Marion stopped by and had a cup of coffee. He seemed delighted to meet Monica who was getting ready to go off and look for work. Marion was going to help Sunderson look for a used compact to buy for her. Sunderson was too impulsive and dumb about cars and needed help. She left, borrowing Sunderson’s car after the two men gave her tips and directions to likely restaurants where she might find work. She was worried that people might know about her background but they thought this unlikely. When she left Sunderson told Marion about the Sprague story. He was not amused and wondered if the Ameses might invade Marquette to get their cook back by kidnap. Sunderson said that Lemuel had promised to call and tip him off if he saw any movements in this direction. Marion was still full of doubt. Nothing was beyond these people in his opinion. Marion suggested he keep himself well armed and Sunderson agreed.
Monica stopped back briefly with groceries so he could have lunch. She hastily made him a bowl of pasta with lots of garlic at his request. He meant to do some minimal work in the yard since she was using his car and he couldn’t drive around aimlessly which he liked doing. He weeded and trimmed Diane’s herb patch and perennial beds. His neighbor stopped over and gave him advice. When she stooped he saw up her legs clearly and blushed. He reminded himself again, “Stay away from this one.” He also said to himself, “Act your age,” but this was quickly followed by the question why? Everyone says it and surely there were some absurd older men. He had once arrested one in Escanaba for consorting with a fifteen-year-old poor girl. The man refused to admit to doing anything wrong. He was sixty-eight and said that in the “old days” he would never have been arrested. Sunderson merely said that these were no longer the old days. He had always thought this would never be in his character. What had he become? His neighbor however must be in her early forties, the prime of life.
He went inside for a rest after his dizzying work on his knees. Lemuel called to say there had been some talk led by Sprague about recapturing Monica and getting good food again. Bert, her father, was the only one who agreed. The others maintained that kidnap was too serious a charge to play with. Sunderson was painfully aware that at nineteen she was just barely an adult and they could accuse him of kidnap instead, but he couldn’t imagine the Ameses going to the police.
He was in an agitated state despite knowing Bert couldn’t simply grab Monica if it involved what police call “a breach of the peace” which it certainly would. The times Bert had tried to fuck Monica when he was drunk would look bad in court.
Monica came back at about 5:00 p.m. and began preparing dinner, a meat loaf and baked potato. She was jubilant having got two jobs for a total of sixty-five hours a week. “What about me?” thought Sunderson though he acted pleased for her. The one in the kitchen at the hotel bar was as sous-chef six nights a week from five to eleven. The other was at a diner Sunderson considered worthless. He spent the evening arguing that the hotel would be enough and was a classy place good on a résumé. The diner would only be slinging workingman’s hash and do nothing for her. She wanted to save money to move to New York City and work in a famous restaurant and leave her family far behind. This utterly appalled Sunderson. He claimed that he had lived there though it had been mostly in a hospital and rehab clinic. He had forgotten that he had told her exhaustively about his experiences and she said that his life in New York was scarcely typical. He quickly offered her a hundred bucks a week to cook for him and take care of his house. That would take care of turning down the diner job. She said she would sleep on it. She didn’t think he could afford it but he told her otherwise. He couldn’t bear the idea of her being gone sixty-five hours a week plus commuting time but what was he really offering except money.
Monica had spoken of suicide several times which frightened him. It was the old saw that if they talk about it they might do it. Sunderson had known three suicides in his life with one being flatly justified, a schoolteacher with the always fatal Lou Gehrig’s disease. The first one had been in high school, a girl he liked a great deal. She was kind to everyone expect herself. She seemed very intelligent but lonely with her only good friend moving downstate and her own parents going through a nasty divorce. She had hung herself, a violent and too often unsuccessful form of suicide he had learned. It was in the tenth grade when all girls are too sensitive. The whole class was saddened and perplexed except two boys who joked about it and whom Sunderson had beat up during noon hour. Later he realized that the suicide had embarrassed them into humor. He apologized but it was not accepted. The third suicide was a successful local businessman. It seemed incomprehensible though later he heard that the man had gay tendencies he didn’t want to surface and also his wife was having an affair plus he wasn’t nearly as successful as he appeared to be and the walls were closing in. Many were upset because the man was such a pleasant person. Sunderson wondered about how rarely we truly know each other but then perhaps it’s right that we remain essential mysteries to one another.
