The Big Seven

  “Does it upset you traveling with a felon?” she asked.

  “Not at all. I don’t believe it.” He sprawled on the grass.

  “It must be Sara talking to Smolens.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She was guilty because I was always entertaining her poor son. Pulling him around in his red wagon, singing to him which he loved.”

  “Is that all?”

  Now Monica was embarrassed confessing something he already knew. “Once she caught me and Lemuel in bed and she was jealous. This was early on. Maybe I was thirteen. A day later we went for a walk and she said to me that I was lucky to have a lover because a woman has sexual needs and her husband hadn’t made love to her in years. He was always drunk which gave him what she called a limp dick. Is this true?”

  “Likely. If you have a few drinks you’re fine. If you have too many your article isn’t in working order.”

  “Well, she was happy when he was murdered. He would beat her at the drop of a hat.”

  “Did Lemuel kill Levi?” Sunderson could barely get this question out.

  “I doubt it. Lemuel’s the only nice man in the whole family. When he does have a drink he sits there smiling. He never shouts or hits a woman.”

  “How about you. Did you kill him?”

  “I wouldn’t know how.”

  “What about that pamphlet on poisons I saw in your suitcase?” Sunderson was practically choking interrogating someone he loved.

  She laughed and then said, “That was stuff I found on the Internet then sent away for it to help Lemuel on his novel. He asked me to help him do research.”

  Sunderson wanted to accept her explanation, but he still couldn’t dismiss the ice in his heart. He let it go but something didn’t add up.

  They walked up the hill to the hotel crossing a bridge over a deep gully. Far below women were washing clothes in a narrow river. Sunderson couldn’t quite believe his eyes but was charmed. He had the traveler’s temporary displacement when “Where am I?” became “Who am I?” They reached the hotel after a strenuous walk up the hill at which point lovely Monica remembered that they had left the rental car at the museum. He slapped his own forehead like the classic dummy. She took the keys and trotted off reminding him of the vast difference of their ages. Was he a fool? Yes, of course. The entire lobby was decorated tastefully in Mexican antiques and there was a burbling fountain in the middle. He asked the desk clerk for a drink and the man said that they didn’t serve liquor. Sunderson put an American five-dollar bill on the desk and the man quickly poured him a nice glass of Hornitos tequila from a bottle in the desk. Sunderson sat down in a chair near the fountain with a groan of fatigue. He sipped the much needed tequila and dozed. The desk clerk came over and refilled the glass with a smile.

  He felt curiously displaced again. It seemed that nothing in his life turned out as expected. He had certainly planned on being married to Diane forever, however long that was. Her absence was similar mentally to a missing limb, waking each day and not hearing her below in the kitchen making her pot of tea. The dread of absence rose in him again. How can you fill your life without murdering your spirit? He had planned a long slow retirement of fishing and contemplating nature then ran into a buzz saw next door to his cabin. He meant to act out of ordinary compassion for Monica and now she was pregnant and with him in Veracruz, Mexico. Maybe the trip was also an act of compassion, outside of his planning as was the coming baby. It seemed irrelevant whether the baby was his or Lemuel’s. He would be sad to lose her, but it had to be taken care of. He couldn’t be a father now, no matter how nice it seemed. How could he stay remote from his good emotions? People do. He certainly was good at enacting his bad sexual emotions.

  His overwhelming motive in life was to write out the eighth deadly sin. But who was he but an ex-gumshoe from a poor family in Munising, Michigan? His hubris frightened him as it got him into many messes in the first place. The sin of pride obviously. The question was how could he write the essay? He might start with the biblical quote “Cain rose up and slew Abel.” The Bible was full of sheer gore and certainly his job had given him a great deal of experience in the color of blood. Blood was the lubricant of history. Early on he couldn’t read about the American Civil War unless it was in the mannerly prose of Shelby Foote. The carnage was unendurable and even entered his dream life. Wars were like that to the innocents back home if a little imagination were applied. He knew his essay on the eighth sin of violence would be up close and personal because he didn’t have the writing skills to exceed that. Sometimes you couldn’t study history without first amputating your imagination. He had been still in high school when he read about the Siege of Leningrad. He recalled trying to fish when his mind was drowning in the idea that the world was a madhouse and had always been one.

