The Land Of Laughs Page 11

  "You can come in now, Thomas, everything's all right."

  The walls were covered with newspaper turned yellow and brown from dampness and age. The kerosene lamp and light from the open door made the newsprint look like whole colonies of bugs walking around the walls. I'd seen Walker Evans's photographs of Southern sharecroppers who had "decorated" their houses the same way, but when you were faced with the real thing it all became sadder and smaller. A raw wood table was in the center of the room, and two dying chairs were neatly shoved up to it on either side. In one corner was a metal cot with a gray wool blanket folded at the foot and a thin uncovered pillow at the head. That was it – no sink, no stove, doodads, plates, clothes on hooks, nothing. The home of a recluse on a big diet or a madwoman.

  "The woman who lived here –"

  A voice like a sonic boom pushed its way in from outside. "Who the hell's in there? If you measly little fuckers broke that lock again, I'm going to break your fuckin' heads!"

  Footsteps clunked across the wooden porch, and a man came in carrying a shotgun in his left hand like it was a flower he'd picked on the way over.

  "Richard, it's me!"

  "You little fuckers…" He was looking at me and bringing the gun up across his chest when Anna's words penetrated his thick skull.

  "Anna?"

  "Yes, Richard! Why don't you look before you start cursing at people? This is the third time this has happened. Really, one day you are going to go too far and shoot someone!"

  She was angry, and you could immediately see how it affected him. Like a big guard dog that growls and then gets hit on the head by its master, he got all sheepish and embarrassed. It was too dark in there to tell, but I was sure that he was blushing.

  In his defense he whined, "Christ, Anna, how'm I supposed to know that it's you in there? Do you know how many times them damn kids have gotten in here –"

  "If you'd look once, Richard, you would see that the door was unlocked. How many times will we have to go through this? That is why I unlock the door every time!" She took me by the sleeve and marched me past him, out onto the porch. As soon as we were there, she let go.

  When he came out, I recognized him from the barbecue too. A red, prickly farmer's face that looked half-tired and half-mean. He had a self-inflicted haircut that wobbled around his big head, a nose and eyes that stuck out too far from his face. I briefly wondered what kind of inbreeding his family had been up to for the past few generations.

  "Richard Lee, this is Thomas Abbey."

  He nodded absently but didn't offer to shake hands.

  "You was at the barbecue yesterday, weren't you." A statement.

  "Yes, uh, we were." I couldn't think of anything else to say to him. I wanted to, but I was blank.

  "Richard's mother was the Queen of Oil."

  I looked at Anna as if to say, "Are you kidding me?" but she nodded to reaffirm what she'd said. "Dorothy Lee. The Queen of Oil."

  Richard smiled and showed an incongruously bright white set of perfect teeth. "That's right." He pronounced it "rat." "And if I didn't know your father as good as I did, Anna, I woulda said that he had something going on with my mama. You know what I mean – those two spent more time out here in this house than any of us ever did."

  "Father would walk out here from town two or three times a week to see Dorothy when he was writing The Land of Laughs. He would put on his black sneakers and walk in the fields by the side of the road. No one would ever offer him a ride because they knew how much he liked the walk."

  Richard leaned his shotgun against the wall and scratched his stubbly chin. "And my mama knew exactly when he was coming, too. She'd have us go out and pick a big bowl of berries, and then she'd sprinkle them with powder sugar. When he got out here the two of them'd sit out here on the porch and eat the whole damn bowlful. Right, Anna?

  "Hey, you're the one who wants to write the book on Marshall, aren't you."

  "That's what we have been talking about, Richard. That's why I brought him out here to see your mother's cabin."

  He turned toward the open door. "My papa built this for her so's she could come out here and live a little in the woods. There were so many kids in my family that she said she needed a place to rest up once in a while. I couldn't blame her. I got three sisters and a brother. But I'm the only one left living in Galen now." He looked at Anna.

  "Thomas, I'm sorry, but I have an appointment in town in half an hour. Would you like to stay here or come back with me?"

  I couldn't see hanging around in the woods and jawing with Richard, even though I knew that I'd want to talk to him later if Anna ever okayed the book. I'd guessed that she would after dinner at her house and this little trip, but she still hadn't said anything definite one way or the other, and I was still too chicken to push her for a definite answer.

  "I guess I'd better go back with you in case Saxony is there."

  "Are you afraid she'll worry about you?" Her voice verged on being a taunt.

  "Oh, no, not at all. I –"

  "No, don't worry. We will have you back in time. Back in time for your tea. Richard, what about you? Do you need a ride?"

  "No, I got my truck, Anna. I gotta get a couple of things out here. I'll see you all later." He started to go inside, but then stopped and touched her sleeve. "That Hayden thing's bad, isn't it? After last night, that's the fourth thing that's gone wrong. And now, one so close after the other…"

  "We'll talk about it later, Richard. Don't worry about it now." Her voice was a quiet monotone.

  "Worry? How the hell don't you worry? I pissed in my pants when I heard. That poor sucker Joe Jordan's up shit creek."

  I watched Anna's face during the exchange, and it hardened more and more as Lee talked on.

  "I said that we would talk about it later, Richard. Later." She held up a hand as if to push him away. Her lips had tightened.

