Whatever Lola Wants (46 page)

He knew also that unemployment in the county was high, the public purse overspent, and too many families undernourished. So he'd been in favor of Terramac from the start. He'd never personally challenged the Alliance, though, partly because he believed Shapiro and Magnussen and the rest had the right to oppose Terramac. Still he'd become a member of the Approval Committee.

So these days the Sheriff looked on as two hundred and eighty-five workers came across the border every day, five hundred and forty new jobs all told. Should've been more county residents doing that Terramac work but near-half was way better than nothing. Everything had been dealt with legally between the Commissioners' office, the Governor's office, and the Quebec Premier's office. The Sheriff figured it wasn't his business to clarify whether these international borders were subject to state law, federal law, or whatever. Except he knew the flow had to be approved, controlled, whatever, given all the terrorism in the last few years.

The Saab stopped. Henry Nottingham shone his lamp toward it and walked over. “I had a word with the groundskeeper. Tomorrow he might see the upturned earth. I brought along a little bush, we can plant it by the grave.”

“Thanks, Hank. Very good.”

“You got the disinterment form?”

“It's in the car.”

The Sheriff nodded slowly. They stood facing each other, the air still thick with the day's heat, Nottingham dubious, not liking the way Mr. Cochan clenched his teeth.

John Cochan asked, “You bring a shovel?”

The Sheriff nodded, opened his trunk and took out two. Also two crowbars and a sealed beam lamp. “Go faster this way, we'll get done quicker.”

John nodded and wished he'd changed clothes. He loosened his tie and pulled his coat off. He hadn't thought about the actual work of digging. He hadn't thought about much of anything, up at the house. There'd be time to think through what she'd done.

The Sheriff turned his headlamps on, damp yellow light across the gravesite. They dug. Sweat pasted shirts to skin. Mosquitoes bit through cotton. The ground was not packed tight. They went less than five feet down. It took less then fifteen minutes.

How cold the winter must have been, how terrible under the dirt. At least the coffin was snug and tight, no bugs could get in there. In there, Ben, in his suit. It needn't have been a suit. But she'd insisted. No, he'd said, shirt and pants, far more normal for Benjie. Eight years, it wasn't right, she and too many women looking out for Benjie. Priscilla. Her mother too but John had put a stop to that. And Diana, Deirdre, Melissa.

The Sheriff balanced his sealed beam on a neighbor headstone. He pointed the light slanting down.

They worked soil away from the edges of the coffin, a small thing, five feet long. Hardwood, no decay, only in one corner had the cold and damp cracked the lacquer on the top. Inside lay the boy who'd grinned at Johnnie ten thousand times, the arms that hugged—

Henry Nottingham, puffing, stopped, wiped water from his brow and neck.

Wasn't just moving the coffin enough? No. Did he have to look inside the coffin? There was no choice. Henry hoped there'd be no more than the skeleton. He wiped sweat from temples, mustache, chin.

He handed John the flashlight and grabbed the crowbar. The beam searched the hole. The Sheriff reached the other crowbar over to John, they kneeled, reached down, the Sheriff caught a handle with a crowbar hook, and loosened the box. John found the other handle. They pulled the coffin out, set it flat on the ground. Stared at it.

Cochan broke the silence. “I have to see him. Once more.”

“Mr. Cochan—” He sighed. “If I can say? I wouldn't.”

“I know you wouldn't. And it's good advice, Hank.”

“There's no telling what he'll look like. I've seen a few, sir, and, well, they all— None are— You don't want to see them.”

John squeezed his eyes shut. Five seconds, fifteen.

The Sheriff wondered if maybe John Cochan was praying.

John knelt, grasped the coffin lid. Yanked. It didn't move.

“Wrong side, Mr. Cochan.” His beam played light on the other side.

John nodded, lifted. The lid loosened. With a sharp yank he threw it open. He stared.

Empty.

The Sheriff squatted, searched with his flash, ran his hand along the yellow silk lining. No decomposition. Stained at the foot where water had leaked in. He looked up at John.

