Wish You Were Here (34 page)

His father was not ambitious (much to his mother's chagrin, he later found out). He took the bus downtown every morning, dragged his briefcase home at night. Success to him meant having the time to do nothing. Happiness was fishing, or being settled in his chair of a Sunday afternoon in the fall, the leaves raked high in piles, reading the paper while a ball game played. It was this ideal of peace that Meg had despised as complacency and that his mother defended as his right. But of all of them, his father was the least demanding, pleased by their high scores yet understanding when they flubbed a test. If anything, his expectations were too low. If Ken wanted to surprise him with some stunning, unexpected triumph the way Meg had with her rebelliousness, it was too late now. He was down to pleasing himself—or Lise, though honestly he could not imagine her ever being impressed with him again.

He should be more like his father, he thought. That would be the way to honor him, not by mooning after a Pulitzer.

A bolt of static crashed through the radio. He turned it off as if it were interfering with his thoughts. He was driving fast for the rain, timing himself by the dash clock, which seemed crazy, seeing as the challenge was to fill up the hours somehow, make the day pass faster. He had to be back to take the boys to the casino—not that he minded. He'd take another roll or two there with the Holga, work that nostalgic riff, the old pinball machines and sex-appeal testers, the greased cables of the ferry.

The old hotel, the garage, the Putt-Putt, the cemetery—it all belonged to the same faded turn-of-the-century world of Chautauqua, and for an instant he saw an exhibit, a book, a life's work documenting everything here, building up a library from which to choose the most telling images. He liked the idea of a larger project, impossible to fulfill too quickly. Shoot enough and something will come, Morgan said. Maybe that's what he needed.

No, it was ridiculous, grandiose, and noticing how he leapt at the possibility made him feel desperate.

The farm stands were closed, but the Gas-n-Go was open as if nothing had happened, the sides of both islands occupied. In the windows the beer neon glowed. There was no police car parked by the ice machine or the caged propane tanks, just a rusty Suburban, a banged-up truck. He'd expected it to bear some more dire sign.

On the way into Mayville he saw her face stapled to pole after pole, taped to a barbershop window, the door of a darkened sub shop. It was a quiet town, a backwater with a Doric courthouse and two blocks of rotting Victorians anchoring a hilly grid of split-level ranches surrounded by a county of bankrupt dairy farms going back to ragweed and thistle. He didn't think she could still be here, stashed in someone's basement, locked in a dripping barn.

The road curved, turned sharply, and Main Street ran up from the lake like a boat ramp. The Golden Dawn seemed to be the only going concern downtown, but when he pulled into the empty space in front of the True Value, its lights were on, the storefront giving off a cozy glow. The sidewalk was raised above the sloping street and protected by a black railing of pipe; he had to climb a crumbling set of steps before he reached the door.

It chimed behind him, the smell of free popcorn welcoming him inside. Long ago the owner had installed a machine like the one at a theater, making the trip to the store a highlight for Ken as a child. Every summer since he could remember he'd come here with his father, a strictly male pilgrimage, stocking up on fuses, mouse baits, rolls of screening—all the things that had renewed the cottage and now cluttered the garage. His father knew where everything was, ranged the aisles as if he worked there, but Ken couldn't make sense of the store's organization. He wandered
the shelves like a lab rat—tempted, every minute, to use the Holga—until in a far corner he ran across a wall of insecticides in tall cans. He read three carefully, weighing their ingredients, finally choosing one with a cartoon of a dead ant on the front.

His mother had been in such a hurry for him to get it that she hadn't given him any money. It was cheap enough, he figured.

The woman at the register rang it up without a word, and Ken recalled his father talking with the owner, a man he presumably knew. Just chitchat, the weather, the level of the lake, but there was a connection there, a neighborly acquaintance that Ken felt none of in this transaction. The woman was older, wearing a Bills sweatshirt, and while there was no one else in the store, she seemed annoyed, as if she was busy with something else. When he thanked her, the words squeaked out as if he hadn't spoken in months.

