Mission Flats (3 page)

I parked the Bronco with two wheels on the lawn, lights flashing. At the rear corner of the house, I shouted, ‘Maurice, it’s Ben Truman.’ No response. ‘Hey, Rambo, would you stop shooting for a second?’ Again there was no response, but then, there was no shooting either, which I took to be a positive sign. ‘Alright, I’m coming out,’ I announced. ‘Now, Maurice, don’t shoot.’

The backyard was a small rectangle of scrub grass, sand, and pine needles. It was scattered with detritus of various kinds: a skeletal clothes-drying rack, a street-hockey goal, a milk crate. In the far corner an old Chevy Nova lay flat on its belly, the wheels having been transplanted to some other shitbox Chevy Nova years before. The car still had its Maine license plate, with the picture of a lobster and the motto
VACATIONLAND.

Maurice stood at the edge of the yard with a rifle in the crook of his arm. The pose suggested a gentleman hunter on a break from shooting quail. He wore boots, oil-stained work pants, a red flannel jacket, and a baseball cap pulled low over the brow. His head was down, which was not unusual. You got used to addressing the button on his cap.

I shined my flashlight over him. ‘Evening, Maurice.’

‘Evenin’, Chief,’ the cap said.

‘What’s going on out here?’

‘Just shootin’ is all.’

‘I see that. You about scared Peggy Butler half to death. You want to tell me what the hell you’re shooting at?’

‘Them lights there.’ Maurice nodded toward Route 2 without looking up.

The two of us stood there for a moment nodding at each other.

‘You hit any?’

‘Nos’r.’

‘Something wrong with the gun?’

He shrugged.

‘Well let’s have a look at it, Maurice.’

He handed me the rifle, an old Remington I’d confiscated at least a dozen times. I checked that there was a round in the chamber, then pinged one off a metal fence-pole at the edge of the field. ‘Gun’s okay,’ I informed him. ‘Must be you that’s off.’

Maurice gave a little murmuring laugh.

I patted down the outside of his coat, felt the box of shells in his pocket. Reaching inside, my fingers got snarled in the Kleenex balls Maurice collected there like chestnuts. ‘Jesus, Maurice, do you ever clean out these pockets?’ I pulled out the box of ammunition and stuck it in my own pocket. A box of Marlboro reds I opened and slipped back in Maurice’s coat. ‘Okay if I take a look around and see how you’re doing out here?’

He looked up at last. The skin grafts along his concave jawline shone silvery in the flashlight. ‘’M I under arrest?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Okay then.’

I went in the back door, leaving Maurice where I’d found him. He kept his arms by his sides like a scolded child.

The kitchen stank of boiled vegetables and body odor. A fifth of Jim Beam stood on the table, half empty. The refrigerator was empty save for an ancient box of baking soda. In the cabinets were a few cans (Spaghetti-Os, Green Giant corn), a few packets of powdered soup, and a tiny hole through which carpenter ants were entering and exiting.

‘Maurice,’ I called to him, ‘has your caseworker been out to see you?’

‘Don’t ’member.’

With the barrel of Maurice’s rifle, I nudged open the bathroom door and shined the flashlight about. The tub and toilet were stained yellow. Two cigarette butts floated in the toilet. Beneath the sink, a section of the wall had rotted, and a piece of particle board had been nailed there to patch the hole. At the edges of the board, the ground outside was visible.

I switched off the lights and closed up the house.

‘Maurice, you remember what protective custody is?’

‘Yes’r.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s when you put me in the jail but I’m not under arrest.’

‘That’s right. And do you remember why I have to do that, put you in protective custody?’

‘To protect me, I guess. That’s why they call it that.’

‘Well, yeah. Exactly. So that’s what we’re going to do, Maurice, we’re going to put you in protective custody before you kill someone while you’re taking potshots at streetlights.’

‘I didn’t hit none.’

‘Well, Maurice, that doesn’t exactly make me feel better about it. See, if you hit what you were aiming at . . .’

He gave me a blank expression.

‘Look, the point is, you can’t shoot at them. They’re town property. Besides, what if you hit a car?’

‘I never shot no cars.’

These conversations with Maurice only go so far, and this one had about run its course. It wasn’t completely clear whether Maurice was just slow or a little crazy. Either way, he’d earned some leeway. He’d survived a maelstrom of emotions no outsider could fathom, and he had the scars to prove it.

He looked up at me. In the moonlight, with his right side in darkness, his face was restored nearly to normal. It was the sort of lean, dark-eyed face common around here. The face of a voyageur or a timberman in an old sepia photo.

