The More They Disappear (11 page)

Mary Jane took a nerve pill from an Altoids box and popped it to get through dinner intact. Then she tossed her mother's dress on the floor and trudged downstairs in her sweats. The chandelier was dimmed and a pair of candles sat perfectly spaced on the table. Jackson was at one end, Lyda the other. A plate for Mary Jane sat between them. “I thought you told her to wear something decent,” Jackson said.

“I pulled out an option,” Lyda said. “I can't very well hold her down and dress her.”

“It didn't fit,” Mary Jane said and sat down. A thin slice of breaded meat, dollop of mashed potatoes, and three stalks of grilled asparagus sat on the plate. A meal for a bird.

“It's my famous Beef Wellington,” Jackson said, taking a large bite and swallowing it down with a drink from his highball glass.

“I'm not hungry,” Mary Jane said, which was a lie. She wanted her mother to see how she starved herself. Lyda forked an asparagus and took a bite from its end. Then she rested the fork back on the plate, dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin, and folded it in a perfect triangle as if she were done. The tip of her napkin was marked with lipstick that looked like a bloodstain. “Delicious,” she said. Mary Jane wanted to scream.

Theirs was a playhouse—phony at its core, every detail designed to show off the family's wealth and taste. They ate off china and spread their butter with silver knives. Their furniture was antique, their carpets Persian, their towels monogrammed. Oil paintings hung on the walls in ornately carved frames. All to keep up appearances.

Appearances. That's what had kept Mary Jane from reaching her potential. She didn't
look
like a Finley, didn't grow into the lady the girl foreshadowed. Her story was the opposite of the ugly duckling's; it was the tale of a swan turned homely.

“How is it?” Jackson asked.

Mary Jane looked down. In her hand, she held her fork and knife. Half her food was gone even though she hadn't remembered taking a bite. She looked over at her mother's plate. It had barely been touched. “Delicious,” Mary Jane said.

“Now,” Jackson said. “We have to discuss our plans for the funeral.”

“What funeral?”

“Lew Mattock's.” Jackson looked across the table at Lyda, then turned to Mary Jane. “Make sure you wear something appropriate. And black jeans and a black T-shirt are not appropriate.”

“Why do I have to go?”

“Your father insists,” Lyda said.

Mary Jane's hands started to go clammy and she dropped her fork—the first pangs of a panic attack. “No,” she muttered and shook her head. “I don't want to.”

“It's not up for discussion,” Jackson said. “We're Finleys and the town expects it.”

Mary Jane heard her mother stand up. “Excuse me. You two can sort out the details while I smoke a cigarette.”

Jackson put his hand out and grabbed Lyda's arm as she walked by. “You don't want to be part of the discussion?” He squeezed. “I thought you'd have an opinion.”

Mary Jane stared at her shoes. Black Chuck Taylors. Black Chuck Taylors.

“You tell me where I need to be and when,” Lyda said. “We get along better that way.”

Jackson grinned as she tapped out a Virginia Slim. “That sounds easy enough,” he said. “How about you, Mary Jane? Are you as agreeable as your mother?” Black Chuck Taylors. Black Chuck Taylors. “Mary Jane?”

“Can I be excused?”

“You didn't answer the question.”

“Fine. Whatever. Now can I be excused?”

Jackson downed the rest of his drink. “Go ahead. The both of you.” Mary Jane heard her mother step onto the porch, then stood up from the table and ran upstairs. She couldn't find a pill fast enough.

 

four

The morning of Lew's funeral, Holly called to tell Harlan the cell phone he'd found was registered to Lyda Finley. Whatever Harlan expected to learn about the phone, this wasn't it. “Why would Lew have Lyda Finley's cell phone?”

“I don't know, but maybe she'll be at the funeral and you can ask her yourself.”

“What about the note I left you at the office?”

“That's a lot of court records to sort through.”

“It's worth it, right? I mean first we find out Lew was taking bribes and then we find out he lobbied on behalf of felons.”

“It sure sounds suspicious, but you know how Lew was. He wanted his hand in all the honeypots. It's not exactly surprising. He and Wesley were old friends.”

“And that makes it okay?”

