Idaho Code Page 12

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  “If she doesn’t, we’ll find ourselves answering rude questions at pistol-point.”

  I started walking again. Sylvie stood her ground. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  I took her hand. “Come on, it’s fine. I come out here all the time. I have an open invitation. We’ll walk under Captain Schwartz’s window, and I’ll let her know we’re here. Okay?”

  She looked doubtful but allowed herself to be pulled along. The light was on in the Captain’s bedroom, so I tapped on the glass. The sash was thrown up a few seconds later, and a woman stuck her head out. “What?” she asked. “We’ve got a front door, you know.”

  It was Jane, the Michigan Howitzer. I stepped back. Not only had I not been expecting to see her, but she was naked from the waist up. And it was a chilly night.

  “Hey, you’re Tipper’s friend, aren’t you?”

  “I’m . . . yes, I’m Bil Hardy. We just wanted to let the Captain know we were here. I thought we’d go sit in the dugouts.”

  “Isn’t it a little late for a game,” she paused heavily, “of softball?”

  Fortunately, a large arm reached out and pulled her back through the window. “Hey,” Jane yelled.

  “Go back to bed,” the Captain laughed. “I can interrogate my own visitors. Hi, Bil.”

  “Hi. We just wanted to borrow one of the dugouts. A quiet talk,” I added quickly. I didn’t know what Sylvie was thinking. I wondered if she could possibly be as embarrassed as I was.

  “Be my guest. The gate was locked, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. We climbed over.”

  “No problem,” she smiled. “You’re always welcome, you know that. Just tap on my window when you leave, would you? Cedar Tree is still a little nervous about trespassers, and I like to be vigilant. You never know,” she added ominously.

  “Sure thing,” I said. She went back to Jane, and I turned around to find Sylvie, who had stepped back several paces, stifling a laugh.

  “One more thing,” the Captain called behind me. “Do you want the field lights on or off? The switch is in the kitchen. It’s a bit of an obstacle course out there right now. We’ve been target shooting, getting ready for tomorrow.” The second day of Pioneer Days featured a black powder rifle competition that Captain Schwartz usually won.

  “Why don’t we leave them off?” I avoided meeting Sylvie’s eye for fear that she might misinterpret. Or worse, that she might interpret correctly. “I think we’ll be okay.”

  “Right. Goodnight Bil. Goodnight . . . Sylvie Wood, isn’t it?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Sylvie said.

  “We’re neighbors. Your mother’s place touches on the north corner of my property. If you climb up to the top of the ridge, you can just make out the roof of your barn. Stay as late as you want, Bil. Now, if you . . .” She hesitated, giving me plenty of time to dread what she might say next. “One of the cabins is vacant at the moment. If you want to stay, you’re welcome to stay there. Looks to me like it might rain.”

  Even worse than I could have imagined. “Thanks,” I said quickly. When the Captain had closed the window, I turned to Sylvie and whispered, “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Do you come out here often?” Her face was in shadow, and I couldn’t tell if she was laughing now or not.

  “No . . . yes, but not like that. I play a lot of softball,” I finished lamely.

  We walked on a few steps, and then she stopped again.

  “Why did you say you were sorry?”

  I didn’t look at her. “Embarrassed, I suppose.”

  “Captain Schwartz didn’t seem to mind. Besides, it’s a pretty natural conclusion. Two women, it’s dark, we’re on our way to a dugout . . . lesbian dream date, isn’t it?” Definitely laughing.

  “I don’t know. I think I’d prefer something more comfortable than a wooden bench in a cold dugout. Even Traveler’s Rest would be better than that.”

  “Infinitely,” she agreed. We reached the dugouts, and I led Sylvie around to the third base side. She sat on the bench. I sat before her on the ground, leaning back against the fence that separated us from the diamond. We said nothing for what seemed like ages. I felt the word “infinitely” hanging in the air between us like a patch of fog, thicker and more impenetrable than the mist hanging over the softball pitch.