  This introduction to consciousness was unwelcome. Living in a remote part of the country the newspapers tended to ignore the bad news but in college he could walk into the smoke shop in East Lansing and buy the New York Times, read it with coffee, and his mind would immediately begin to whirl. And when the blood began to drench your own locale you became fearful. Must I shoot my way out of here? If Lemuel were indeed guilty maybe he hoped to gain peace and quiet by murdering the rest of his family. Progress had been made. It was clear indeed that he didn’t think his family was worthy of life. And what about Monica, beaten and raped since childhood? The most elementary forms of vengeance came to mind. Any dog remembers who beat it, all of its life it remembers. On the dog’s deathbed this person would draw a growl. He wasn’t thinking justifiable homicide but the mere reality of Monica’s life was undeniable. He had never been offended to the point of real vengeance but our minds readily imagine it in the manner that cats treat imaginary threats. They are always ready unlike us who are compelled to brood through our lives.

  Chapter 20

  Mérida was wonderful. He was pleased to learn that when he was a young man Fidel Castro had stayed in the little room next door to their spacious corner room. Down the street there was a beautiful cathedral that made him appreciate the Catholics more. Each morning they heard a dulcet marimba beautifully played by an old man who towed it with his bicycle every morning to a little flowery park in front of the hotel. Sunderson couldn’t recall ever hearing a marimba in real life but it certainly was a pleasant way to begin the day. He ordered coffee from room service and they brought a pot on a tray with a small container of yogurt and some fruit he didn’t recognize but which was delicious. He sat on the balcony listening to the marimba thinking how crummy records were compared to someone actually playing the music. The man was very old and Sunderson speculated that he may have been playing back when Castro lived next door well before the blood began to flow in Cuba. Batista was such a swine that for a change he could overlook the blood and the fact that revolutions tend to increase the power of the state.

  The desk clerk told them there were eight musical events in Mérida that Saturday and made a list with his recommendations and they were off. On the way Sunderson saw a huge roast of pork spinning on an upright BBQ through a bar window and he had to stop. The man behind the counter carved him a goodly pork sandwich he ate with a beer, choking a bit when he used too much habañero salsa. Still he loved it. Monica didn’t eat because they had had shrimp and also a wild turkey sandwich at the market in the morning. Sunderson, however, delighted in this foreign food and saw no reason to be controlled by a waning appetite. He could cut back when he was home if he cared to.

  The desk clerk had been on the money. Their first event was on the far side of the zócalo. It was a dance club of local young people, mostly in their teens, doing a history of Mexican dance accompanied by an orchestra under the shady colonnade. Monica and Sunderson were somewhat stunned by the skill of the dancers. Sunderson couldn’t stop staring at the whirling of the most beautiful girl. She had crooked teeth that she tried unsuccessfully to cover with
her lips which set off her beauty. This seemed against logic but was true. Meanwhile he was amazed at her skill and remembered he must go to Seville in Spain to see the Gypsy dancing. Americans, he thought, seem to think it a virtue to spend their lives in one place. Many of his friends were like that. “I’m here. It’s good enough for me.” If they were doing well they dreaded their wives wanting to go to Hawaii. It was either Vegas to see the shows or to Hawaii to take in the sun. “To sit there and bake,” one friend said, “because my wife wanted to come home brown and showing signs of Hawaii.” He reflected he had barely thought of home since arriving in Veracruz. And why should he?