“No. It doesn't. But I worked with Lew for twelve years, so excuse me if I'm not exactly thrilled to find out he might have been crooked. And maybe I hold out hope he was just an asshole and not a criminal.” She took a deep breath. “I'm also worried this is personal for you, Harlan. Lew never treated you right but he didn't shoot himself. Don't forget that.”

“Let me know what you find out,” Harlan said and hung up.

Harlan hoped to forget about police work at the funeral, to put aside his feelings about Lew and simply pay his respects, but as soon as he arrived, Stuart Simon of the
Marathon Registrar
came up and asked about the investigation. That morning the paper had run a special edition complete with photos of Lew throughout the years along with sentiments from various friends and luminaries. Harlan looked Simon up and down; he was a hack for certain. “I'm not sure this is the best place.”

“I called but I keep getting the machine,” Simon said. “It still has Lew's voice on the message.”

“And?”

“Do you have any leads?” Harlan walked away but Simon followed at his heels like a needy mutt. “People have a right to know,” he said.

Harlan stopped and let Simon bump into him, then leaned in close to the man's ear. “Fuck off,” he growled. Simon took the hint and left him alone, though Harlan didn't look forward to reading what he wrote in the next edition. Tragedies seemed to bring out the worst in people or maybe they brought out the worst people.

Harlan stood along the outskirts of the service in his wedding-and-funeral clothes, a hand-me-down suit with roughed-up cowboy boots and a thin black tie. The other deputies wore uniforms and lined up alongside Lew's casket as if it were a military affair. They looked ridiculous, like the saddest of regiments at the end of a lost war. Harlan wished he could slip away and skip the charade, but if he didn't put in an appearance, people would notice and then speculate on what that meant—guilt over a lingering investigation, jealousy, gutlessness.

At least Lew would have been happy with the size of the crowd. His funeral was the social event of the season. Mabel Mattock was front and center, flanked by her son and Holly, who kept her head bowed. Lewis's daughters sat between him and his wife, who leaned the slightest amount of weight against her father, the doctor, who didn't so much watch the ceremony as the clouds above. All around them sat prominent Marathoners—politicians, lawyers, doctors, gentleman farmers. Wesley Craycraft sat back row center beside the mayor and his mother, herself a former mayor. Lyda Finley sat near the back, flanked by her husband and daughter, who looked uncomfortable in a black dress and cardigan. Harlan recognized the girl as the passenger from the car Paige had stopped at the dirt track.

The pastor's canned sermon droned on. Harlan wondered how so many lives could be summed up by the same rote words, wondered how much any single person there truly knew Lew. Harlan felt like it would take the words of all those gathered to tell Lew's story, to tell any man's, for that matter. He tried to think of who would speak at his own funeral, couldn't come up with a single soul.

The service ended around the time the pastor realized no one was listening. When he said, “Amen,” the deputies drew their guns and shot blanks in the air. Frank invited Harlan to take part, but he'd declined, which led to Frank muttering about Harlan being stuck up. The crowd covered their ears as the shots rang out. Frank looked proud as punch, bruise and all, as he aimed for the sky. The sound reminded Harlan of the day Lew died, only this time nobody cowered. They just stared at one another in dull, dumb shock.

As the echoes from the gunshots died down, Lewis and Mabel stepped forward and tossed dirt onto the casket from something that looked like a giant saltshaker and a cemetery employee lowered the casket with a crank. Lewis returned from his burial duties and wiped away his daughters' tears. Mabel Mattock's face held more true sorrow than any of the others but she did not weep. She did not need to.

Harlan slipped away and headed for the far edge of the cemetery. Unlike Lew's final resting place, Angeline's wasn't blessed with shade from an ancient sycamore and didn't have a view of the pond. Angeline had had a body made for water. In the summer, she and Harlan would hike to hidden eddies along the river and swim in the shallows. Angeline could spend hours floating on her back and looking at clouds, could swim across the river and back if challenged. Harlan had wanted her to spend the afterlife near something she loved but the only plot he could afford was weed-strewn and within earshot of the highway.