Chapter 9
The next morning reading over his Seven Deadly Sins material he found that he had been less than completely honest. Why lie to yourself? Why fool God if there is such a creature? His father used to be quite irate with the Catholics who he believed were trying to monopolize Christianity historically. His own Christianity seemed nominal but despite his education being limited to high school he was very well read and a Library Friend with Marquette’s splendid Peter White Public Library being a wonderful resource. On winter weekends Sunderson’s father would drive them over to Marquette and go to the library, the origin of Sunderson’s own love of books. Diane was amused because as an adult Sunderson’s book buying often exceeded the cost of their mortgage. After the library they would stop at a bar and have large delicious hamburgers which never tasted that good again in his life. His dad would have a couple of beers and on the way home they would stop in front of St. Michael’s, the huge Catholic church, a monument that Sunderson found very impressive though he had no idea what went on inside. Parked in front his father would rant about Catholicism, especially what he saw as the malformation of the New Testament in Lyon in the eighth century when some apocryphal gospels were left out. In his mind the appearance of Luther should have destroyed the Church. He had a love of the scholarly gossip about the sexual promiscuity of some early popes. Sunderson was taught to think of them as the biggest businessmen in the world. His father believed that all churches should pay property taxes excluding the Lutherans. Sunderson made no effort to try to understand the parameters of his father’s beliefs. His ranting had a definite entertainment value. His own father, Sunderson’s grandfather, had been a schoolteacher against whom he rebelled by refusing to go to college. It was a regret and made him strongly urge Sunderson to go to Michigan State. He had heard that the University of Michigan was full of snooty rich people and as a populist and left-winger that wouldn’t do for his son. His own life had been somewhat blighted, he thought, by an early family and hard labor.
He was in a funk thinking of rewriting his Seven Deadly Sins when Lemuel called warning that they were leaving late that afternoon to retrieve Monica. Fine, Sunderson thought, she would be at work at the Landmark Inn. He called the detective who had replaced him, Smolens, and described the situation. Smolens knew about the Ames family and whistled. He said that he would be there by four with two patrolmen and wait it out. Sunderson got out his pistol in case they arrived early. He started rewriting his lechery portion because that was the most interesting.
Lechery. In my work we kept lists of people for when we would tell sexual malefactors that they needed “professional help,” ministers and psychologists and one psychiatrist and suchlike. I rarely could imagine them going but would tell them the judge would go more lightly if they were seeking help.
At one point, early in our marriage, Diane had suggested that I was a sexual obsessive and should definitely see a psychiatrist. I wanted to screw her butt which she wouldn’t allow saying it was perverted. I was hurt and tri
ed to show her literature that said it was a fairly common practice. This meant nothing to Diane who was adamant. I did not show her a rather racy piece in a men’s magazine saying that the practice was popular with Brazilian girls who wished to save their virginity for marriage. This boggled. I was in my randy thirties at the time. What was stopping me from going to Brazil except I was married with a job? I thought of trying it when she was sexually carried away but didn’t dare.
He was unable to concentrate on the Seven Deadly Sins given the mortal threat he was under. Smolens and the two officers arrived promptly at four. He made a pot of coffee for them thinking that a drink would be more appropriate. While fussing over the coffee he took a gulp from one of his many hidden pints in the kitchen. The men selected their hiding places, Smolens in the entry cloakroom, one officer in Sunderson’s study around the corner, one in a dining room closet. Smolens told him to offer the Ameses a drink or a cup of coffee. He also told Sunderson to put away the pistol he had left out on the dining room table but Sunderson forgot to do so what with feeling the deep warmth of his gulp of whiskey. He was also amused that this whole thing was basically about food. They had lost their only good cook and couldn’t get by. The wives had lost interest in it after a lifetime of being brutalized. If your husband ties you up in the hot sun you’re unlikely to make him a nice dinner. If your husband is drunk why slave at the stove. Steady Monica had just kept on cooking because she loved it despite Sprague punching her because his eggs were chilly when he was late for breakfast. John was the earliest and sometimes ate all the sausage before the others arrived. No niceties were observed. Simon had complained about the grocery bills but she bought the best sausage that he loved. John was the biggest and strongest of the brothers in physical terms but slow moving and often tired when he worked which wasn’t much. His essential good humor could turn radically sullen in a second. Sunderson was sitting at the table feeling a fast and irregular heartbeat and staring at the pistol when there was a knock at the door. He opened it and Sprague barged in shoving him out of the way. He was followed by John and Bert who acted less aggressive.
“Where’s Monica?” Sprague shouted.
“She’s at work,” Sunderson said quietly.
Sprague looked as though this wasn’t part of his plan which was Get Monica and take her home. He looked at Sunderson’s revolver on the table and pulled his own.
“You promised no guns,” John said.
Sprague was swaggering around the table. “Where is she working?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. A long ways, actually.” Anything to discourage them though you could walk there in five minutes.
Sprague was obviously enraged. He pointed his gun from a close distance at Sunderson’s head. “You’ll tell me right now or you’ll be dead. You guys go outside and turn the car around for a quick escape.”
“Don’t do it,” John begged.
Sprague looked at him with scorn. “I said get out. I don’t want you to witness this.”
Sprague’s left arm was in a sling from where he had been shot. He came close again pointing the pistol at Sunderson’s head. “I’m counting to five. At five it’s goodbye to you unless you tell me where Monica is.” He got to four and then Smolens shouted, “Drop your weapon!” causing Sprague to turn the gun toward him and cock it. A hail of bullets from the three policemen twisted him this way and that. He screeched out and dropped his revolver which Sunderson grabbed. The three men came out of their hiding places and looked down at the riddled body.
“I didn’t want to do it. But this nutcase had it coming. Get the other guys.”
Sunderson nodded in agreement as the two policemen rushed to the door with their guns still drawn. Sunderson followed with his revolver. John was sitting peaceably in Diane’s porch swing. “Sounds like my brother is dead,” he said, holding out his hands to be cuffed. Bert was leaning against the muddy pickup smoking a cigarette and drinking from a flask. They approached him cautiously but he took a last gulp and held out his hands.