  The problem of Monica and Lemuel was clearly preposterous but he had decided to try to distract himself from it. They were, in his mind, good people, and he was retired. Did he have to pursue people he liked? He knew that he was ordinary indeed but maybe if he traveled more perhaps he could become less ordinary if that were a worthy pursuit. Everyone wanted to be above average whatever that meant. He readily admitted that going fishing was his primary impulse. What was more peaceful than standing in a river up to your hips in your waders? What was more holy than a river though man had butchered them everywhere with dams and sewage, including the worst kind, chemical sewage? To Sunderson it was worse than shitting on the altar of a church.

  They saw a splendid event where a large group of girls did a reenactment of the history of Mexico in dance, and it seemed like someone was playing classical guitar on every corner. After the last event they had a pork sandwich at the same bar. Monica wanted something simple after an elaborate Lebanese dinner the night before. She hadn’t his tolerance for overeating but then few people did. He had noted that the back half of the bar was an Internet café full of youngish Mexicans working on computers. Monica was curious why they didn’t work at home and he explained that the average wage was less than three bucks a day and they couldn’t afford to own a computer and also support themselves. She was embarrassed at her own insensitivity.

  Once again he was choking over his sandwich having added too much habañero sauce. Over the noise of the bar he was sure he had heard a Charles Mingus number, of all things. The street was now crowded and he stepped outside and saw the Mingus music came from the cathedral steps where to his wonder there was a brass quintet and a drummer, all old ladies in their seventies. From a passing vendor he bought their CD, the first of his life, for five bucks. He went back into the bar to pay his absurdly cheap bill, less than the CD, and fetch Monica. They went out on the street with her carrying her leftover half-sandwich. She broke into tears when she saw the old ladies. The bartender had told him they had been playing together nearly fifty years and had known each other since they were school friends. One had been a waitress in a lounge in LA and learned the music, then came home and taught her friends. A skinny stray dog jumped up and snagged the rest of Monica’s sandwich. She laughed very hard and said, “He needs it more than I do.” He pointed out that the mutt was a female. She looked at them apologetically as she chewed. He went quickly back into the bar and bought the dog another sandwich. This time she seemed to mull over her good luck then wolfed the sandwich down. Naturally Sunderson identified with stray dogs.

  He huffed and puffed his way up the hill to the hotel while Monica trotted along without drawing a deep breath. He felt slightly reassured when he felt the pint of tequila he had bought in his jacket pocket. His mind was in a whirl and he was bone tired from their music day. When they reached the hotel after listening to the fountain burble he was thirsty. The desk clerk poured him a liberal tequila which gave him the tinge of a thrill. Just when a man needed it most, or so he thought. The elevator was on the blink so he had to stumble up four flights of stairs. He was gasping but once again Monica wasn’t even breathing deeply any more than she did on the steep hill in front of the hotel back in Marquette. He secretly hoped that she didn’t need lovemaking. A gentleman doesn’t say “no.” He noticed again that the door was hand carved which he had only vaguely observed when they had checked in. It was admirable work. When they got in the room he noticed for the first time that protuberant female buttocks were carved in the headboard with a calla lily on each side. The buttocks gave him a tingle in the balls and he revised his feeling about making love.

  He checked his luggage for a last-minute book Diane had given him for the trip, The Poems of Jesus Christ, the words of Christ retranslated and arranged as poetry by Willis Barnstone. Not very diverting for travel like say an Elmore Leonard but he appreciated Diane’s good intentions. She had been surprised by his recent theological bent. He had quipped when they had dinner out that everyone thinks of themselves as Christian but then everyone also slips. Halfway through their marriage she had wanted him to take a job teaching history but he couldn’t stand the idea that would be half his pay. Then she would say, “I have money,” and he would say, “That’s not the same thing.” And it wasn’t for the old-fashioned way he was bred. A man makes enough money to support his family. Of course this was largely no longer true in America. It was the sin of pride that blinded him. Despite his expertise in the area he could barely ever apply the knowledge to himself. Pride is hard to notice. It’s in our bones and can’t easily be shaken out.