‘You hungry, Maurice?’

‘Little.’

‘Did you eat?’

‘Et yesterd’y’

‘Want to go to the Owl?’

‘Thought you were PC’ing me.’

‘I am.’

‘Do I get my gun back?’

‘Nope. I’m going to have it forfeited before you shoot somebody. Like me.’

‘Chief Truman, I ain’t gonna shoot you.’

‘Well, I appreciate that. But I’m going to keep it just the same because – and this is no disrespect, Maurice – you’re not the greatest shot that ever was.’

‘The judge’ll make you give it back. I got my F.I.D.’

‘What, are you a lawyer now?’

Maurice made his little laugh, like a moan. ‘Ayuh, guess so.’

There were a few people at the Owl, all sitting at the bar, all drinking Bud long-necks, staring up at a hockey game on the TV. Phil Lamphier, who owned the place and in the off-season was the only bartender, was leaning on his elbows at the end of the bar, reading a newspaper. The little countertop was L-shaped, and Maurice and I slid onto stools on the short side, facing the others.

A murmur of ‘Hey, Ben’ came from the group, though Diane Harned waited a moment before greeting me as ‘Chief Truman.’ She shot me a little smirk, then returned her attention to the TV. Diane had been good-looking once, but the color had drained out of her. Her blond hair had faded from yellow to straw. Raccoon shadows had formed under her eyes. Still, she carried herself with a pretty girl’s arrogance, and there’s something to be said for that. Anyway, we’d had a few dates, Diane and I, and a few reunions after that. We had an understanding.

Maurice ordered a Jim Beam, which I immediately canceled. ‘We’ll have two Cokes,’ I told Phil, who made a face.

Jimmy Lownes asked, ‘You got Al Capone here under arrest?’

‘Nope. Heat’s out at Maurice’s house so he’s going to stay over at the station tonight till we get it turned on again. We just figured we’d get something to eat first.’

Diane gave me a skeptical look but said nothing.

‘My taxes paying for that dinner?’ Jimmy teased.

‘No, I’m treating.’

Bob Burke said, ‘Well, that’s taxes, Ben. Taxes is what pays your salary, technically’

‘Yours too,’ Diane shot back. ‘Technically’

Burke, who worked for the town doing maintenance in the public buildings, was sheepish. Still, I did not need Diane to defend me.

‘It doesn’t take a lot of taxes to pay my salary,’ I said. ‘Besides, as soon as they find a new chief, I’ll be off the dole. Get my ass out of this jerkwater place finally.’

Diane snorted. ‘And go where?’

‘I’ve been thinking maybe I’ll go do some traveling.’

‘Well, listen to you. Just where do you think you’re gonna go?’

‘Prague.’

‘Prague.’ She said the word as if she were trying it out for the first time. ‘I don’t even know what that is.’

‘It’s in Czechoslovakia.’

Diane sniffed again, disdainful.

Bobby Burke cut in, ‘It’s the Czech Republic now. That’s what they called it on the Olympics, the Czech Republic’ Burke was a master of this kind of trivia. The man eked out a living mopping floors at the grade school, but he could tell you the names of every first lady, all the presidential assassins, and the eight states that border Missouri. A man like that can throw off the rhythm of a conversation.

‘Ben,’ Diane persisted, ‘why in hell would you want to go to Prague?’ There was an edge in her voice. Jimmy Lownes gave her a little nudge and said, ‘Uh-oh,’ like Diane was jealous. But it wasn’t that.

‘Why would I want to go to Prague? Because it’s beautiful.’

‘And what are you going to do once you get there?’

‘Just look around, I guess. See the sights.’

‘You’re just going to . . .
look around
?’

‘That was my plan, yes.’

It wasn’t much of a plan, I admit. But it seemed to me I’d been planning too long already, waiting for The Opportunity. I have always been one of those long-thinking, slow-acting men, the type that smothers every idea with doubt and worry. It was time to shake free of all that. I figured I could at least get as far as Prague before my second-guessing caught up to me. I sure as hell wasn’t going to rot in Versailles, Maine.

Jimmy asked, ‘You taking Maurice here with you?’

‘You bet. Whattaya say, Maurice? Want to come to Prague?’

Maurice looked up and grinned his shy, close-mouthed smile.

‘Maybe I’ll go too,’ Jimmy announced.

Diane snorted again. ‘Right.’

‘Jeezum Crow,’ Jimmy said, ‘why not?’

‘Why not? Look at yourselves!’

We looked but none of us saw anything.

