JG02 - Borderlines Page 3

  “Anything hurt?” Mrs. Wingate joined me at his side. “No.”

  Wingate moved a little. “I think I’m okay.” He sounded a little distracted. With his wife’s help, I lifted him to his feet.

  “I’m a little dizzy,” he said as he tried to take a couple of steps. We sat him down on the grass, away from the broken glass.

  “Bruce, what happened?” Mrs. Wingate asked, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief she’d produced from somewhere. His cuts were superficial and had already stopped bleeding. He pushed her hand away.

  “That bastard wouldn’t let me see Julie. Wouldn’t even let me In.

  I had to use force.” He tried for a smile, but his lips were tight and pale. “I guess I lost.” Mrs. Wingate introduced us-her first name was Ellie-and we all shook hands awkwardly. I noticed then he was trembling slightly. I could hear more shouting from inside the house.

  “Someone told me you’re trying to find your daughter.” “That’s right.” The noise inside got louder. I looked over to Ellie. “You okay here for the moment? I think I better get in there.” She nodded. I found the others just inside the front door. Not surprisingly, the noisemakers were Rennie and Greta.

  “Goddamn it, Greta, if you’d shut the hell up, we could find out what happened here.” “Any idiot can see that. Bruce came to get his daughter and was beaten up. That’s assault and battery.” I interrupted.

  “Not necessarily, Greta. I’m Joe Gunther.” I stuck my hand out to the tall man with the beard, who’d just been watching up to now.

  He smiled slightly and took the handshake. “Fox.” I continued: “If Mr. Wingate broke in here uninvited, these people had a perfect right to throw him out, although maybe not through the window. Is that Mr. Fox, or Fox something?” “Just Fox. Are you a lawyer?” A woman with three small children stood behind him, all dressed identically in their quilted suits. The disheveled room, even with the window permanently open, was quite warm.

  I smiled at his question, and at the kids, who looked very small and scared. The oldest couldn’t have been more than five. “No, I’m a Brattleboro policeman, up here visiting. Can you tell us what happened?” “Oh, this is going to be good,” Greta muttered.

  “We were returning from Evening Gathering when this man approached us, demanding to see his daughter, someone named Julie. I told him I knew of no such person, and would he please leave us alone, but he followed us home. I tried to keep him out when we got here, but he forced his way in, locked the door behind him, and began pushing me around, screaming and yelling. He grabbed that chair and tried to hit me with it. I had to think of the children, so I stopped him. He slipped and went out the window.” “The people in your party are all here now, in this room? No one’s missing?” “That’s right.” I nodded toward the woman. “What’s your name, ma’am?” Fox answered for her.

  “Dandelion.” Greta almost choked. “Dandelion?” “Give it a rest, Greta.” I walked over to the window and called to Wingate. “Did you break in here uninvited looking for your daughter?” He froze for a moment, his eyes narrow and angry. “Did you start the fight?” He looked up at me furiously. “He wouldn’t let me see her, said she wasn’t in there and that he didn’t even know who I was talking about. I saw her with my own goddamned eyes. We followed her here, for Christ sake. Why do you think I came to this house in the first place?

  e lied to my face. He’s lying right now.” I sensed violence surging within him, but for the moment at least the man in the Robert Hall clothes maintained his self-control.

  I told Fox, “You can press charges if you want.” “What?” Greta asked, visibly surprised.

  Rennie answered for me. “It’s the law-Wingate was trespassing.”

  Greta looked at me. I just nodded.

  “We don’t wish to press charges,” Fox said in a quiet voice. “You want him to pay damages?” Again Fox shook his head.

  “We may have a kidnapping here,” Greta’s voice was a notch higher.

  “I demand that we be allowed to search the building.” It was good line of bluster, but, knowing Greta, I could sense her sails beginning to flap.

  “That’s way out of line,” Rennie said behind her. She whirled on him. “Since when the hell did you become such a gal hotshot?” “We don’t mind.” Fox’s calm, resonant voice spread between em like oil on water.