  He pulled up a chair in front of the open window at the back of the room. He took a deep swig of his tequila pint because he feared he was having a fit of sorts. He thought it might be his fatigue but when he closed his eyes he was hearing all the music of the day at once in his head. When he was listening to music he always saw flashing multicolored lights. He had once asked a doctor friend about this phenomenon and the doctor said not to worry and that many people would be envious. The doctor had an old name for it that Sunderson couldn’t remember. You could drown it out with alcohol but he hadn’t the heart to endure a hangover with a long drive coming up the next day when they would pass through the fishing village of Alvarado. So he sat there enduring his light show with many sips of tequila.

  He must have dozed a little because he heard a rustle and then turned to see Monica nude on her tummy on the bed. Should he do his duty, obviously called for? He felt semiparalyzed in the chair thinking of an article he had read in the New York Times about the danger of death in early retirement, mostly caused by idleness and the body delaminating. He was sixty-six and felt that on any given day he could die in a split second. His friend Marion got up early before work, had coffee, then walked a fast couple of miles before breakfast every single day. Marion had also subdued his passion, shared by Sunderson, for a massive patty of pork sausage for breakfast. Sunderson hadn’t been able to do so. When he was married and had tried to substitute Diane’s wretched granola there were a few tears of denial in his eyes. He had lost twenty pounds on the Atkins diet but his cardiologist had warned that there were long-range health consequences to eating that much meat and recommended the Mediterranean diet which was fine but a little light for his taste. At least Marquette had fresh fish from Lake Superior. Nonetheless, he felt a bit “fruity” on the diet as if one morning he might wake and start flying. The day the cardiologist pronounced him in excellent condition he went out and bought the first fresh pack of cigarettes in a month, a pint of whiskey to hide in the car, and two take-out pasties he ate in the car while watching a lake freighter unload out by the power plant. His decline was ominous and fast. Diane noticed it and said, “You worked so hard. Why are you in a hurry to put the weight back on?” He wasn’t, he thought, but he wanted freedom not self-punishment.

  Pasties, meat pies, were a golden dream, the one dish where his father stepped in and helped his mother. As a boy he had helped cook in a lumber camp and rolled out the lard dough with a false sense of expertise and chopped up the difficult rutabaga, also potatoes for the filling, fairly good beef, and some tasty kidney fat to drizzle in the tiny holes at the top of the dough. They were the best pasties he was ever to have and had frequently thought of making them but Diane as a downstater didn’t care for them. Now wit
h her gone he had no reason not to. The dish was meant to fuel hard work not the sedentary retired detective. Still, when trout fishing he would pack one or two along, and a small pan, and heat them up over a fire, then doze for a while. There was nothing as good as waking to the sound of a river nearby. He was teased by everyone over his dozing but the answer was easy: at any given time half the world was wisely asleep. Any more wakefulness would cause fatal mischief. The best thing he could do for the world, therefore, was nap. Few gave him credibility but what the fuck did he care? Store-bought pasties were but a dim reminder of homemade but much better than nothing.

  He sat there blearily at the window finishing the pint of tequila he had meant to save. His mind had become less frantic and he was luckily hearing simple guitar music from a nearby house. He proudly identified the composition as from the Spanish composer de Falla. He had heard it on Marquette NPR which Diane always had on when he would just as soon have been listening to the Ishpeming country music station which charmed him with its white trash blues. He didn’t know what to make of certain maudlin aspects or what if anything they had to do with him but he loved the mournful cry of George Jones in “He Stopped Loving Her Today.” It turned out he only stopped loving her because he died. How was that different from the story of him and Diane? Love was preposterously corny. This was a simple fact. People had bleeding hearts to the ignorance of the universe. God couldn’t possibly keep up with the prayers muttered in despair. He finally went to bed when the de Falla turned to rock ’n’ roll. He never really comprehended rock except the Grateful Dead’s “Weather Report Suite” which Diane had given him to liberalize his taste.