Liberty or Death (10 page)

"The burgers, Clyde," I reminded him, as I tore open a packet of coffee, dumped it in, and stuck a batch of buns in the toaster. He cursed and flipped them. I hurried into the storeroom to get more buns, more bread, another tub of coleslaw, and a jar of tartar sauce. This all would have been easier if only I had three arms. There was no sign of Natty today, nor of his sidekick, and the mountain of dishes that awaited them loomed ominously. We were dangerously low on plates and glasses but there was no way I was adding dishwashing to my other tasks.

Things didn't quiet down until after three, when I was left with only one table, four old-timers telling fishing stories. They'd been there so long I was thinking of charging them rent, and they'd drunk so much coffee I wondered that their bladders didn't burst. As I leaned in with my pot one more time, one of 'em, the biggest, baldest one, said to the others, "Betcha I know where they're keeping that guy."

"Who's keeping what guy?"

"The militia's keeping that cop they took," Baldy said.

"Seth Muller's silo," my favorite one said. He was the one the others called "Bump." He had lively blue eyes and a kind smile and reminded me of my grandfather.

"Beliveau's potato house." This was the one called "Squint," who seemed to have only one eye. He was also the youngest and most foul-mouthed of the quartet.

"You ask me, they ain't keepin' him anywhere," the fourth one, the one with "Guy" embroidered over his pocket, said. "All that talk about tradin' him is bullshit. He's been dead and buried since the first day." The cold, decisive words made my throat tight and brought tears to my eyes. I looked down, hoping they wouldn't notice, and began clearing their dishes.

"Nope. Betcha not." Baldy again. "These guys are honorable, right? And they're serious about getting Harding out. I'm betting one of those survivalists has got him down in one of their bunkers. Great place to hide someone and they've already got 'em fitted out with food and toilets and things, right?"

Squint nodded sagely. "Wouldn't be a bad place to keep somebody, would it? Better'n a potato house. You ever smell one of them things, come spring?"

"Dumb idea," Bump said. "Those places are cold and damp, and crawling with mice and bugs."

"Don't expect they're thinking much about some cop's comfort," Guy said. "Not after what they done to Jed. And not after the way they've been since that statie got shot. All but peering up our asses, the cops were."

The first speaker, Baldy, the one the others called "Beau," said speculatively, "I wonder who around here's got 'em. Shelters, I mean. There was a real fad for building those shelters, ten, fifteen years ago. Fella I know, over to the civil defense, used to keep a list of 'em, just in case of, you know, war or somethin'. You do the civil defense, right, Bump, over to the library? They still got that list?"

Bump shrugged, looking bored with the conversation. "Doubt it. I've never seen it. Dang fool idea anyway."

"Hell, there's dozens of 'em around, them shelters," Squint said. "I wonder if the cops have thought of it?"

"Probably not. What do the cops know about us, anyway? They don't seem to give a damn that Jed Harding was in the right, do they? Push us around, stick their official noses into our business, try to keep us from exercising our constitutional right to protect ourselves, but they don't know nothin' about who we are. Fuckin' LURC's the worst, but it's the same for all of 'em." It was Guy, the one who thought Andre was dead and buried. Not a good Guy, I thought angrily. I had no idea what LURC was, but I'd sure heard it mentioned a lot. Guess I'd have to ask someone.

Bump was the only one bored with talking about shelters. The others seemed fascinated. Beau said, "Heck, out our road, there's three or four people I can think of who built shelters. Woman next door lets her teenager use it as a clubhouse. Him and his girlfriend, they're down there half the time these days, and I don't think they're playing cribbage, either." There was a general burst of laughter. But Beau wasn't finished. "You all know Elmer Hemphill, right?" A chorus of nods. "Well, his wife Joyce, she was entertaining the oil man down in his shelter while Elmer was sitting in the living room watching the baseball game."

"How do you know?" Squint demanded.

Beau grinned. "Oil man's my brother-in-law. Says they had it fitted out real nice, too."

"Hey, girlie, Theresa got any pie left?" Squint asked.

