The Staked Goat Page 7

  “When I didn’t see you,” he said, “I thought I’d better grab your bag.”

  “Thanks. I was with … the undertaker.”

  The smile dropped. “Ah, yes. Well, my car is just out front and to the right.” He turned.

  I hefted my suitcase and followed him.

  Eight

  “IF YOU DIDN’T KNOW her, you’d think she was doing pretty well.” We’d driven about five miles in his small Pontiac from the airport toward downtown. So far, we had determined my accommodations for the night, me insisting on a motel, him insisting that Larry and he already had made up their guestroom, me not wanting to put them out, him assuring me that it would make logistics easier tomorrow and Saturday. I relented. We had finally gotten around to Martha.

  “I’ve never met her.”

  “I know. That is, she told us. After the … ah, call.”

  I rubbed my eyes with my right hand. “I’m truly sorry about that.”

  “Listen. It wasn’t your fault.” His right hand started to leave the gearshift knob and come toward me. He stopped it abruptly and brought it back to the steering wheel instead.

  “I appreciate your concern,” I said. “And all you’ve done for Martha.”

  He swallowed once, hard. “Martha was our friend. I mean from before they were married. We persuaded them to move into the neighborhood.” He paused. “Al was a good friend, too.”

  I let out a long breath. I was too tired. And depressed. I shut up the rest of the trip.

  As we drew toward the city, Dale began speaking again. He gave a sort of nervous, pointing geographic orientation of the U of Pittsburgh, Carnegie-Mellon, downtown, Three Rivers Stadium and half-a-dozen residential neighborhoods whose names meant nothing to me. Dale identified the bookstore where Larry worked. Dale taught piano at home.

  We pulled into an older, seedier neighborhood of party-wall townhouses, some with two stories, some with three. Most were old brick, few had bay or bow-front windows. One block had ten beautiful, restored houses, another ten burned-out shells.

  Dale explained this area was called Mexican War, each of the streets named after an event or personage in the 1840s conflict. He slowed and parked in front of a picture-perfect two-story and cut his engine.

  “Home at last,” he said with false cheer. “This is our place. Carol is directly across the street”—gesturing and twisting—“Martha’s the ash-toned one, two doors down from her.” He dropped the merriment. “How do you want to handle this?”

  I glanced at my watch. Ten-twenty-five. “Too late to see Martha?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll still be up. That’s part of the problem.”

  “Maybe if I could drop my suitcase at your place and then we could go over?”

  “Perfect,” he said. We left the car and climbed his three steps. He let me in and sensed the Cook’s Tour of the house could wait. He showed me to my room and signaled toward the bathroom. I popped my suitcase and hung up my suit for the next day. Then we both sucked in a little courage and walked over to Martha’s house.

  The three concrete steps leading up to Martha’s door were chipped and cracked. The heavy door and jamb were painted, but the overhead light betrayed it as gray primer futilely waiting for a top coat. There was no doorbell and only a residual outline and a screw hole where the brass knocker might have been. Dale drew one ungloved hand from his pocket and tapped lightly with two knuckles. The air was painfully cold. Dale tapped again, harder.

  The door swung halfway open. “In! Come on, come on. In quickly, before we lose heat!”

  Dale scooted ahead of me with a short laugh. I hopped over the sill. Our greeter, a slim, boyish man in a Beatle haircut and a tight ski sweater, closed the door with an extra push needed at the end. He threw the deadbolt and turned to us without a smile.

  “Larry Estleman,” said Dale. “John Cuddy.”

  I extended my hand. Larry’s features sagged and he shook my hand. “Again, I’m sorry … about …”

  “I’m sorry, too,” I said. “It was a bad time all around.”

  Larry said, “Yeah,” and dropped my hand.

  “Where’s Martha?” asked Dale.

  “In the kitchen,” said Larry. “With Carol. We have the oven on.”

  Dale nudged Larry to precede us. I took off my coat. We walked through a small living room, and I tossed my coat on a chair. The walls needed repainting, the ceiling replastering, and the furniture replacing. It didn’t feel much warmer inside than it had on the stoop.

