Black House

"Henry, were you going to tell me about this?"

"Of course, but you were running around all over the place, and I knew Wendell Green wasn’t going to leave until he was thrown out. I’ll never read another word he writes. Never."

"Same here," Jack says.

"But you’re not giving up on the Fisherman, are you? In spite of what that pompous state cop said."

"I can’t give up now. To tell you the truth, I think those waking dreams I mentioned yesterday were connected to this case."

"Ivey-divey. Now, let’s get back to Beezer. Didn’t I hear him say he wanted to ‘deconstruct’ Wendell?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"He must be a fascinating man. I gather from my nephew that the Thunder Five spends Saturday afternoons and evenings in the Sand Bar. Next week, maybe I’ll start up Rhoda’s old car and drive to Centralia, have a few beers and a nice gab with Mr. St. Pierre. I’m sure he has interesting taste in music."

"You want to drive to Centralia?" Jack stares at Henry, whose only concession to the absurdity of this suggestion is a little smile.

"Blind people can drive perfectly well," Henry says. "Probably, they can drive better than most sighted people. Ray Charles can, anyhow."

"Come on, Henry. Why would you think Ray Charles can drive a car?"

"Why, you ask? Because one night in Seattle, this was, oh, forty years ago, back when I had a gig at KIRO, Ray took me out for a spin. Smooth as Lady Godiva’s backside. No trouble at all. We stuck to the side roads, of course, but Ray got up to fifty-five, I’m pretty sure."

"Assuming this really happened, weren’t you scared?"

"Scared? Of course not. I was his navigator. I certainly don’t think I’d have a problem navigating to Centralia along this sleepy stretch of back-country highway. The only reason blind people don’t drive is that other people won’t let them. It’s a power issue. They want us to stay marginalized. Beezer St. Pierre would understand perfectly."

"And here I was, thinking I was going to visit the madhouse this afternoon," Jack says.

14

AT THE TOP of the steep hill between Norway Valley and Arden, the zigzag, hairpin turns of Highway 93, now narrowed to two lanes, straighten out for the long, ski-slope descent into the town, and on the eastern side of the highway, the hilltop widens into a grassy plateau. Two weatherbeaten red picnic tables wait for those who choose to stop for a few minutes and appreciate the spectacular view. A patchwork of quilted farms stretches out over fifteen miles of gentle landscape, not quite flat, threaded with streams and country roads. A solid row of bumpy, blue-green hills form the horizon. In the immense sky, sun-washed white clouds hang like fresh laundry.

Fred Marshall steers his Ford Explorer onto the gravel shoulder, comes to a halt, and says, "Let me show you something."

When he climbed into the Explorer at his farmhouse, Jack was carrying a slightly worn black leather briefcase, and the case is now lying flat across his knees. Jack’s father’s initials, P.S.S., for Philip Stevenson Sawyer, are stamped in gold beside the handle at the top of the case. Fred has glanced curiously at the briefcase a couple of times, but has not asked about it, and Jack has volunteered nothing. There will be time for show-and-tell, Jack thinks, after he talks to Judy Marshall. Fred gets out of the car, and Jack slides his father’s old briefcase behind his legs and props it against the seat before he follows the other man across the pliant grass. When they reach the first of the picnic tables, Fred gestures toward the landscape. "We don’t have a lot of what you could call tourist attractions around here, but this is pretty good, isn’t it?"

"It’s very beautiful," Jack says. "But I think everything here is beautiful."

"Judy really likes this view. Whenever we go over to Arden on a decent day, she has to stop here and get out of the car, relax and look around for a while. You know, sort of store up on the important things before getting back into the grind. Me, sometimes I get impatient and think, Come on, you’ve seen that view a thousand times, I have to get back to work, but I’m a guy, right? So every time we turn in here and sit down for a few minutes, I realize my wife knows more than I do and I should just listen to what she says."

Jack smiles and sits down at the bench, waiting for the rest of it. Since picking him up, Fred Marshall has spoken only two or three sentences of gratitude, but it is clear that he has chosen this place to get something off his chest.

"I went over to the hospital this morning, and she — well, she’s different. To look at her, to talk to her, you’d have to say she’s in much better shape than yesterday. Even though she’s still worried sick about Tyler, it’s different. Do you think that could be due to the medication? I don’t even know what they’re giving her."

"Can you have a normal conversation with her?"

"From time to time, yeah. For instance, this morning she was telling me about a story in yesterday’s paper on a little girl from La Riviere who nearly took third place in the statewide spelling bee, except she couldn’t spell this crazy word nobody ever heard of. Popoplax, or something like that."

"Opopanax," Jack says. He sounds like he has a fishbone caught in his throat.

"You saw that story, too? That’s interesting, you both picking up on that word. Kind of gave her a kick. She asked the nurses to find out what it meant, and one of them looked it up in a couple of dictionaries. Couldn’t find it."

Jack had found the word in his Concise Oxford Dictionary; its literal meaning was unimportant. "That’s probably the definition of opopanax," Jack says. " ‘1. A word not to be found in the dictionary. 2. A fearful mystery.’ "