  We could’nt search so much as amble from room to room, like tourists visiting a museum. And the analogy held, for in many wayS, the tour revealed a life style of long ago. There were no lamps or electric lights-the only illumination came from homemade candles; the floors, apart from an occasional small wool or braided rug, were bare; dried foods hung from hooks in the kitchen; the beds upstairs were nothing more than wood frames strung with rope supporting straw-stuffed mattresses. Everything was neat, clean, and frugal to the point of being bare.

  At the foot of the stairs, there was a jury-rigged wood stove made from an upended fifty-five-gallon drum. It was supported on bricks and had wire supports running from the wall and ceiling to the stovepipe.

  Rennie passed his hand near the hot surface. “This ain’t the safest stove I’ve ever seen. I got no bone to pick with you about how you live, but you better fix this: new stovepipe, new supports, some kind of firewall behind it. We don’t really have a fire code around here, but this is dangerous. I’ll get you a pamphlet on what you need if you like.” Fox nodded. “Thank you.” He escorted us to the door, his small family mute behind him.

  Greta suddenly marched up to the woman called Dandelion.

  “Do you know where Julie Wingate is? Has she been hidden someplace?” All four of them looked at Fox. “You may answer.” “No,” the woman said. “Christ.” Greta stormed out.

  “Would you like to see the basement?” Fox asked politely. I could hear a slight inflection of victory in his tone. Rennie patted his arm as we filed by, pretty amused by the entire proceeding by now. “I think we’re outta here.” The Wingates were standing outside with Greta.

  “Better luck next time, Bud,” Rennie called over to Wingate. “My name’s not Bud.” The sheer hostility in his voice caught us all off guard. For some reason, it made me think of when the light gets strangely yellow, just before a big storm hits from out of nowhere.

  Rennie heard the menace in Wingate’s voice clearly. “Hey, look, “I’m not your problem. If you can’t keep your shit together, don’t lay it on me.” Greta looked from one to the other. “Never mind, Rennie.”

  But Bruce Wingate seemed to have found an outlet for his anger and frustration. He was like a stove glowing cherry red. Rennie stared at him for a moment, typically unwilling to walk away and let the situation cool. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” “You people make me sick.”

  The words slipped out between unmoving lips.

  Greta tugged at Rennie’s sleeve. “Drop it, Rennie, the man’s upset.” “I can see that. What I don’t see is why he’s pissed at us.

  Seems to me we put up with enough bullshit from these assholes-them and their fucked-up daughter.” Wingate hit him with his fist hard across the face, making him stagger back. Rennie’s mouth was open, his expression stunned. Buster and I instinctively caught him by his arms and held him. But he didn’t attempt to react. He just watched as Wingate stalked off, stiff-legged, with his wife in tow. Buster patted Rennie lightly on the back. “You okay?” Rennie straightened and shook us off.

  “Yeah. Fucking dink.” He walked away in the other direction, rubbing the side of his face.

  The three of us, Greta, Buster, and I, were left standing in the dark street. “Christ almighty,” I muttered. “What’s been going’ on around here?” Greta looked at me for a moment, and then left us without saying a word.

  As I stood there in the evening chill, I knew one thing: The violence and frustration buried deep inside all of us was working its way to the surface in Gannet, building up slowly, like the sweat of exertion n a hot summer day.

  Buster and I stood quie
tly for a while, watching Greta’s stumpy figure receding up Atlantic toward the Inn.

  He sighed gently, the vapor from his nostrils caught in the light from the moon and the blanket of brilliant icy stars overhead. I sensed n him a resignation of sorts, not just about tonight’s behavior, but about the causes behind it. He was one of life’s observers, and the social integration I sensed in this town must have been a focus of his tension for years. I felt the sadness emanating from him like the heat from dying embers.

  Buster shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “You going home?”

  I hesitated. “I don’t think so, not yet. I thought I might go back to the Inn. I would like to talk to you about all this, though.” He nodded. “I’ll walk with you. I’m stiffening up.” I let him hit his stride in silence for a couple of minutes, knowing he hadn’t forgotten my request. He wanted to give it some thought.

  “You know anything about this group here?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Rennie told me they’re headed by a guy who calls himself The Elephant. They’ve spent a lot of money making friends.” “Right.