Standing above Angeline's sparse grave, Harlan became tongue-tied. She was just a name and dates. Angeline Chapman. Dead at twenty-two. Dead four years. When they'd met, their hearts had been unworn. Untested. Now Harlan's was broken. That was his cross to bear but Angeline's fate was so much worse—she would never know how it felt to be broken-hearted. Harlan couldn't remember the last words she'd said to him.
I'll see you soon. I'll see you tomorrow. I love you.
It could have been any of those or none. Maybe she hugged him. Or maybe they kissed goodbye. Or maybe she ran excited to her tiny two-door car and drove off waving. He hadn't made a point of remembering. There'd been so much future then. Now it all felt like make-believe.

How could he explain to Angeline that he'd just been to the funeral of a man who'd helped free her father? That he'd gone to keep up appearances? It was a shit reason. Keeping up appearances was just another way of saying scared. Scared to do the right thing. And it was fear that had kept Harlan from hunting down Doyle. All those times he told himself he'd go when the time was right and yet it never was. Years. Years had passed. And still the fear. All the flowers and honeyed phrases spoken to the dandelions that grew above her grave meant nothing.

Harlan imagined Doyle free and easy. Doyle strolling down an Arkansas street. Doyle flying a lure over a green river. He pulled a half-sunk rock from the ground and pounded at that name she'd inherited. Chapman. A simple Angeline would have been enough. A simple “A.” He bashed at the headstone but nothing changed. Centuries would pass before the name wore away. And by then it would be the work of God. Of wind and rain and hail.

*   *   *

Even though the casket was closed, Mary Jane could feel Lew staring at her. She was reeling from pills. She'd been popping them all morning. Even Jackson seemed to notice she was acting strange and kept asking her if she was all right. She kept saying fine. She was fine. I'm fine. Don't worry about me. Fine. She distracted herself by counting the people sitting in front of her as if counting sheep. Whenever she reached the end, she started over.

She watched Mark's father and tried to picture Mark as a grown man. Trip Gaines didn't know she and Mark were dating, didn't know that Mary Jane knew his secrets. The drug lord of Marathon. What a crock. Mark thought his father was evil incarnate; Mary Jane just thought he was a jerk. Their unhappy home lives had brought her and Mark closer together, though sometimes she liked to pretend they were orphans who'd met on the streets. It made a better story. Didn't matter that it wasn't true.

When Mark came back to Marathon on college breaks, he'd call the private line that had been her twelfth birthday present and they'd meet at the dollar movie theater one town over or along the dock for late-night make-out sessions. Those secret rendezvous and clandestine hand grabs, those midnight fucks in the back of his car, made her feel alive, made life mysterious and exciting. Together they shared secrets. Bonnie and Clyde.

Imagining a future with Mark sustained Mary Jane through the funeral, sustained her as the preacher recited scripture, sustained her when Lew's wife and son approached the casket, when the ceremonial gunshots rang out in the air, when her mother wiped a tear from her eye. Because Mary Jane knew why her mother cried. That was her cross to bear—a memory that refused to stay buried.

It had been her freshman year, during the last months of her waning popularity as a pretty girl, before her future as just another face in the crowd. A group of juniors invited her to skip the homecoming pep rally. One of their brothers was a clerk at the Motel 6 and would let them party in an empty room for a joint and twenty dollars.

They played a drinking game called Kings. At some point Mary Jane volunteered to get more ice so she could boot and rally. It was then—the moment she was contemplating vomiting outside a neglected motel the color of an ashtray's bottom—that she saw her mother and Lew Mattock climbing the concrete stairs in a desperate clutch. She tried to convince herself that it was a mistake, that it was some other woman who only looked like her mother, but she couldn't ignore the throaty laugh that rang out as Lew ran his hands over the woman's body. She'd heard that laugh her entire life.

She knew she should turn around and return to the rented room with the double beds and drink until memory became a blur, but instead she carried the empty ice bucket up the stairs, as if drawn by an invisible string. Through a sliver of space between the blinds, she saw Lew fucking her mother, pounding her as if he didn't care how much damage he did. Lyda's arms were tied to the bed and Lew's fingers were clasped around her throat but they couldn't stifle her voice. Her mother sputtered, moaned, begged for more, and Lew gave it to her, gave it to her until something broke inside Mary Jane.