  “You said earlier that Sam didn’t . . .”

  She shook her head. “We’ll talk about Sam later, I promise. First, what do you know about my father? Forget the rumors. Try to tell me what you actually remember.”

  “I know that he disappeared sixteen years ago, in 1978.” I tried to think back to that summer. “You and I had just finished first grade. Your father left on the Fourth of July.”

  “Is that what you remember, or what you’ve been told?”

  “Does it matter?”

  She sighed. “It does, I’m afraid. It’s true that my father officially disappeared on the Fourth of July. I remember going to see the fireworks. Then my mother brought me home and put me to bed. The next day, she told me he was gone.”

  “What I remember,” I said tentatively, “is walking in on a lot of conversations that suddenly stopped. My mother hadn’t seemed to mind my eavesdropping before, and I was puzzled that she wouldn’t let me listen now. Later . . . do you want to hear about later?”

  She nodded, staring out over the field and not looking at me.

  “Later, people brought it up occasionally. They wondered where your father and Frank had gone. Some people said San Francisco, others said New York. All of those places seemed plausible to me then.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I don’t think they could have gotten away with enough money for that sort of life.”

  “Do you remember my father at all?”

  “Vaguely.” I paused, trying to think of a good way to phrase my thoughts. “He scared me. He had that big, black mustache, and he seemed angry all the time. I don’t think he liked kids.”

  “Not even his own,” she agreed. “Anything else?”

  “I remember that everyone talked about it, and everyone said exactly the same things—imagine leaving your wife for a man, imagine Burt Wood turning out to be gay. The only person who said anything different was Hugh. He said he thought the stress of living a lie made people do a lot of things they might come to regret, and that it was a shame your father felt he couldn’t be gay and keep his relationship with you.”

  “That’s a kind thought,” she said. “I think I’d like your dad.”

  “Most people do. He has a kind of Will Rogers take on the world.”

  She looked down at me and smiled. “Why don’t you sit up here on the bench? That ground looks damp.”

  “It is,” I agreed. I sat down with one leg on either side of the bench, facing her. “Would you like your jacket back? It’s getting cold, and you’ve just got on that thin cotton dress.”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine. Besides, you’re just wearing a T-shirt yourself.”

  “Yeah, but I’m a big, tough butch.”

  She laughed, and we sat for a few moments in silence. Muffled sounds traveled through the fog and something, possibly a woodpecker, hammered on the electrical pole behind us. Sylvie reached up and pulled out a comb and several bobby pins, letting her hair out of the bun she’d worn in the performance. As she shook her head, her hair cascaded down to her shoulders.

  “What did your mother say about the disappearance?” she asked. “Do you remember?”

  “Not really. The same things everyone else said, I guess. At some point, she stopped hanging out with your mother. I don’t know when that happened, whether it was before or after.”

  “It was after,” she said matter-of-factly. “Why do think that was?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know why. Maybe they had an argument. Maybe your mother didn’t feel like company after your dad left. I’ve never really asked. I know that Emma didn’t like your fathe
r. She said . . .”

  “What did she say?” When I hesitated, Sylvie leaned forward and put her hands on my knees. “It’s all right. You’re not going to offend me. Please tell me what she said.”

  “She said that disappearing was the best thing your father ever did. She said he treated your mother like absolute hell.”

  Her face had been only a few inches from mine, but she leaned back now. As she lifted her hands, I reached out and held them.

  “At one time,” she said, not looking at me, “our mothers were very close.”

  “They were roommates before Emma dropped out and got married.”

  She nodded. “My mom has a lot of pictures of them together. Your mother got married at the end of their sophomore year. Then your parents moved to the East Coast somewhere.”

  “Virginia. Hugh did his master’s at George Mason. After that it was Florida, Louisiana, California, and finally back here. Academia is wonderfully accommodating to the hippie nomad. I know that our mothers kept in touch, and when we moved back, they picked up where they’d left off. They spent a lot of time together.”

