father to bed, when Don Lee answered the phone and handed it over.

Val Bjorn jumped right in. “Hey, I have your man. Had to hold my head right, figure out which way to look. His fingerprints . . .” She trailed off. Because I’d not responded? “You had it already, didn’t you?”

“Just.”

“Day late and a dollar short.”

I filled her in on the Hazelwood family’s arrival. “Not that this in any way lessens my appreciation of your efforts, you know.”

“You have no idea how hard I humped to get this.”

“Maybe I can make it up to you.”

“How
are
they? The family. They have any idea what might have gone down?”

“Mostly they’re still trying to figure out what he was doing here.”

“Aren’t we all.” She paused to sip at something. “What’d you have in mind with that making-up thing?”

“Dinner, maybe? I’m open to suggestion.”

“You cook?”

“I buy.”

“That could be a problem ’round here.”

“So could my cooking.”

“Hmmm. Then maybe I should cook. Lesser of two evils. Not a lot lesser, I’ll admit.”

“Or we could throw that whole food business over-board—”