It said a lot for Heb Caldicott’s physical and psychological resilience that although slashed, skewered, and bleeding, he was still able to drag Newhouse and Putnam to the edge of Pintail Pond, and rope a weight to each of the bodies, even though he’d finally been forced to lie on the ground and push them into the water using the soles of his shoes. Putnam had made a kind of gasping sound before he went under. Caldicott didn’t know if this was just air emerging from the corpse, or if Putnam might not have been dead when he started sinking, but he knew which one he was hoping for, and it wasn’t the first option.
Then cold, exhausted, and in no small amount of pain, Caldicott managed to call his good friend Billy Ocean – his partner in prejudice, and co-conspirator in the rejuvenation of what passed for the Klan in Maine – to request that said Billy should come and get him. There were others whom Caldicott might have called, but they were all smarter than Billy. This meant that once they discovered the extent of the mess Caldicott had gotten himself in, they’d be likely to let him die, or even hasten his end before leaving his body somewhere it would quickly be found, thereby bringing an end to any police interest in the matter. But Billy was Heb’s boy, and had come through for him, which was why Caldicott was now residing in one of the less salubrious Ocean rentals while he tried to figure out how to avoid going to prison for the rest of his life.
The wound in his side was the problem. The puncture to his arm was barely worth mentioning, and a combination of antiseptics and drugstore sutures seemed to be taking care of the gash to his chest, but Caldicott had felt the blade twist inside him as it entered under his ribs, either intentionally on the part of Putnam or because of Caldicott’s own reaction to being penetrated by steel. Billy had cleaned the wound out as best he could, and even applied some stitches, but it was starting to stink, and now walking, or even standing for very long, was agony for Caldicott.
As soon as the door was closed, Caldicott tore into a bag of potato chips, washing them down with mouthfuls of Johnny Drum. Billy started unpacking the rest of the groceries.
‘Who are you,’ said Caldicott, ‘my mother?’
Billy didn’t dislike Heb Caldicott – he wouldn’t have been in this situation if he did – but neither did he regard being Caldicott’s mother as an admission to be shouted from any rooftops. This opinion, though, he kept to himself.
‘Just trying to keep things tidy,’ said Billy.
‘Have you looked round here lately?’
Okay, so the apartment wasn’t exactly pristine, but it wasn’t Billy’s fault that Caldicott had strewn it with cigarette butts, beer cans, and food wrappers. The smoking was a particular source of concern. If the building burned down with Caldicott inside, questions would be asked to which Billy would not be able to provide satisfactory answers.
‘You want me to book you into a hotel?’
‘Don’t be smart. And it smells like a latrine.’
Once again, this was largely Caldicott’s doing. Billy had left him with some bleach for the bathroom, but he didn’t appear inclined to use it, or even to open a window for a while to let some air into the place.
‘I’m just saying. It’s the best I can do.’
‘Yeah, well …’
It was as close to an apology as Billy was likely to receive.
Billy finished with the groceries, put the beers in the refrigerator, and sat across from Caldicott. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced two boxes of Vicodin and a pack of antibiotics. The Vicodin had cost him, but he’d found the antibiotics in his mother’s medicine cabinet. Billy was no doctor, but he guessed an infection was an infection, and the wound in Caldicott’s side was clearly septic. Apart from the smell, and the pain, Caldicott was running a fever. His clothes were damp with sweat.
Caldicott waved the packages.
‘You did good,’ he said, before popping two of the Vicodin and sending them on their way with a little more Johnny. The antibiotics he swallowed dry.
‘I think I might have found someone to take a look at that wound,’ said Billy.
In the movies, men like Heb Caldicott knew tame doctors to whom they could turn, or waved guns in the faces of veterinarians to bully them into offering treatment. But Caldicott didn’t know any doctors who might be willing to risk jail to help him, and Billy couldn’t see himself allowing someone to point a gun at Dr Nyhan, who looked after his mother’s Bichon Frise, Toby, and was a very nice woman.
‘No need,’ said Caldicott. ‘Now that I have the antibiotics, I’ll be back on my feet in a couple of days.’
Billy wondered if Caldicott actually believed this. Maybe the Vicodin was working faster than expected.
‘We still ought to get it seen to so you can start thinking about moving on,’ Billy insisted. ‘I can’t keep coming over with supplies. Someone will notice.’
‘You got every right to come here. It’s your place, isn’t it? Far as I can tell, the only reason you stand out on this street is because you’re white.’
This was true. The particular area of Auburn in which the apartment building was situated reminded Billy of Kennedy Park in Portland, which was a mix of Somalis, Ethiopians, and southeast Asians, and was where Maine news shows went when they wanted a guarantee of ethnic diversity for the cameras.
‘This guy, he was thrown out of medical school, but he got through the first three years. He’s—’
‘Billy,’ said Caldicott, ‘let it go.’
It made Billy sad, this hint of resignation. He didn’t want Caldicott to give up. It wasn’t just sentimentality on Billy’s part: he really wanted him gone from the building, just in case Billy’s old man took it into his head to check on it himself, in which case all hopes Billy entertained of managing the Gull, or any other bar, would vanish like the morning dew. But he also knew from experience that there was no point in arguing with Caldicott, who was of a naturally stubborn and recalcitrant disposition.
‘Okay,’ said Billy.
He ate some potato chips before taking a Coors from the refrigerator. It wasn’t cold, but it didn’t matter.
‘I think a Negro blew up my truck,’ said Billy, by way of conversation.
‘Shit. How’d you find out?’
‘Someone who works for my old man.’
‘Which one?’
‘Dean Harper. He got fired because he told me.’
Billy was feeling sorry for Dean. He also worried about bumping into Dean when he was on a drunk, because he was certain Dean would beat the shit out of him.
‘I meant which colored?’
‘I got no idea.’
‘You aiming to find out?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know that either.’
‘If I was feeling more myself, I’d offer to help. Even if we didn’t get the right colored, we could just pull another from the street, make him pay for the sins of his brother. They all look the same anyhow.’
Caldicott laughed, and Billy laughed along with him, even though he didn’t think they all looked the same. He didn’t like them, but he didn’t think they all looked the same.
Billy turned on the TV, and together they watched a cop movie until Caldicott began to drift into a haze. He wasn’t sure if Caldicott noticed him leave. Billy looked up at the apartment windows. The blackout drapes concealed the glow of the TV, and the light fixtures had no bulbs in them. For the present, the only indications of habitation were the grocery drops.
Billy wondered what might happen if he stopped visiting, like ceasing to feed a bird in a cage. Perhaps Heb Caldicott would just die. Or he might try to leave, painfully working his way down the steps until he got to the fifth from the bottom, which with luck would collapse under his weight and, combined with the already damaged fourth step, send Caldicott to his doom in the basement. Then again, he might make it to the street, which would leave Billy screwed.
Billy got in his truck and started the engine, but he didn’t drive away, not for a good five minutes. He stared out at the night and thought that maybe things were not going to get any better for him.
Not ever.
73