  “When you moved back,” she said, “my parents had been married for just over seven years. I remember Emma coming to the house. Sometimes she’d have you with her, sometimes Sam or one your sisters. Sometimes she came alone.” She smiled. “You don’t know what it’s like being an only child. When your mother arrived without one of you in tow, I was very disappointed.”

  “It’s hard to remember that my mother used to have friends. After Sam’s diagnosis, she just sort of withdrew. It was like she wanted to block out anyone who wasn’t part of the immediate family. I suppose that’s normal under the circumstances.”

  “I suppose so,” she said quietly.

  “I remember your mother, too,” I went on. “I remember her coming over to our house and sitting in the kitchen with Emma. They drank cup after cup of coffee, surrounded by a fog of cigarette smoke. I’m sure she brought you with her.” I was struggling now, and I didn’t think I could summon up much more from the well of memory. Impressions, things people had said, all of these were clearer to me in some ways than my own direct experience.

  “She always brought me,” Sylvie said. “She never left me at home with my father, not if she could help it. I used to play with your sisters, Sarah in particular. She was one of those older girls who didn’t mind being followed around by a younger one. Ruth was too old to take more than a babysitter kind of interest. Naomi . . .”

  “Naomi never played with anyone. She sat in her bedroom counting her Monopoly money.”

  Sylvie smiled. “You didn’t play much, either. You just sat under the kitchen table listening to the conversation. My mother thought you were funny. She said you’d occasionally offer some pithy observation, but mostly, you were quiet. You were her favorite of Emma’s children.”

  “When did she tell you that?”

  “The other night, actually. At Fiesta Jack’s. That’s when she told me about Sam.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady myself against the sudden sharp sting of humiliation. When I opened them again, I saw that her eyes had grown dark and difficult to read.

  “Bil, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “Ask me anything.” I was very conscious of Sylvie’s hands in my own. The touch was light, but electric.

  “When did you first know you were a lesbian?”

  “Elementary school.” This was dangerous ground. When had I known? That afternoon at recess when Sylvie had reached out to ruffle my hair. Not that I was a lesbian, exactly, but I certainly knew that I liked girls. Sitting so close to her now, I could remember that feeling of longing and anticipation.

  “You’re going to tell your mother, aren’t you?”

  “Sooner or later.” As that didn’t seem like much of an answer, I tried again. “My mother can be very invasive. I want to keep some part of my life private. A. J. told me once that I was just being wishy-washy. Maybe she’s right.”

  Sylvie released my hands and moved back on the bench. I was sure now that word of my post-Fiesta Jack’s rendezvous had reached her, but there was nothing I could do about it.

  I said, “When did you know?”

  “I was a late bloomer. I didn’t know until high school. My mother didn’t know until she was married and had a child.”

  “I thought you weren’t out to your mother.”

  “I’m not. I mean my mother didn’t know about herself.”

  “Your mother’s a . . .”

  “My mother’s a lesbian,” she said. “I don’t know if she’s ever been with anyone. She might have—I haven’t lived at home for over three years. As far as I know, she’s only ever come out to one person.” She paused for a moment and took my hands again. “She doesn’t know this, but I was there when she came out. I was sitting in your old hiding place, underneath the kitchen table. We had a long tablecloth, thick white damask. The edges touched the floor. I couldn’t see her, and she couldn’t see me. She came out to your mother, Bil.”

  “My mother?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t so much coming out as confessing, really.” She spoke quietly and carefully. Though I had begun to feel apprehensive, I was utterly unprepared for what she said next. “She told your mother that she was in love with her.”

  “What did Emma say?” I asked tentatively, not sure I wanted to know.