John's head was shaking, the tiniest of lateral motions left and right and again, again, a dozen times, twenty. The bugs.

“Mr. Cochan, I've heard of such things. But I've never—”

“No, no.” It had to be the bugs. Nothing left. No clothes.

“I'll make a report, we'll find out.”

John reached over, lowered the lid, closed the coffin. “Hank, you've done me a big favor. I'm in your debt.” Not a trace. “Someone in debt shouldn't ask for more. But I need another favor. Don't make a report. Forget what you've just seen.”

“But don't you—”

“Yes. But it has to be something—else. Please.” The bugs have taken Benjie.

Sheriff Henry Nottingham considered the request. He nodded. They shook soiled hands. He caught John's eye, then looked away. This was messy, very messy.

Putting the coffin back, covering it again, planting the bush, took forever.

Eleven

1.

Priscilla remained in the guest
room, locked in from her side. A silent breakfast for Johnnie. He walked to the office. He had not slept. His gut churned with bile. What does one do with an adulterous wife? Where was Benjie? The world was deeply flawed this morning.

At least he'd set one element in place. Oh, he would aright the others too. Leonora Magnussen was due at nine. A nice irony, his ally of old the one to accept his offer formally.

The morning was again hot, his shirt already moist. And Ms. Magnussen already there when he arrived. Tall, so tall, skinny as a line but spread out by the full white skirt, shoulder pads the caricature of an older fashion, for cripesake, two-inch heels. Women who allow vogue to dictate judgement— Thinks she's real successful, independent, one more who can't tell hope from glory. “My office is at the back, Leonora, old friend. After you.” He followed, watched her stride, her shoulders. Boasting her pride by her stance.

She felt his eyes on her spine, his stare of dominance. She walked up the steps. Over two years since she'd first dealt with him, ten days since he'd handed her the deed to a small piece of Terramac. In the office on the left Aristide Boce, stout in a three-piece suit, smiled at her. Did he know what she'd done, years ago, last week? She waited. John Cochan opened the door to the office on the right. She stepped in, and he followed, pointed to a large padded chair and closed the door. She sat.

“Coffee?”

“You plan to use this kind of plexiglass for the domes?”

He took a moment. “No. The material for the domes is much lighter. Far stronger. Our own patent. Would you prefer tea?”

“No, thanks. Shall we talk?”

“I'm delighted to see you again.” He smiled. “Your parents have studied our offer.”

“My mother's ill. The land belongs to my father.”

“Of course. And I was sorry to hear about Theresa.”

“Do you truly care one way or the other?”

“Oh, I assure you, yes. I think she's an admirable antagonist, you know that. As I expect her family are responsible negotiators.”

“As in selling my father's land?”

“Right.”

“I'm sorry, no.”

John Cochan drew his lips tight. “You find the offer inadequate?”

“We simply don't want to sell.”

“Hmmm.” Not good. “You once thought Terramac an important project.”

“I still do.”

“I assure you, it's a generous offer.”

“Perhaps.”

“Then why not accept?”

“It's our land. It's been ours for two hundred years.”

“And you expect its value will increase as Terramac grows, is that it?”

“It'll be ours for another two hundred.”

“For your children?”

“For ourselves. And our children.”

“Who? A girl running a third-rate carpentry shop?”

“Old enough for her responsibilities.” A dry smile.

“And two bastards?”

“Born out of wedlock? Even bastards are human, Johnnie.” So Cochan had done some more snoopy homework. But why expect different. “With legal rights.”

“Bastard kids of a man who lives only to eat and fornicate? They're the inheritors?”

“That's none of your business.”

“Come on, Leonora, a piece of scrub land? Those kids' lives would be improved immeasurably from the interest alone. Their entire futures.” He smiled. “Your own as well.”

“Don't concern yourself about my future. We're keeping the Grange and the land.”

“For all to enjoy?”

“I've got to get back.” She stood.

“Posted? No hunting, fishing, trespassing? No breathing the air? Generous, Ms. Leonora.”

“What happens with it, we'll decide.”

“You? Or that spy Carney you've hired?”

“Give me a break, John.”

