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  I didn’t doubt that my mother was capable of doing what Sylvie had described. She was fierce about the people she loved, often irrational. She’d have dealt with the body calmly and efficiently, probably without losing a moment of sleep. I’ve never known anyone else with such a complete confidence in her own moral rectitude.

  I said, “What did you do?”

  She twisted a piece of hair between her fingers, winding it into a tight curl. “I ran back upstairs to my mother’s room. Then I guess I went to sleep. I don’t remember anything else. The next day was normal. We bought fireworks and set them off in the front yard. The motorcycle was gone, and my father never came back. A couple of days later, my mother called the sheriff’s department and reported him missing. By then, Frank had stolen the money from the county assessor’s office, and he disappeared too.”

  “You never told anyone what you saw? Not even your mother?”

  “What would I have said?” She put her hands over her eyes, pressing her palms against her eyelids. “This can’t be easy for you to believe. Sometimes, I don’t believe it myself.”

  I shook my head. “On the contrary, I don’t have any trouble believing it, at least not as far as Emma’s concerned. My mother is a mass of contradictory ideas. Captain Schwartz pisses her off because she’s such a gun nut, and yet on some level, my mother actually believes in frontier justice. I mean, she jokes about a bullet being the only cure for some people, but under certain circumstances, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. If she knew about your father, how he treated you and your mother, she’d have helped hide that body without any compunction.”

  Sylvie said nothing. She seemed content for the moment to sit quietly, her head resting against my shoulder. I had no idea what to say to her, let alone what I could do to help.

  “You’re wondering if I could have dreamt it, aren’t you?”

  I shrugged but didn’t answer.

  “I’ve wondered too. I suppose I could have. What I remember most clearly are his feet. Isn’t that strange? They were whiter than the rest of his body, white and stiff. His ankles were bent so that his feet were perpendicular to his legs. I thought they could probably push him up and stand him there, just like a statue.”

  I was now well and truly cold, and I guessed it must be past midnight. I stood up.

  “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Wait,” she said. “You’re disgusted, aren’t you? You think I’m a monster because I wanted him dead.”

  “No, I don’t.” I bent over her, holding her arms tightly until she was forced to look me in the eye. “I’m not disgusted. Why wouldn’t you be glad to think he was dead? You don’t owe him anything just because he fathered you. There’s more to being a parent than just fucking someone and getting her pregnant. He wasn’t your father in any real sense of the word, he was an abusive bastard. It would be sick if you didn’t hate him, and you’d have to be some kind of masochist not to be happy when you found out he wasn’t coming back.”

  “Maybe,” she said quietly. “I don’t know anymore. It was such a long time ago, and every memory I have of him is a bad one.” Elvis barked in the distance again. Sylvie stared off down the hill in the direction of her mother’s barn. “Bil, do you ever think about your biological parents?”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “Have you ever thought about trying to find them?”

  “Sometimes,” I said again. “I wonder if I look like them, or if either of them had any other children. I don’t suppose they’re still together. The social worker who placed me told Emma that theirs was a temporary arrangement. That’s delicate, isn’t it? I might have a half-brother or sister out there, though I probably shouldn’t wonder about that, should I? God knows I’ve got more than enough siblings now.”

  “Do you ever feel lonely, being adopted?”

  I smiled. “No more than most people, I expect. I don’t know how non-adopted people feel. How do you feel?”

  “Lonely,” she said. “Sometimes.”

  “There, I guess it’s universal.” She laughed, and I continued, “I really don’t feel a compelling need to track down my birth parents. Whatever’s missing in my life, it’s not anything a couple of strangers from Louisiana could supply.”

  “I won’t ask you what’s missing in your life. I don’t think either of us is up for another revelation tonight. Shall we walk back down?”

  “Sure.” I reached down and helped her to her feet. “One more question, and then we can both stop. Does your mother have any idea that you’re a lesbian?”