  Edward Sarris. Well, Greta and I are still Selectmen, along with Renie Cutts. About five years ago, this guy Sarris comes to one of our monthly meetings and introduces himself. He says he’s moving up here with some friends and that they’ll be buying up a bunch of property. He knows people are going to talk ‘cause his bunch is a little unusual, but that we’re all going’ to be real good neighbors.

  He’s not asking us for anything, you know-it’s more like an announcement, just so we don’t think he’s sneaking around trying to pull a fast one. “Well, sneaking was hardly a problem. They came in here gangbusters, paying top dollar for about a dozen houses, buying the old Morse farm north of town, building something like a church up in the woods beyond Atlantic, opening that restaurant, spreading money around like snow in January. People were so busy stuffing their pockets, they didn’t see half the town had switched hands.” “How many members are in the Order?” “Oh, I don’t know-seventy-five to a hundred. Anyway, problem was, once they were in, the town was split in two; they didn’t mix with us and we weren’t invited to mix with them. It’s against their religion, or whatever they call it. You saw it in that house: They’re real structured and keep to themselves. They say they’re anti-materialists and that everybody who ain’t like them are the bad guys. It’s like any other bunch of oddballs, I suppose-you got to hate something or someone to make yourself feel better. Maybe that’s what Greta’s doing.” I had seen Greta’s hatred, and Wingate’s, but Fox had seemed downright gracious in the face of our invasion. “Who do they hate?” “The ‘material world,’ as they call it: the pollution, the moneygrubbing, the commercialism, electricity and plumbing and cars-us, in other words.” “Does that animosity ever come out? Have they ever threatened anyone?” He gave a surprised look. “Oh, no, they wouldn’t touch us with songs. Except for Sarris he’s their ambassador in dealing with the outside world.” I shook my head. “So it’s a time bomb?” He chuckled, which came as a relief. “We could be close-minded y now. I don’t know. There’s more, though, a feel to it that unsettles people.

  I’m not real bent out of shape myself, mind you. I don’t like hat we lost half the town, but that was our fault. Other people, though, see ‘em as a threat. They dress funny, look weird, keep to themselves.

  Hell, when you get down to it, I think it’s just the hippy thing all over again. They’re nature freaks they fertilize their gardens with their own shit; they don’t believe in zippers or in getting married; they call each other by funny names. And then there’s the sex.

  Rumor has it everybody does it with everybody else and Sarris gets the pick of the litter. Doesn’t sound too bad to me, but people like Greta ain’t too fond of it. She always was a little strait-laced, I thought.”

  “You told me once the restaurant was the only genuine business the town has.” He sighed. “Oh, it is-it’s real successful. It has a mailorder part to it, too, that sells ‘natural food,’ whatever the hell that is.

  But with the town half-sold on, and the restaurant pulling whatever traffic comes y, Greta’s found herself pretty pinched. The whole town has, for that matter.” He shook his head and smiled sadly.

  “Looks like maybe we sold our soul for a few quick bucks.” “How badly off is she?” “Greta? Who knows? She’s gotten pretty wild about them.

  You want to get your ears burned, just mention the Order. This Wingate couple blowing into town has been like a fuse. She’s latched onto them like a mother hen, determined to help them find their daughter. I don’t know, though. They seem pretty weird to me, too.” Despite Buster’s amiable tone, the picture he was drawing was rim, of desperate people in a face-on, the backs of their heels on the edge of a chasm. “Has Wingate blown up before?” Buster frowned. “That was a first; course, he’s only been here a couple of days. It wouldn’t have happened if that damned fool Rennie hadn’t pushed.” I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t going to fault Rennie. It had seemed to me his irritation at Wingate’s tone had been justified, even if he had been a little lacking in sensitivity. Still, that was the Rennie of old ever afraid of being popped if he felt he was right. I’d always loved running in his wake as a kid, glorifying in his bravado.

  It was the exact way Buster so disliked in him.

  Buster resumed. “Except for tonight, old Bruce strikes me as a pretty tight drum, as buttoned down as his collars. I never seen him so much as smile, I don’t think.” He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I’d be real keen to go home with folks like that.” We had reached the front steps of the Inn. “You coming inside?” I asked him.