“Watch him, he'll ruin you, all of you. You'll lose out on $12 million, account of him.”

She waited, then spoke slowly. “We make our own decisions.”

A nerve found? “He's got his hold over you, yes?” Leonora Magnussen, smitten by Carney? “You know and I know.” She was standing, turning. “You think it'll stay the same? With a center of wonders on your doorstep? Your pathetic little piece of despoiled nature?”

“There can be development and there can be preservation. Side by side.”

Cochan folded his arms. “No, Leonora. People, coming and going. Many thousands of people every day. Soon, an airport. You don't own the airspace. You can't hide.”

“We'll see.”

“Very well, keep the land. I'm still in the market. As of right now my price drops by half. You have seven days to accept. So if you'll excuse me.” He stood.

She decided, and sat. She opened her purse, took out a cigarette packet. “May I smoke?”

“Please don't.”

She replaced the pack.

“I can still be generous. Back to my first offer of the day.”

“I'm not finished.” She heard herself sound hard. Inside she trembled. Here came the break—from all she had thought she believed, from the compromise she had hoped to achieve.

Cochan too sat. “Okay, go on. I've got a lot to get done.”

“In two days we'll be in court seeking an order to restrain you from developing any lands beneath the Grange acreage.”

No! No! Afterward John guessed he wasn't frozen in place for more than a second or two. It felt like that many minutes. “Anything else?”

She stood. “Enough for now.” She opened the door and walked out, no nod of acknowledgment to chubby-suit next door.

John stared after her, stick-figure with tiny breasts.

Leonora sat in her car. She shouldn't have told him. Nor met with him. He'd try to stop the restraining order. But he'd have done that anyway, soon as they filed. So? Worth it, seeing him turn to stone. She felt cleaner. She drove through Richmond and north, to the border. Well-versed about the family was Mr. Cochan. Informants everywhere. She shivered.

2.

Friday morning Carney got back
the test results on the pH in Gambade Brook. The water was too acidic for trout to breed. All those big rainbows, the last of their kind. He'd have to tell Ti-Jean and Feasie. A fist of sadness held him tight. He'd been looking forward, in a mild way, to his evening with Sarah. Tell her about the creek? He played his cello, a mournful tune.

At five-thirty he shaved and turned on the water for a bath. He heard a car stop in his drive. The doorbell rang. He grabbed for his dressing gown, opened the door a slit. “Just a second.” He stepped back to pull his pants on.

Sarah eased the door open. “Don't worry about me, you don't have to be formal.” She plopped her red backpack on a chair.

“I thought we'd agreed on meeting at the Inn.”

“I was driving around. I wanted to see where you lived.”

“How'd you get my address?”

She studied his face again. “Milton, of course.”

“I was getting cleaned up.”

“Clean away. I'll follow.”

In her jeans and plaid shirt she didn't look ready for a dinner date. Carney's long bath became a quick shower. Into slacks, a shirt. Why had she come here?

She grabbed her bag and went into the bathroom. Her ablutions took longer. She came out elegant: green silk dress, hair glowing, a slim necklace gold against tan skin, shawl in hand, heels, bit of makeup, a smile. “Shall we head out?”

“We're”—he checked his watch—“an hour and a half ahead of schedule. The reservation.”

“Okay. How hard is it get a drink around here?”

In silence he made a pitcher of Scotch sours. An attractive woman, he conceded. He filled two glasses and set the pitcher on the coffee table. He sat on the couch, she in a chair.

She sipped. “Tell me about Carney.”

“In exchange for hearing about Sarah Magnussen Bonneherbe Yaeger.”

“I've dropped the Yaeger.”

“Oh?”

“Yesterday.”

“Why?”

“To travel a bit lighter.” Her glance flicked across his face. “Like, Carney?”

“Something like that.”

“The name you were born with?”

“I had a first name. Never wanted it.”

She raised her glass. “To brevity.”

They drank, and talked. He heard versions of stories he'd had from Feasie and Milton, family stories. He got more of a sense about her lab job: blood, urine, and fecal analysis.

“The shit and piss of life,” she said.