  “She said she was sorry, really sorry. Then my mother cried. I sat under the table as quietly as I could, not wanting them to know I was there. It’s awful when you’re a child and your mother is crying. You don’t know what to do.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I ran a hand through my hair and looked out over the field. The wind had picked up, dissipating the mist and blowing clouds of damp leaves around the bases. I couldn’t picture Emma as the object of anyone’s desire. I knew my parents had an active sex life; they were private, but not quiet. Still, I didn’t think of either of them as being sexual, as having a sex life that wasn’t somehow parental. They had a sex life together, not apart.

  “When was this?”

  “Sixteen years ago. Just before my father disappeared.”

  What had my mother been like back then? Thinner. Long brown hair with streaks of gray, bright blue eyes. She’d been attractive.

  “Christ,” I said suddenly.

  “It’s okay.” Sylvie moved closer to me. “Until recently, I didn’t think it was all that important. You love someone, and they don’t love you back. It happens all the time. I’m telling you now because two weeks ago my mother identified that body in the morgue as my father, and now they think your brother killed him. Bil, look at me—I don’t know what happened to that man, but he was not my father.”

  I shook my head, not comprehending. “Your mother identified the body . . . what do you mean your father was someone else?”

  “I mean my mother was wrong. That man was not Burt Wood. I think he was Frank Frost.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Not in the morgue. My mother went by herself to make the identification. I saw him on Thursday, the day before he died. In my mother’s kitchen.”

  I stared at her.

  “I don’t know what he was doing there,” she went on. “I went out there that night for dinner. They were in the kitchen, arguing. I heard him say something about making her sorry, and she said she wasn’t interested in making any deals with him. He could either leave under his own steam, or she’d call the sheriff and have him forcibly removed, so he left. I don’t think he saw me. I was out in the yard when I heard them, and I ducked around the corner of the house when the back door opened. When I went in, I pretended I’d only heard part of the conversation. My mother told me that he was just a pushy transient, looking for work.”

  “You’re sure it was Frost?”

  She nodded. “Very much changed, but I recognized him. I didn’t say anythin
g to my mother about it, and I don’t know why she lied to me. I had to leave on Friday morning to drive a friend to Spokane, and I ended up spending the night there. I was a little worried, but then I thought, what could he do? She didn’t have any trouble throwing him out. On Saturday afternoon, the sheriff’s department called and asked her to come down to the morgue. She identified the body as my father. I didn’t know until I got home.”

  “Holy shit,” was my inadequate response. Even through the thickness of Sylvie’s jacket, I could feel the cold rising through the damp air.

  “I know,” she said. “I don’t know what your brother did, Bil, maybe he didn’t do anything. I do know that he didn’t kill my father.”

  “He killed Frank Frost.”

  “I doubt it.” She still seemed to be thinking something over, trying to decide whether or not to tell me.

  “Go ahead,” I said slowly. “I have a bad feeling that there’s more to this story.”

  “I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t get you involved, but I don’t know what else to do, and in a way, you’re already involved. Nearly as much as I am, in fact.”

  “Thanks to Sam.”

  “No. Look Bil, you have no idea why our mothers stopped being friends, why they stopped having anything to do with one another?”

  I swallowed hard and took the plunge. “They had an affair, didn’t they?”

  She smiled. “I don’t think so. It’s hard to fall in love with someone who can’t love you back, who wouldn’t be with you even if she were free. That’s why my mother was crying. I’m sure Emma loves your father.”

  I felt relieved. It was fine if my mother was bisexual, what did I care? I just couldn’t stand the thought of her cheating on my father. “I can’t picture my mother keeping a secret like that, not from Hugh. She tells him everything.”

  Her gaze was suddenly so intense that I flinched.

  “My father was killed sixteen years ago, Bil. He didn’t leave with Frank or anyone else. My mother shot him and then she buried the body in our backyard. We had a backhoe—my father had rented it to dig a trench out next to the barn for some water pipes or something. My mother used it to dig a deep hole. There’s a giant syringa over the spot where he’s buried, the first in a line of bushes stretching out from the barn. He’s out there.”