  Dale whispered to me. “They hadn’t paid their oil bills, so …”

  I nodded to stop him, but he continued.

  “The stove’s electric, and Larry put an old space heater of ours in Al, Junior’s room. I called the oilman, he’ll deliver tomorrow and add it to our bill.”

  I nodded again as we entered the kitchen.

  The two women sitting at the table looked up. One was blond and a little prim. She looked calm and one hand held a pencil hovering just over a grocery pad. The other resembled Audrey Hepburn in her early thirties, short black hair and a thin, tired face. Both had sweaters and coffee cups.

  Larry leaned against the refrigerator and stuck his hands into his pants pockets. Dale spoke to the blonde. “Martha? This is John Cuddy.”

  She smiled and got up. I awkwardly waved her to stay down, but she came over and gave me a peck on the cheek and a polite hug. “Oh, John, welcome to our house. Al told me so much about you.” She spoke in a falsely buoyant tone.

  Her head inclined to the woman still sitting, Martha spoke again. “And this is Carol Krause.”

  I looked at Carol, she riveted angrily on me.

  “Why don’t we move into the living room?” said Martha. “We’ll be more comfortable.”

  “I felt a little chill in there, Mart,” said Carol. She had the smooth, even voice of a TV anchor. Or a hostess in an expensive lounge. “Couldn’t we all just stay in here?”

  Martha blinked then smiled. “But chairs … we wouldn’t all—”

  “That’s okay, Martha,” said Larry quickly. “I ought to go up and check on the boys anyway.”

  “Good, good,” said Martha, moving her head a little too vigorously. He slipped out of the room, and the rest of us went to sit down.

  Martha was halfway into her chair when she popped back up. “Oh, I’m so sorry, John. After the trip, you and … You must want some coffee?”

  “No, no, thank you,” I said. “Martha—”

  “Oh, tea then? Beer?” She stepped to the refrigerator and pulled open the door. The little light didn’t come on, but even without it the shelves didn’t look too full. “Soda? We have plenty, really.”

  “Not just now, thanks.”

  “None for me, either,” said Dale.

  I was aware of Carol twisting and untwisting her fingers. I glanced around the room. The tile bordering the sink was loose in its mortar, the wallpaper was twenty-years-old and curling, and only one bulb shone through the three-bulb plastic fixture over the table. Martha’s list was at right angles to me, with entries, cross-outs, and connecting arrows all over it.

  Martha closed the door and came back to us. She suddenly looked up and to the right, closing her eyes for a second, then she sat down, said, “Excuse me,” and wrote something more on the list, drawing another arrow from it to an earlier line.

  “John,” said Carol in a barely civil voice, “could I see you in the living room for a minute?”

  “Sure,” I said, Martha giving no indication of noticing Carol’s change of heart toward that part of the house.

  Dale cocked his head at us as we left, her in the lead.

  From the rear, she was perhaps five-five, with a slim torso but wide hips. The hips would move in a sexual sway no matter how stiffly she carried herself.

  As soon as we were in the living room, Carol turned on me, her crossed arms hugging herself against the cold.

  “Where the hell have you been?”


  “Could we sit—”

  She pigeoned her head forward. “Martha’s been waiting up for you. She said she couldn’t go to bed without meeting you. The man who told her that her husband was dead. On the phone. Like calling in a mail order …”

  I considered slapping her, but she wasn’t hysterical, just mad, and I was a convenient target.

  “So where have you been?” Carol hissed.

  “In airports and on a plane. With the cold body of an old friend.”

  She lost a little height and weight, sinking into herself. She walked over to the couch and sat, leaning forward to conserve her heat. I got my coat, put it around her shoulders. Carol tugged on the lapels to tighten it around her.

  “What a stupid … lousy …”

  “Look, I didn’t—”

  “No, no,” she said, sighing. “Not you. Al’s death. No reason for it. The papers here, and some cop from Boston on the phone—”

  “Murphy?” I said.

  “Huh?” Carol looked up.

  “Murphy. Was the cop’s name Murphy?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She released a lapel long enough to wipe her eyes. She had on heavy lid-liner and lipstick. The eye makeup smeared a little.