Girlie. Doll. Babe. Sweetie. Honey. I'd been called them so much in my two days at Theresa's that I was already getting calluses. For years, I've been something of a knee-jerk feminist, taking nothing from anyone that suggested I wasn't being taken seriously. The problem here was that I didn't want to do anything that might interfere with my job of collecting information. I also didn't care much whether I was taken seriously as a waitress. But that latter was just me being classist. If I thought about it, I'd realize that these were the real working women, the ones who needed protection from sexism, particularly wage-based sexism, most of all. But this wasn't the time or place to take a stand. I wasn't here to change the world. I was here to try and make one small world—my world—right and normal again. I didn't correct him, focusing instead on what the male diminutive might be. Boy? Sonny? Laddie? Beefycakes?

"I'll check," I said. I didn't want to leave, just in case they said something else about Andre and survival shelters, or speculated on where else he might be, but I had no more reasons to linger. "I doubt it. It's been like a plague of locusts in here today." I gathered up the rest of the plates and lugged the heavy tray into the kitchen. Natty was at the sink and the mountain of dishes was gradually turning into something more like a big hill. I checked the pies—only apple and lemon meringue left—and went to make my report.

They were still arguing about good places where a captive cop might be held, and I had to wait for a break in the conversation to report my findings. They ordered two apple and two lemon, asked for more coffee and more little packets of cream, and went back to arguing.

When I delivered the pie, the mean one, Guy, said, "So, girlie, where do you think they're keeping him?" For a second, my heart skipped, and I wondered how they knew to ask me, until I realized that it was something everyone in town was talking about, and I was just being included in the general conversation.

They really seemed to expect an answer, so I named the first place I thought of. "The basement of the church," I said, turning toward the kitchen, "that one down on the corner."

"Hey, hold on there..." a voice said loudly.

I turned back to find Beau halfway out of his seat, his face flushed with anger and his fists half-clenched, being tugged back into place by Bump. "Girl," he said angrily, "you got no call to be accusing..."

"Oh, Beauregard, sit down and shut up!" Bump said firmly. "She didn't mean anything by it. Girl's not from around here. It was just a guess, wasn't it, honey?" He reached out and patted my hand, giving me a curious look. "How'd you happen to pick that place?"

I managed a smile even though, inexplicably, I felt like weeping. "It was just a joke. You know. Pick the most unlikely place. I was going to say town hall, but I don't even know if Merchantville has one. And I was just walking past the church a while ago, taking the little Harding boy home..." I was ashamed of the tremor in my voice. Beau was still glaring and my tears were too close to the surface, so I didn't wait around to set things straight or to see how they'd work it out. I was too tired to get into an argument with a cranky and belligerent old man. I didn't have the energy to be placating. "Excuse me," I said. I limped into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and wrote up their check. Then I handed it to Theresa's daughter. "Would you mind giving this to those guys out there?"

She took it with a smile. "Not at all. Those old geezers giving you a hard time?" I nodded. "Sorry about that. They've got nothing better to do, now that they're all retired. Ma calls 'em the 'fish butts,' on account of the fact that they sit around on their butts all the time and talk about fishing, but can't get off their butts to go catch any fish." She stuffed it in her pocket and held out her hand. "I'm Cathy. Mary Catharine McGrath."

"Dora," I said, taking it without getting up. "God, my feet are killing me."

"New to this, huh? Better go upstairs and soak 'em. It's just the three of us again tonight and there's an event at the library, so everyone's gonna be coming in here for supper first. Ma says she thinks she'll have a schedule worked out, starting tomorrow, so you can get some time off. She'd never tell you, but I think she feels bad about working you so much, with you just being new and not used to it and all. She strikes people as hard, but she's really not. She don't... doesn't ask anything from other people she doesn't ask of herself. But I suppose you've noticed that."

She waved the check. "I'll go deliver this. See if I can get them movin'. Ma wants to close up for a few hours, give us all a break. I mean, you know it's a bad day when Clyde gets cranky."

I put my head down on my arms and closed my eyes, too tired even for the walk upstairs. My feet throbbed and my head ached. I was starving but lacked the energy to get up and fix myself something. There was a thump as something was set down beside my head and I smelled the delicious scent of fried onions and bacon. Clyde's big hand rested briefly between my shoulders. "You gotta eat something, Dora," he muttered.

