He put up his hands in a sign of peace. “Hey, it comes with the job. I get it. You’re like Batman, or Batwoman. When the signal is in the clouds, you gotta go.”
He smiled, but his eyes stayed serious. She gave his arm a stroke, then grabbed him, led him into the bedroom. He sat on the frameless bed as she pushed around some hanging garments in her closet, trying to find something professional yet breathable. Finally, she selected an outfit and draped it over the bed, started to undress.
Connor drew close. “I’ll take Joly fishing or something tonight, so don’t worry about it. Anyway, it might not take long, right?”
“Could be quick. I don’t know.”
“Well, however long. But maybe if it’s not too late, then afterward…?”
She stood on the balls of her feet and kissed him. “I will. I’ll text you.”
* * *
Bobbi drove down the long driveway of a rundown Victorian house at the bottom of a wooded escarpment, crowded with an old pickup truck, an immobile camper van, and piles of scrap lumber. There was a fenced garden with proud green veggies poking up in the fading light.
The place belonged to Anita Richardson, would-be mother-in-law to Carrie Lafler. But Carrie had never married Anita’s son, Roy – instead, she’d left her two small children behind while she took a wild trip out west. Now she was back, and Anita didn’t like her showing up at the house, even if the kids were biologically hers. The state had placed them in Anita’s care.
Deputy Shoreman stood on the porch talking to Anita, whose gray hair clung to her sweaty forehead. Anita glared at Bobbi when Bobbi got out of the car, the humidity like a wet blanket, bugs homing in. Waving them off, she walked to the porch. Two little faces peered down from an upper bedroom window.
Then Bobbi saw Carrie pacing by the garden. She smoked a cigarette and held her cell phone in the air like she was trying to get a signal. Another deputy with the sheriff’s office, a woman named Moore, kept an eye on her.
“Hello, Ms. Noelle,” Deputy Shoreman said. He led her inside so Bobbi could talk to the kids.
They were both happy, healthy, well-fed. The house was clean, safe, and the children – a boy and girl – each had their own room. After about forty minutes, Bobbi left. Deputy Moore had spent the time talking to Carrie, explaining that for now, she had to depart the premises. Carrie was upset, but Bobbi arranged to meet with her later in the week, get her started rehabilitating herself as a parent, and that seemed to mollify her.
* * *
Bobbi had been thinking about Terry and Victor since the memorial service that morning. Since she was already out and it wasn’t too late – not quite 8 p.m. – she thought about paying them a visit.
Terry Fogarty, a man without his wife. Victor without a mother. Every time she thought of them alone in their house it made her sad. And she regretted how she’d behaved at the memorial – she’d been frightened and filled with guilt. It wasn’t who she aspired to be.
But she’d promised Connor they’d hook back up after her work was complete.
On the phone, he said, “No, I think it’s very thoughtful – I’m sure they’d love to see you.”
“I just want to… I don’t know. I feel like we do all this stuff when someone dies, there’s this rush of a couple days, everyone shows their support, then it’s over and they go back to their lives.”
“I think you should definitely do it. And if it feels wrong, or something, after you get there, so what? You go home. Just showing up like that is probably more than most people would do.”
She felt a swell in her chest – maybe pride, maybe even the beginnings of love for Connor. She said, “It’s just… It might be getting kind of late if we’re there, and we get talking or something…”
“I get it. I’m here, come by whenever; or if not, that’s okay. This week I’m working over around Moody Pond. So, getting off work at a decent time, picking up Joly. We can get together another time. But listen – so what do you think? I could get the unit dirt-cheap.”
“The air-conditioning?”
“Yeah.”
“Connor, you don’t have do all this stuff, do all these nice things…”
“Yeah I do. I want to.”
She sighed, thought to tell him more about how she’d been feeling, but stopped herself. Maybe later. “I’ll text you when I’m done, okay? See how this goes.”
“You got it. Take your time.”
He was almost too good to be true.
* * *
Clay cranked the engine, backed up a bit, pulsed the gas. The balding tires kicked up rocks and dust as he shot out onto the road. He took the direction she had gone.
Roberta Noelle.
Bobbi, to her friends and co-workers.
Bobbi.
He turned on the stereo, poked in the cassette already there, and then listened to the gears. A moment later, The Doors started to play.
He rolled the window down, let the wind thunder in the gaps as he cruised along and Jim Morrison crooned from the speakers about the soft parade, about cobras and leopards and engines humming.
Clay felt his own engine humming, and he sped through the twilight.
* * *
The Fogarty’s place was on Averyville Road, a section of Lake Placid with rolling hills, deep farmhouses, big fields, a narrow, potholed road winding through it all.
Bobbi drove past the trailhead for the Northville-Placid hiking trail, sparking the memory of a trip from years past she’d taken with her family, when she’d fallen in love with the region.
There were several cars parked at the trailhead, people scattered around, likely returning from a hike, the sun almost gone for the day. A hiker could go for a casual walk down the trail and double-back, or they could take a seven-or eight-day thru-hike all the way to Northville, 122 miles away. Beside the trail was the Chubb River, bubbling along beneath the bridge as Bobbi drove over.
The trail wound through the heart of the Adirondacks, traversing several wilderness areas. Bobbi had considered it herself at one point, and done a little boning up – supposedly there were several lean-tos scattered along the length of the trail, but the local motto was, “Don’t count on anything; be prepared.”
She tried to live her life that way. Her foster brothers – just some of them, not all of them – could get a little carried away, and since dating Jamie, she’d learned the hard way what an abuser was like, and she’d grown determined to take care of herself. Connor was lovely, trying to fix her fridge, or obtain an air-conditioner, but as good as he seemed, she didn’t need a man to take care of her.
This whole thing with Harriet had thrown her, for sure – it would have thrown anyone. It reminded her that self-reliance and facing fears didn’t happen on their own. You had to double-down, roll up your sleeves, and wade into the—
Bobbi realized she’d driven past the turn for the Fogarty’s, hit the brakes, did a multipoint turn in the narrow road, and backtracked. There was one set of headlights oncoming as she reached the spot and turned in.
Then she bumped down the long, crushed-stone driveway toward the brown house in the distance.
* * *
Clay drove more slowly until he saw her car again. What a sight, that rustic little house set back from the road, big sky above. Powerful thunderheads were turning into pink anvils, the sun melting into the ridge of mountains – a late storm in the making – and Bobbi was making her way to see Dead Harriet’s husband.