On the bulletin board by the door was the flyer, and it struck him that his strangled thank-you would have been the extent of his conversation with Tracy Ann Caler if she'd been there. Looking at the bad picture of her, he realized that he'd never met her, never spoken with her, never actually seen her alive. And yet, strangely, that made her even more his. She was his secret as surely as if he'd kidnaped her himself.

The feeling that he was in some way responsible, if only as a witness, would not go away. He'd always considered himself too levelheaded to develop anything resembling an obsession. Perhaps that's what this was, but, unaccustomed to such bizarre thoughts, he'd failed to recognize it. Because it was nuts. She could have been anybody. He didn't know her at all.

Outside, letting the 4Runner defrost, he peered down Main Street at the shallow end of the lake, the old train station turned into a bike shop, the
Chautauqua Belle
in her slip, waiting out the rain. He wondered what it would be like to live here. Quiet. Cold in winter, and pretty in the snow. They could sink their savings into one of those ten-room monstrosities with a massive gas furnace and three staircases. He could see himself running a studio out of the house, taking formal portraits of families posed in their church clothes. In time, he would establish himself, make a name, take out an ad in the Yellow Pages. He'd keep his accounts in the den, crunching his budget on his computer while outside the leaves spun and fluttered
down. And all the while, secretly, he would be piecing together Tracy Ann's case, talking to people she knew, photocopying documents, filling a drawer with folders.

“You
are
a psycho,” he said, and rubbed his window clean so he could see to back out.

Beyond the Golden Dawn, the streets were deserted. Outside of a shabby two-story brick building, by the curb, sat a flowered couch, on top of it a big console TV, facedown. The apartment must have been upstairs, above the liquor store. He could not imagine who lived there. Someone like Tracy Ann Caler. A town like this would always be a mystery to him—to any outsider. His ideas of small-town life were probably wrong, drawn from Jimmy Stewart movies and episodes of
The Twilight Zone.
Down in Jamestown there was that creep who gave all those teenagers AIDS. The locals said he was an outsider, but that didn't explain why their kids were swapping partners like a barn dance, and some of them were Ella's age. Their neighborhood in Cambridge seemed almost wholesome in comparison.

He checked the clock on the dash, adjusting how much time he could spend at the Gas-n-Go, restoring an extra five minutes he'd taken away earlier. His plan was simple. While he filled the cans at the island with his other hand—without looking—he'd be shooting the front, the pumps, whatever the Holga decided to include. When he went in to pay, he'd circle around back and bend down like he was reaching for a Coke and do the same thing to the aisles, the coffee corner, the rack of maps. If he saw the opportunity, he'd try to do the counter, get the register, all following Morgan's directive, just shoot. The anticipation of working cranked him up, an athlete waiting for a game to start.

Ahead, the Gas-n-Go shone, its yellow sign bright in the rain. He wanted the outside of the inside island so he would have cover to shoot from, and it looked like he would get it, except there was a black Chevy between him and the doors. He pulled in and pulled as far up as he could. Before he lifted the latch for the back, he checked his pocket like a robber, making sure the Holga was there.

There was no one in the Chevy; the driver was inside paying. He swung the cans down to the island, giving himself a view of the front between the pump and the garbage can. He reached into his pocket and dug out the Holga and set it on the concrete. The temptation to line up
the shot—or better, to bring the viewfinder to his eye—was excruciating. Instead, with one finger, entirely blind, he pressed the button for the shutter, heard the telltale click.

He forwarded the film as he listened to the gas splash into the first tank. A woman emerged from the doors and headed for the Chevy. He pressed the button, hoping to catch her in midstride.

Forward, and another, forward.

A conversion van with an older couple pulled in at the outside pumps, but, kneeling, he was already shielding the camera from them with his body.

When he was finished with the tanks, he pocketed the camera, carefully screwed the two caps on and hefted the tanks one at a time into the back of the 4Runner. As he closed the hatch, he had the chance to scan the lot, to check the position of the husband, still filling up. Another car was turning in, just a driver, a woman. He waited until she stopped at the very inside pump before crossing to the doors.