I murmured "thanks" without looking up, and a minute later I heard the back door slam and knew he'd gone out for a cigarette.

Brisk footsteps signaled Cathy's return. "Bump Peters asked me to apologize to you. He says they were a bunch of skunks today and they're ashamed of themselves."

"Maybe he is. I doubt if the rest of them are."

She nodded. "You got that right. I don't know why he hangs around with the rest of them. He's a decent man, while Guy LeBeau is mean as a junkyard dog, Squint Sturges hasn't got the brains God gave a goat, and Beau Nichols's got such a short fuse he gets mad at his own shoes 'cuz they can't tie themselves. Trouble with Bump is, since his wife died, he's got nothing better to do. She really kept him in line. Now he just sits around with the rest of those grousers, pissing and moaning about how the system's failing. They don't like it?" She shrugged. "...Maybe they ought to run for the legislature. They couldn't be worse than the rest of those jerks down to Augusta."

She took off her apron and hung it on a hook. "I've put out the closed sign. Says we'll reopen at five. No sense in staying open for the few stragglers we'll see in the next few hours. Me and Clyde are going down to the beach for a swim. Want to come?"

A minute ago I'd thought I was too tired to even get out of the chair, but the idea of a swim was really appealing. I liked the image of plunging my hot body into cool water. I sat up and grabbed the burger Clyde had left me. It was pink and perfect and smothered with mushrooms and peppers and onions. Juice ran between my fingers and up my arm as I ate and I didn't give a damn. My mother wasn't watching. I try to eat healthy food but I believe in the restorative powers of meat, not so far evolved from the carnivores as I'd like to think. "I'd love a swim," I said. "But I don't want to be a third wheel, if you and Clyde..." I left it hanging, not wanting to impose, not wanting to pressure.

She shrugged with a not entirely convincing indifference. "Great. I'll tell Clyde. I've got a suit in my car. Soon as you've changed, we can go."

She hurried out, letting the screen door slam shut behind her. I finished the burger, delivered the dishes to Natty, and climbed the stairs, hoping that in my hasty packing, I had remembered to put in a bathing suit. I hadn't been thinking of this as a vacation, but Rosie had told me to, since the town was on a lake.

Five minutes later, I was changed and back downstairs, a T-shirt and shorts thrown over my suit, carrying a towel. Cathy and Clyde were waiting in his truck with the motor running. I hopped in and we took off in a shower of dust and gravel. For a moment, driving down the main street with hot wind blowing in the open window, music on the radio and the sounds of passing cars coming at me, it felt like the old, carefree summers of my youth. Work at a hard, menial job, get tired and sweaty, then hop in a car with a bunch of friends and head out to the pool or the beach or someone's backyard, and have some fun. The feeling only lasted a moment. I wasn't here to have fun.

Something must have shown in my face, because Cathy dug an elbow in my ribs and said, "Lighten up, Dora. It's okay to enjoy yourself once in a while." I got the feeling, once again, that the whole town knew my story. A small-town gossip mill was as good as a story in the local paper. Battered wife seeks refuge in Merchantville.

There was a cop at the lake, turning cars away from the crowded lot, but he moved the barrier and waved us in, pointing to a choice spot way at the front. Clyde paused as we passed and said, "Thanks, Billy." They exchanged big grins and we drove on.

"Clyde's cousin," Cathy explained. "The Davis boys always look after each other."

Memory is a funny thing. Different people store things in different ways. For me, summer is stored in smells and sounds and feelings. The smells of green and damp, chlorine and coconut oil, fried food and dust. You could have brought me here blindfolded and I would have known I was at a beach. There were children screaming and splashing, lifeguards' whistles blowing, radios competing, and the lap of waves on the beach. I pulled off my T-shirt and let the sun fall on my shoulders. Cathy's eyes lit on a small purple scar on my arm.

"I got stabbed with a pair of scissors," I explained. She waited a minute, her eyes curious, but I didn't tell the rest of the story. It was unpleasant to remember and I didn't want to be dragged back to that parking lot in Hawaii, to the jarring ugliness of that tropical night, a swarm of emergency vehicles, and some people who saw violence as the answer to their problems. I didn't want to admit the terrible vision of that pair of scissors stabbing deep into my arm.