  “Nah, I think I’ll go home. Laura usually puts something in a Crockpot for dinner. I’ll leave it on for you, if you like.” “Hmm, I met her when I came in. Sounds like you’re getting decadent in your old age, hiring a housekeeper.

  He smiled. “Nice kid. No… I helped her out a few years back-alcoholic family, lousy friends. She straightened herself out and thought I had a lot to do with it; said she wanted to return the favor somehow. I got tired of arguing, so she fixes me the odd meal now and then and cleans the house… well, catch you later.” I climbed the steps and looked back at him, heading toward the corner of North and 114. In the dark, barely visible from the Inn’s anemic lighting, he looked like some bear heading back to his cave.

  I stepped inside the door and hung up my coat. Greta was coming out the cafe/’s double doors. “I thought you went home.” “I wanted to ask you something.” She looked at me warily. “What about?” “The Wingates.” She placed her hands on her hips, not the most subservient of gestures. “Is it true you’re working for the State’s Attorney now?” I hesitated, suddenly conscious of how I might be perceived here.

  “I’m on temporary assignment for a specific case. It has nothing to do with Gannet, though.” “Are you going to help the Wingates?” “I don’t know if there’s anything legally I can do.” She let out a short bark of a laugh. “Those Order people kidnapped the Wingates’ daughter.

  That’s against the law, isn’t it?” “If they kidnapped her. Sounds more like she ran away. There was a burst of laughter from the other room, followed by loud voices competing for attention. Greta scowled. “She’s like a zombie-she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing. They’ve got her drugged or something.” She bent forward and thrust her face up at me. “Jesus, Joe, stop tiptoeing around. What do you think this Order is anyway-a summer camp?

  It’s a cult, just like that Jonestown bunch. They’re sick. Did you see what happened when I asked the woman about Julie? She looked Tarzan for permission. These people can’t even think for themselves. they’re sick and I think they’re dangerous.” I opened my mouth but she wasn’t finished. “Did you see those kids tonight? They can’t read or write, they all act like robots.” She held up one hand like a traffic cop. “I know that Fox guy I’ve seen him round. He’s one of the big shots, one of Sarris’s flunkies. If we went bac
k to that house a week from now, I guarantee you’d find him with different bunch of kids and a different woman. These people move round like rabbits.” I thought about pursuing it, but then I changed my mind, giving to one of those sudden emotional cave-ins that occur when you’re already close to throwing in the towel.

  It had been a cop’s impulse to question Greta instead of going back home with Buster. But Greta was right. I should probably just get out of the way. I should go after my ticky-fingered town clerk for the State’s Attorney, avoid further complications in my life, and get the hell back to Brattleboro.

  I realized I’d come up to Gannet with false expectations; I’d wanted to find the town unchanged, my friends waiting to greet me.

  gannet was a kind of tonic I’d hoped would make me feel better. It had been a silly, self-serving notion. I turned back to the row of pegs on the wall and retrieved my coat. I don’t know, Greta. Seems to me everyone here’s a little too steamed up. If you like, I’ll tell the SA to keep an eye on this bunch.” She stepped forward and stopped me from putting on my coat. My ague, evasive tone had made her quite angry by now. “Don’t you pat me on the head, Joe Gunther. I don’t need you looking down on me.

  I watched her eyes, narrow with fury, remembering a similar look n Wingate’s face, and Rennie’s as he had walked away after being punched.

  Compared with theirs, Fox’s had been cool and superior, displaying an icier, perhaps more threatening anger.

  I removed Greta’s hand from my coat and put it on, bidding her goodnight, suddenly eager to escape back into the cold. Outside, I shook my head. Anger is no byproduct of self-contentment. I couldn’t hake the ominous feeling that Wingate and his wife, Greta and Rennie, and God knew how many other people in this town were all in the process of slipping their mental anchor lines, yielding to the different frustrations that had consumed them over time. I wondered in how many of them this rage might be controllable, and in which ones it indicated a ship drifting toward the rocks.