  “I didn’t take the call,” she said. “Dale did. Larry was too upset to help much. I was still at work. She reached me—” Carol broke off a string that she realized was irrelevant. “It was the way they … the way it was done.…”

  “About Martha,” I said.

  Carol blew out through her lips, making them flutter without any accompanying noise. “I don’t know. We’ve been friends—all of us—for a long time. Like pioneers, you know? We sort of settled this block when, well, it was after my divorce, and things weren’t too fashionable here, despite all the renovations since.” She looked around the room.

  “How hard up is Martha for money?” I said. “Bottom line.”

  Carol shrugged. “You’ve got eyes. Most of us on the street had to do a little bit at a time. You seen Dale and Larry’s place yet?”

  “Just a walk-through.”

  “Well, Dale got a chunk of money from an aunt who died, so they did their place a little faster than most, but all of us were trying, including Martha and Al. But somewhere, I dunno, the steel glut, the recession, something must have happened. I didn’t know about the oil, when Kenny—he’s my son, he’s upstairs asleep with Al, Junior—when Kenny and I walked in here, it was freezing cold. I hadn’t even worn a coat, just rushed over and … I don’t know how they … I mean this is Pittsburgh, you know, February?”

  “What are you two doing in here?” said Martha, coming in, her coffee cup chattering a little against the saucer she carried under it. Dale followed.

  “Just getting acquainted, Mart,” Carol replied.

  “Good, good,” said Martha.

  I heard Larry padding down the stairs. He appeared with his coat over his arm. Dale, as if on cue, retrieved his from the chair and tugged it on.

  “Oh, Dale, Larry,” said Martha in a hostess voice, “do you have to go already?”

  Larry stifled a yawn. Dale gave his short laugh. “Yes, yes. Larry has half the early shift at the bookstore, and my first lesson is at eight o’clock.” He turned to me with a smile. “A lawyer who wants to learn how to play. To surprise his wife.” He winced as soon as he said it. Martha seemed to notice nothing, neither the gaffe nor the wince.

  “Thanks for the ride in. Ah,” I said remembering my suitcase but not feeling I could leave yet.

  Dale, anticipating me, fumbled out a house key and pressed it into my palm as we shook. “This’ll get you past the front door. No alarms. Just be sure to put on the deadbolt and leave on the front light.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try not to—”

  Dale waved me off. Larry was already twisting the doorknob. Dale walked toward him, turned with a serious look. “We’ll see you here at one-thirty tomorrow.”

  We all nodded and they left.

  “Well, now, John,” said Martha. “How was your flight?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Clear weather, no delays.”

  “Al hated flying, you know. Ever since the war. He always preferred taking trains, so he could read, you know?”

  “Al liked to read.”

  “Were there trains in Vietnam?” Martha asked.

  I glanced at Carol, but she was focused on Martha.

  “Yes,” I said. “There were a few. Mostly Vietnamese used them. They would be crowded, unpleasant. We never rode them.”

  “Funny,” said Martha. “Al preferred trains.”

  “Martha, has anyone—”

  “Oh,” she interjected, standing, “your coffee. It must still be in the kitchen. I’ll just—”

  “No, Martha,” I said, trying to keep the protest out of my voice. “I don’t take coffee.”

  “Oh,” she said, still standing, “how about tea then? Soda? We have plenty of everything, really.”

  Her repetition of hospitality sounded so brittle I thought she might break.

  “No, really,” I said, motioning for her to sit down. “Martha, we need to talk about things here. Have you—”

  “Things here,” she said with a smile. “I have a list already. I’ll just be a minute.”

  She bustled off into the kitchen.

  I looked at Carol. “How long has she …”

  “Since your phone call.”

  I rested my chin on my chest. Dale had already told me that. I must have been more tired than I thought.

  “One of us should stay with her,” I said.

  “I went back home and got a bag. Kenny and I will sleep here tonight.”

  I stood up. Carol started to push my coat off her shoulders. “Keep it,” I said. “I’m just going across the street.”

  “Macho man.” She frowned. “It’s probably five-below outside.”