  She thought for a moment. “She might. She’s never asked me. We don’t talk about relationships. I love my mother, but I can’t let her know that about me.”

  “Why not? Especially if she’s gay herself.”

  “That’s exactly why, that and the fact that everyone thinks my father is gay. Don’t you see? She’s never told me she was a lesbian, it was just something I overheard, and these rumors about my father, they wall us off from each other. Every time I come to the point, every time I think I’m going to tell her, my father pops up between us like some sort of zombie.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you?” She shook her head sadly. “You can’t tell your mother because of your brother, and your grandmother, and everything you think is weighing her down. I can’t tell mine because if I’m right, if I wasn’t dreaming that night, then my father has been dead for over sixteen years, and my mother has let this rumor that he was gay, that he ran off with another man, hang there in the air between us. She’s hidden behind it like a veil. I don’t know how to tell her about me without pushing that veil aside.”

  I kissed her. Not passionately, but in sympathy, and that was how she responded.

  We walked back down the path as silently as we’d come up it. The moon was only a thin crescent shining through the dense trees, and it was hard to see where we were going. The dugout lights had been switched off. I reached for her hand.

  “Sylvie,” I said, stopping abruptly. “I don’t want to take you home.”

  “That’s okay, I can walk. My mother’s place is just over . . .”

  “That’s not what I meant. I mean, let’s take the Captain up on her offer and stay in one of the cabins. You can take the bed, and I’ll sleep on the floor. There’s probably a sleeping bag around somewhere. It’s just that . . .” I stumbled, trying to think of something that wouldn’t sound sordid. “I don’t want to go home, not yet. My mother might be up—she’s a night owl. I just can’t face her.”

  “Okay,” she said, nodding slowly in the dim light of the moon, “but let’s go back to my place instead. You can sleep on the sofa. My roommate’s there, but she always sleeps like . . .”

  She’d been about to say like the dead.

  Chapter 13

  “Look,” I said, “they must know what killed him, whoever he was. It’s been two weeks since he died, and backlog or not, the lab should have some results by now. The holdup must lie in the fact that they’re trying to pin this thing on my brother. If they’re not able to do that, then they might open a real investigation. God knows what it’ll turn up.”

  “Do you think Frank was murdered?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible.”

  Sylvie squeezed my hand for reassurance; I had to let go to change gears. I’d spent a restless night on her sofa, and we’d both woken up a little before seven. Aside from a bag of spaghetti noodles and some stale teabags, there was nothing to eat in her apartment, so we were on our way to the House of Pancakes.

  “My mother didn’t know about Sam,” she said. “I’m sure of it. The sheriff’s department called and said they thought they’d found my father. She went down to look—what else could she do? They asked her if it was him, and she said yes.” There was a long pause. “Do you think they’ve been in contact?”

  “You mean Kate and Emma? Maybe.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

/>   I kept my eyes on the road ahead. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s Sunday morning, it’s sunny, and we’re on our way to get pancakes. Last night, anything seemed possible. Today, everything seems perfectly normal again.”

  “But if it’s true . . .”

  “If it’s true, then my mother is bound to have talked to yours. They’d have to compare notes and decide what to do about Sam. I’ll tell you another thing,” I said, looking at her for emphasis, “Emma will dump your mother right in the sheriff’s lap if Sam is in any real danger, and she won’t hesitate to incriminate herself.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said nervously.

  “Why should you? It’s counterintuitive. My mother is a loose cannon.” I offered her the only comfort I could. “We’ve got time on our side at the moment. Two weeks have passed, and Sam still hasn’t been charged. Emma won’t act unless he is. She hates the cops, and she doesn’t trust them, so she won’t make a pre-emptive strike on this. If the urine test is clear, we’re over one big hurdle. After that . . .”

  “After that,” she finished, “we’ve got a thousand other possibilities to worry about. My god, I’d like to have been a fly on the wall for the conversation between Mom and Emma.”