The ambulance and coroner came fairly quickly. Sunderson poured himself an ample drink and stared at the blood on the floor. The coroner stayed by the body and said, “You can’t weep over an Ames.” They loaded up the body so they could do an autopsy and left after Smolens gave them a brief statement promising to write it up immediately. A newspaperman arrived and Sunderson turned him away saying, “Please get the fuck out of here. Police business.”
Chapter 10
Hours later when everyone was gone, with Bert and John in the back of the squad car and Sunderson’s home declared no longer a crime scene, Smolens had a big drink saying his workday was over though he would go home and write up a report. Sunderson reminded Smolens in John’s defense that John had said to Sprague he had promised no guns. Smolens helped him clear up the copious blood with an entire roll of Brawny paper towels that had an absurd picture of a “rough and ready” guy on the package as if to communicate their purpose. Sunderson took the blood-soaked towels out to his burn barrel (illegal because of clean air rules) but they wouldn’t burn properly until he added some kerosene from the garage, kept there for a camp stove. His neighbor Delphine waved and headed his way. Smolens was just heading out the door and her flimsy outfit caught his attention. It was a warmish late afternoon and Sunderson thought it was sad he wasn’t fishing instead of burning bloody paper towels. But he always believed he should be fishing when something unpleasant was at hand. It was a bit boring. Her light robe parted revealing a glance of her pubis. Sunderson thought wisely that her neighborly outfits had to be worn to attract his attention. In the old days it would have been called a “prick tease” outfit. He introduced Delphine and Smolens.
“Did I hear firecrackers?” she asked innocently.
“No, we were shooting a bad guy who was going to shoot your neighbor.”
“Oh my God!” she shrieked covering her face with her hands, parting her robe up to her belly button.
He didn’t know about Smolens but to Sunderson this combination of sex, bloody towels, and death was uncomfortable. The burning towels smelled odd and he thought of cremations on the riverbank in India.
“Right next door someone was killed!” she gasped.
There was a fine light line of hair going from her belly button to her pubis. These accidental flashes were far more attractive than strip clubs. Smolens turned away briefly then looked back.
When everyone was gone and the bloody paper burned Sunderson went back inside and poured another hefty drink and put a tuna fish casserole from the refrigerator to the oven. Monica had made it that morning putting in double the ordinary amount of tuna fish like she did at home. Men often feel cheated by this dish but Sunderson loved it, which reminded him of the sin of gluttony. He would eat an extraordinary amount of this dish. It was up there with spaghetti and meatballs for turning him into a hog. His father had the patience to grill chickens all brown and beautiful which thrilled the family on summer Sundays. When Sunderson served chicken pink in the joints once too often Diane had quoted St. Augustine, saying, “The reward of patience is patience.” He was unsure of this then the meaning dawned on him. It was true and helped him cook chicken properly.
He sat at the table staring down at the floor where Sprague died with what he estimated as nine holes in him. His eyes had flickered and flickered and then stopped flickering. The image was interrupted by Delphine’s open robe. He had never seen a man die close up with gunshot wounds. He had been with his father when he died from his heart but that wasn’t noisy. All of that gunfire in a closed house was deafening but what was Sprague seeing when he died? It was hard to imagine him shooting up to heaven. What happens when you die anyway? This called for another drink. He used to hope when he was young that he’d shoot through the galaxies. Recently his religious thoughts had only been the ordinary Seven Deadly Sins which were not encouraging. The afterlife seemed up for grabs and life herself an im
probable puzzle. Of late he had pondered the invention of trees, a magnificent idea. Humans also were an invention that took millions of years to perfect and then it wasn’t perfect. Here he was an older man drinking whiskey and thinking about religion while the tuna casserole cooked.
Are we worthy of an afterlife? So many that fate has made to suffer through this life are more worthy. A doctor friend showed him a photo of black children’s bodies piled like Tinkertoys outside an African clinic. Or the Syrian children’s bodies he had seen on TV. It was all unbearable. Who could shoot a child or starve one? The world was full of things he couldn’t deal with even by fishing. He had thought of going to Africa and helping out but what could he do? Arrest people? Meanwhile back at home children were always in jeopardy, every cop’s least favorite call. Time for another drink. As a child he had been confused by angels and when he asked his father he had said, “That’s a Catholic thing.” His confusion increased until late in his teens when while sitting in the woods staring at a river in the spring two migrating warblers had landed on him. At that point he decided that birds had to be angels and felt blessed. He had sat still in the woods many times since during the migration period but it hadn’t happened again. Even the lowly crows and ravens were holy to him.
He dozed for a while at the table and got his casserole out a half hour late but it wasn’t burned. The edges were crunchy which he liked. He ate an unholy amount with a jar of hot pepper dills that Marion had given him. He fell asleep on the sofa until Monica came home from work. She raised her skirt above the sofa. What beauty.
“I need some affection. I worked hard. It went well.”
“That’s good,” Sunderson said, thinking that it was a wonderful way to wake up. They had some rather hasty affection.