‘It’s just, you guys aren’t exactly Prague people.’

‘What the hell does that mean, “Prague people”?’ Jimmy Lownes could not have found Prague on a map if you gave him a week to look. But his indignation was genuine enough. ‘We’re people, aren’t we? All’s we have to do is go to Prague and we’ll be Prague people.’

‘Jimmy, really, what the hell are
you
going to do in Prague?’ Diane persisted.

‘Same as Ben: have a look around. I might even like it. Who knows, maybe I’ll stay over there. Show you what Prague people I am.’

‘They have good beer,’ Bob Burke chimed in. ‘Pilsner beer.’

‘See, I like it already.’ Jimmy raised his Bud bottle in salute, though it was not clear whether he was saluting Prague or Bobby Burke or just beer.

‘Diane, you could come along,’ I offered. ‘You might like it there too.’

‘I’ve got a better idea, Ben. Why don’t I just go home and set my money on fire.’

‘Alright,’ I said, ‘well I guess that’s it, then. Me, Maurice, and Jimmy. Prague or bust.’

Maurice and I clinked glasses, sealing the plan.

But Diane just could not let it go. Talk of getting out always hit a nerve with her. ‘Oh, Ben,’ she said, ‘you’re so totally full of shit. Always have been. You’re not going anywhere and you know it. One day it’s California, the next day it’s New York, now it’s Prague. Where’s it gonna be next? Timbuktu? Tell you what, I’ll make you a bet: In ten years you’ll still be sitting on that same stool spouting your same bullshit about Prague or who knows where.’

‘Let him alone, Diane,’ Phil Lamphier said. ‘If Ben wants to go to Prague or wherever, no reason he can’t.’

There must have been something in my expression, too, that told Diane she’d crossed the line because she looked away, preferring to fuss with a pack of cigarettes rather than look at my face. ‘Oh, come on, Ben,’ she said, ‘I’m just having fun.’ She lit her cigarette, trying to look like Barbara Stanwyck. The effect was more Mae West. ‘We still friends?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Maybe I should come over to the station tonight. Heat’s out at my house too.’

This prompted a chorus of howls from Lownes and Burke. Even Maurice hooted along from beneath the bill of his cap.

‘Diane, assaulting a police officer is a crime.’

‘Good. Arrest me.’ She held out her wrists to be handcuffed, and again the men whooped it up.

Maurice and I stuck around at the Owl for an hour or so. Phil heated up a couple of frozen potpies for us, and Maurice devoured his so fast I thought he might swallow the fork along with it. I offered him half of mine but he would not take it, so we brought the leftover pie back to the station and Maurice ate it there. He stayed in the lockup that night. There’s a mattress in there, and it couldn’t have been too much worse than his drafty house. I left the cell door open so he could go to the toilet in the hall, but I dragged a chair to the doorway and slept with my feet across it so Maurice could not walk out without waking me. The danger was not that Maurice would hurt anyone, of course; the danger was that he would hurt himself while he was drunk and nominally in protective custody. Shit happens.

I sat awake in that chair until well after three, listening to Maurice. The man made more noise asleep than most people do awake, murmuring, snoring, farting. But it wasn’t Maurice that kept me up so much as all the other things. I had to get out of Versailles, I had to shake off that big Venus’s-flytrap already clamped around my ankle. I had to get out, especially now.

2

At the Rufus King Elementary School the next morning, I watched the kids cross Route 2. I greeted them all by name, a point of pride with me. One by one they squeaked, ‘Hi, Chief Truman.’ One boy asked, ‘What happened to your hair?’ He dragged out the word,
hey-yer.
What happened to my hair, of course, was that I’d slept at the station with my head against the wall. I gave the kid a look and threatened to arrest him, at which he snorted and giggled.

On to the Acadia County District Court to check on arrests in the neighboring towns. The courthouse is in Millers Falls, a twenty-minute drive. I had no arrests of my own to report but I went anyway. There was the usual chatter among the clerks and the police prosecutors. A rumor had gotten around about some kid at the regional high school who was selling marijuana out of his locker. The chief in Mattaquisett, Gary Finbow, had even prepared a search warrant for the locker. Gary wanted to know, Would I read over the warrant application, make sure it looked alright? I skimmed it, circled a few misspellings, told him he ought to just talk with the kid’s parents and forget about it. ‘Why would you screw up a kid’s college application over a couple of joints?’ He gave me a look, and I let it drop. There’s no sense explaining with guys like Gary. It would be like trying to explain
Hamlet
to a Great Dane.