  “Oh, I expect you’d have needed a telephone tap. After all this time, it would be too suspicious if they suddenly started visiting again.”

  Sylvie crossed her legs, resting the edge of her foot against the dashboard. “She deliberately misidentified that body, Bil. I don’t know why she did it, not after all this time.”

  We pulled up to an intersection as the light turned from yellow to red. Realizing too late that I didn’t have time to make it through, I slammed on the brakes. The car behind me blew its horn.

  Something occurred to me. “It’s strange, isn’t it, your father and Frank disappearing at the same time? They supposedly ran off together, but if your father was already dead, then what happened to Frank?”

  “Maybe it’s just a strange coincidence.”

  “It’s not just strange, it’s convenient.” I shook my head. “No, there’s something there; we just need to find out what it is.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  “I’ll think of something.” The light turned green, and the car behind me blew its horn. I gave its driver the finger in the rearview mirror. He gave me the finger back, and blew his horn again. I slammed the truck into gear and screeched through the intersection. Then I had to put on my brakes again almost immediately—we’d reached the House of Pancakes. Sylvie was certainly getting a fine taste of my driving. I found a space near the back and switched off the engine.

  “What’s the matter?” Sylvie asked.

  “I need to call Sarah. She works in the college library, and she might be able to find out something about your father and Frank. I’ll ask her to check some newspaper indexes, find some contemporary articles, stuff about the money missing from the assessor’s office, that sort of thing. Once we’ve got our ducks in a row, we can tackle our mothers.”

  “But Bil . . .”

  “You know it’s the only way. My mother’s going to try seven ways to Sunday to get Sam out of this, and she works on pure instinct, not logic. Properly identifying the body won’t clear him at this point. No matter who that man was, he shared a cell with my brother. If the real Burt Wood is buried out next to your mother’s barn, then that’s where he’s got to stay.” I hadn’t spent the past few years keeping my mother’s lunacy in check for nothing, and one thing was clear to me—she couldn’t help Sam by sending Kate and herself to jail.

  Sylvie was stirring uncomfortably in the passenger seat. “Maybe we should hire somebody, a private investigator.”

  “At three hundred dollars a day, plus expenses?” I objected. “Besides, do you know one?”

  “There are a couple up in Spokane.”

  “They’d stick out like sore thumbs the minute they came down here and started asking questions. The only way we can avoid making this worse is if we do the footwork ourselves. It’s natural for you to want to know about your father and for me to try to help Sam. We’ll start with Sarah, who won’t ask questions because she’s not nosy, and we’ll go on from there.”

  We got out of the truck and began walking across the parking lot. Sylvie paused and turned to face me.

  “I don’t know if we can save them, Bil. Maybe it’s too late.”

  “We’ll find a way,” I said firmly and with more confidence than I actually felt. “You’ll see.”

  I was due at the Stop the Prop booth by noon. Sylvie and I finished breakfast at eight-thirty, and I dropped her off at the park to pick up her motorcycle. We arranged to meet backstage after the show. The second night of the Pioneer Days festival always featured a cast party and a fireworks display. While it wasn’t exactly a date, it would be my first public outing after my public outing. Suzy was right—the sooner I got into being out, proud, and free, the better. A gratuitous observation on his part, since there was nothing I could do about it. Damn all of them, anyway. I’d go with Sylvie to the cast party, and I’d smile at my grandmother like I was the Cheshire cat.

  But first, I needed to beard the lion in her den. Buoyed by a stack of pancakes, I plucked up my courage and drove home.

  My father was sitting in Archie Bunker, watching the news. I flung myself down into Edith.

  “Hi, Hugh.”

  He smiled. “Hi, Bil. What are you up to today?”

  “Nothing. How about you?” He seemed perfectly normal, and I wondered if maybe Emma hadn’t told him yet.

  “Nothing at all,” he said. “I should be grading some papers, but I’m watching the idiot box.”