In his concentration, he barely noted the flyer taped to the glass at eye level. Inside, he didn't think it was strange that he pretended he hadn't seen it. Logically it wouldn't make a difference to him, someone from out of town. He noted the clerk—a kid no older than Tracy Ann Caler, busy turning on the pump for the woman—and made for the wall of sodas, aware of the cameras trained on his back, wondering if anyone watched the tapes at the end of the day.

There were the tiers of candy bars, the Cheetos and Fritos, the dusty cans of Chef Boyardee ravioli. The lighting wasn't ideal, but again, it didn't matter. He used the glass door of the cooler to see behind him, then looked out at the pumps where the husband was hanging up the nozzle. Ken checked to make sure he wasn't paying with plastic—no, here he came across the lot, innocently counting out his money. Ken squatted, stalling, pretending to search the rows of Cokes. He was right where he needed to be. Six shots left, maybe seven. Enough. He slipped his hand into the pocket where the Holga rested and drew it out like a weapon, then knelt there, breathing, listening for his partner to come through the door.

“It doesn't fit there,” Ella said. “I already tried.”

Sam kept forcing it.

“What are you, stupid? It doesn't go there.”

“I don't care,” Sam said, and jammed it hard so it fit.

“Stop.” She fended him off with an arm and pulled the pieces apart, set the one in the middle.

He pushed her, rocking the table.

“Sam!” she hollered, and shoved him back.

“Cut it out, you two,” their mother warned, and before Ella could defend herself, said, “I don't care who started it, it's over. All I want to hear out of you is silence.”

“Look at them,” Lise said, pointing out the window.

Meg saw her mother holding the umbrella for Ken while he sprayed the mailbox. A cone of mist enveloped it, drifted on the wind, and they stepped back into the road.

“There he goes,” Meg said, “saving the day.”

“My hero.”

“
We
couldn't have done that.”

“No way,” Lise said. “No one could have except her Kenneth.”

From the ferry the new bridge looked precarious, rising high above them as if on stilts. Fog hung underneath it between the concrete pylons, plumes of frothing runoff pouring down like waterfalls. Arlene watched the tops of the trucks highballing by as Emily fiddled with the knot of her scarf. The wind blew the rain sideways, flogged the Taurus so hard Arlene would have worried if she hadn't crossed in far worse. The ferry hadn't changed in her lifetime, the open deck large enough for nine cars, turretlike guide-houses the size of phone booths at the four corners. A young couple occupied the one nearest them, holding each other as they rode the choppy water. The whole trip took five minutes.

“Okay,” Emily said, ready. For some reason, she needed to take her purse.

“Are you sure you want to go out in this?”

“Oh, don't be such an old fart.” Emily opened her door and the wind stirred the ashtray so Arlene had to slap it closed.

“Old fart you,” Arlene said to no one, then followed her out.

Her first steps were wobbly, though the ferry was rock-solid, the diesel chugging evenly, hauling it along the cable. She slitted her eyes against the wind. Rain stung her cheeks as she veered toward the rail. Emily opened the door to the guidehouse for her, and she ducked in out of the storm, wiping her wet hands on her pants.

“Well, that was fun.”

“I'm glad I bundled up,” Emily said. “You'd never know it was August.”

No, Arlene thought, it was typical of August at Chautauqua, but let it go. Rain snaked down the windows, braided streams twisting like curtains blowing in the wind. They stood and watched Bemus Point draw slowly closer, the old casino and the new docks along the shore, fat cabin cruisers bobbing in the slips—lawyers from Buffalo.

“The casino has seen better days, I'm afraid,” Emily said.

“I'm surprised it's still standing. I thought it would have burned to the ground by now.”

“It always was a firetrap. Did you ever see them burn the old steamboats off of Celoron Park?” Emily pointed down the lake as if the place were still there, the roller coasters and flying swings standing unpopulated in the rain.

“I've heard about that.”

“They used to do it for Labor Day. They'd buy one of these old hulks and anchor it offshore and soak it in kerosene. Terrible for the environment, I'm sure. You couldn't do anything like that today. It would be sitting out there all day where you could see it, and that night when the park was about to close, they'd set it on fire and everyone would watch it burn. It was better than fireworks.”