  “I’ll keep my hands in my pockets.”

  Martha came back into the room, list and pencil in hand. “Oh, John, are you going already? Are you sure I can’t get you anything? Tea …”

  “No, thank you. Martha, I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Right,” she said, coming over and giving me the same aloha peck and hug. “See you tomorrow. Sweet dreams.”

  Carol followed me to the door, insisting I take the coat. I saw slivers of china out of the corner of my eye before I registered the breaking sound and Martha’s voice.

  “Damn you!” she yelled. “Damn you to hell.” She had followed through like a major-league pitcher after smashing her cup against the wall. She was yelling at the stain running down the wall. “How could you, Al, how could you? After all the scrimping and saving. All the pain and sacrifice and … no vacations and no clothes and no … Oh God, oh my God, oh God, God.” She sank down to her knees, then sat back on her ankles rocking and clutching her arms around her. “Oh God, the stain, the coffee.”

  Carol ran over to Martha and threw my coat around her. She kneeled down and hugged the widow, rocking with her.

  I quick-stepped to the kitchen and wet a towel. I came back in and cleaned up the wall. I could hear kids crying upstairs. I spelled Carol while she went upstairs to quiet them.

  After Carol came back down, we moved Martha to the couch. We took turns holding and rocking with her through the night.

  Nine

  I FELT A STIRRING against my right shoulder. I opened my eyes. There was a lamp still on. A full head of blond hair was nestled into my shoulder. It looked as though it had been there awhile. Martha.

  Then I noticed the kids. They were squatting Indian-style on the floor, in front of us on the couch. They were both wearing pajamas, the ones on the younger boy a bit small for him.

  “W-w-who are you?” said the older one. He sounded scared.

  I lifted my free, left hand to my lips in a silent shush. The older boy noticed. My watch said 6:30 a.m.

  I raised my chin so I could turn my head to the right without nudging Martha. My neck was aw
fully stiff. Carol lay partially across Martha, sharing my coat with her. One arm disappeared behind Martha and probably belonged to the hand whose knuckles were pressed into my right side. Carol’s other arm was across Martha’s stomach. Martha’s forearms and hands lay limply along my thigh. We were like three puppies, huddled against the cold.

  Puppies? Cold?

  I exhaled and could see my breath. I looked down at the boys. The older one hadn’t been scared, he was shivering from the cold. So was the little one.

  I didn’t gauge any way to help them without moving from under Martha. I started to slide out as the little one said, “M-M-Momma. Mom-maa!”

  Martha’s head flicked up instantly. She blinked and looked around wildly.

  “It’s okay, Martha,” I said. “We’re just—”

  She looked at me, terrified. “Who are … where … oh, oh, yes.” She blinked and leaned forward, rubbing her eyes.

  Carol’s arm fell behind her, and Carol slid down and toward me, awakening with a start.

  “Mom?” said the older boy.

  I caught and steadied Carol. Martha spoke. “Kenny, Al. You must be freezing. Come up here, both of you.”

  They scrambled and climbed onto the couch in that stiff, mincing way kids move when they’re cold. They cuddled with their mothers under my coat.

  “Kenny,” said Carol, rubbing his back vigorously, “how long were you sitting down there?”

  “I-I-I … d-don’t … know,” he said, stammering now more from the rubbing than from the cold, I thought.

  “Well,” said Martha. “We’ll have to get you guys some breakfast. How does hot oatmeal sound?”

  “I want some,” said Kenny.

  “Me, too,” said Al, Junior.

  “Me, three,” said me.

  Martha and Carol laughed and got up with the kids. Martha seemed O.K. Carol flashed me a real smile, a mixture of friendship and relief.

  Over breakfast in the kitchen, I found myself watching Al, Junior. I hadn’t known his father at his age, of course, but you could see the big, brown vulnerable eyes and the curly hair, light brownish thanks to some genetic factor from Martha. He ate thoroughly and slowly, as if he wanted to do it right. I suppressed the thought that maybe he hadn’t had much practice of late. The kitchen was toasty warm, the more so since we’d left the oven on last night before slumping on the couch.