  Hugh is not much of a conversationalist. Bad jokes, the weather, and observations about current events, either sporting or political, make up the bulk of his social interactions. I had no idea how or where to begin.

  “So,” I said tentatively, “where’s Emma?”

  “In town. She left about forty-five minutes ago.”

  “Trouble with Sam?”

  “Probably.”

  I nodded, and he turned back to the news. Don’t be such a wuss, I told myself. Do it.

  “Has Granny called?”

  “I don’t know, I try not to answer the phone. It’s never for me.”

  And besides, I thought, talking to you on the phone is like pulling teeth. Hell, talking to you in person is like pulling teeth. My father’s attention was fixed on the television, and for a long moment, I considered just letting it all go. If Emma hadn’t told him yet, why should I? Why not have a few more hours of closeted comfort?

  “I believe I’ll make a pot of coffee,” Hugh said, sitting forward in his recliner. “Would you like a cup?”

  “No, Dad. I drank half a carafe at the House of Pancakes, and I’m beginning to have heart palpitations. Look, do you have a minute? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  He sat back down, and I cleared my throat. “Dad, I’m . . . a . . . I’m not quite sure how to begin.”

  “Why don’t you begin at the beginning,” he suggested.

  Oh great, a mindless platitude. I’d tell him I was a lesbian, and he’d probably say a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush.

  “Bil.” He reached over and patted me on the arm. “I think I know what you’re going to say, and you don’t need to be shy. I don’t mind.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. It’s easy to get in over your head. You’ve always been self-reliant, and I admire that in you, but I’m your dad. I’d like to help you. In fact, it would be my pleasure. How much do you need?”

  He looked so earnest it made me want to laugh. “I think we’ve gotten our wires crossed, Hugh. What do you think I’m talking about?”

  “Your truck,” he replied. “You don’t need to be embarrassed. The repair bill was nearly four hundred dollars. Consider that money I lent you a gift. You don’t need to pay me back.”


  “Thanks,” I said at last. “I appreciate that. The insurance is due in two weeks, and I was wondering how to cover it.” He smiled happily and moved to get up. I put a restraining hand on his arm. “But there’s one more thing. I want to tell you myself before you hear it from someone else, someone like Granny.” Or Emma, I added silently. “Dad, I’m gay.”

  He looked puzzled. “You’re gay?”

  “I’ve known for a long time—years—but Granny found out last night. Someone let it slip. He didn’t mean to, it just happened. I’ve been meaning to tell you. This thing last night has sort of forced my hand.”

  “Right. I can see how that would change things.” He was staring blankly at the wall behind me. “Does your mother know?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t told her, but if she’s spoken to Granny, then she knows.”

  “Well, you’d think she’d have mentioned it to me,” he said angrily.

  I cringed and took my hand off his arm. I’d always thought of my father as open-minded. I felt profoundly disappointed, embarrassed, and beneath it all, scared. I hadn’t expected this from him—his creed had always been live and let live.

  “I’m sorry.” I spoke quietly, carefully masking any emotion. “I know this is a shock, but like I said, I didn’t have much time to prepare my speech. In time, I hope you’ll see that this is just who I am. In the meantime, maybe I should move out.”

  He stopped frowning at the wall and gazed at me fixedly. “Now who’s got her wires crossed? What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Look, if you’re not comfortable with me being a lesbian . . .”

  He looked at me curiously. “What’s the matter with you, Bil? I’ve known lesbians before. My Aunt Jesse was a lesbian. Of course, they didn’t call it that back then. She was a bull’s dagger, worked all of her life as a logger in Oregon, dressed like a man.”

  “Dad, that’s not . . .” I began, but then I realized he was right. My infamous great-aunt was a lesbian. She spent her entire life with a big honking dyke named Irene. “Dad, it’s bulldagger. There’s no possessive on the bull part. The point is, do you want me to move out? I’m sure I can stay with Tipper until I find something more permanent.”