  He started to say something more but stopped, mouth open, and looked at me. Then he blinked and smiled as if something had dawned on him that made everything clear. "Oh, right! Jesus, listen to me and my big mouth!" He smiled and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Anna. You watch out for her, buddy. she can get pretty damn grouchy on you sometimes."

  "Come on, Thomas. Good-bye, Richard."

  The path was wide enough for us to walk side by side.

  "Anna, I don't understand some of what's going on here."

  She didn't stop and she didn't look at me. "Like what? You mean about what Richard was saying?" She pushed a hand through her short hair, giving me a glimpse of sweaty forehead. I love to see sweat on a woman. It's one of the most erotic, inviting things I can think of.

  "Yes, what Richard was saying. And then Mrs. Fletcher kept asking me this morning if the Hayden boy was laughing when he got hit by the truck."

  "Was there anything else?"

  "Yes, there was. That man who hit him, Jordan? Joe Jordan? He kept saying that it wasn't supposed to be him, and that nobody knew anything anymore." I didn't want to push her, but I did want to know what was happening.

  She slowed down and kicked a stone up the path. It hit another and caromed off into the woods. "All right, I'll tell you. Some terrible things have happened in town in the last six months. A man was electrocuted, a store owner was shot in a holdup, an old woman was blinded last night, and then this thing with the boy today. Galen is Sleepy Town, USA, Thomas. You can see that already, I'm sure. Things just don't happen here. We're the kind of place people joke about when they talk about hayseeds. You know – 'What do you people do around here for fun? Oh, we fish illegally or go down to the barbershop and watch them give haircuts.' Suddenly, these nightmares are happening."

  "But what did Jordan mean when he said it wasn't supposed to he him?"

  "Joe Jordan is a Jehovah's Witness. Do you know anything about them? They think that they are the chosen few. God would never let this happen to one of them, and besides that, what would you say if you had run over a child and killed it?"

  "The bo
y died?"

  "No, but he will. I mean, he probably will, from what I've heard."

  "All right, that makes sense, but then what was Mrs. Fletcher talking about when she asked me if the kid was laughing before he got hit?"

  "Goosey Fletcher is Galen's crazy old lady. You've seen that already, I'm sure. She orders everyone around and asks crazy questions and is perfectly at home in her nutty little head, God bless her. She was committed to an insane asylum for three years after her husband died."

  We had reached the car, and she went around back to let the dogs in. Everything sounded reasonable enough the way she explained it. Yes, it sounded fine. So why did I turn and take a long last look back into the woods? Because I knew that what she had said was somehow a bunch of bullshit.

  She dropped Nails and me off at Mrs. Fletcher's and said that she would give me a call in a day or two. She wasn't brusque, but she wasn't adorable, either.

  As I reached the porch, Saxony loomed up into view behind the screen door.

  "Ah, darling, you are a vision in wire mesh!"

  "Were you with Anna?"

  "Wait a minute." I unclipped Nails from his leash and he sat down on the top step. "Yes. She took me out to the Queen of Oil's house."

  "What?" She opened the door and came outside.

  "Yes. Some old woman named Dorothy Lee who was supposedly the inspiration for the Queen. She lived in an old dilapidated shack about three or four miles out of town in this big forest. Anna came by and asked if I'd like to see it. I did until Dorothy Lee's son appeared and almost shot us for trespassing. Richard. He reminded me of Lon Chaney Junior in Of Mice and Men. 'Tell me 'bout the rabbits, George.' One of those guys, you know?"

  "What was the house like?"

  "Nothing. A rickety dump decorated with old newspapers. Very uninspiring.

  "Did Anna say anything more about the book?"

  "No, not a word, dammit. I think she's into this big teasing thing, you know? She'll tell me all these things about her father and always phrase it, 'Here's something else for your book.' But she's never yet said whether she will let me do it or not."

  Saxony shifted her stance and tried to sound nonchalant when she spoke. I loved her for the failed effort. "What do you think of Anna? I mean personally?"

  I fought a smile down and reached out and ran my hand down her freckly cheek. I saw that she had gotten some sun when she was out shopping. She pulled away and caught hold of my hand in hers. My smile came up anyway. "No, really, Thomas, come on, don't be funny. I know that you think she's pretty, so don't lie about it."

  "Why would I lie about it? And she certainly isn't what David Louis painted her. Christ, he had me thinking that we were about to rendezvous with Lizzie Borden."

  "So do you like her?" She kept hold of my hand.

  "Yes, so far I do." I shrugged. "But I'll tell you something, Sax. I also think that there's some kind of big weirdness going on around here that I don't like much."

  "Like what?"

  "Like, did you know… ?" I stopped at the last moment and lowered my voice to a whisper. "Did you know that Goosey Fletcher was in the booby hatch for three years?"

  "Yes, she told me about it when we went shopping today."

  "She did?"

  "Uh-huh. We started talking about movies because of your father, and she asked me if I'd seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. I said yes, and she told me that she'd been in an asylum once. She said it like 'So what?'"

  "Hmm." I took my hand back and played the dog leash through my fingers.

  "But what's the matter with that?"

  "Did you buy stuff for lunch?"

  "Yes, all kinds of good things. Are you hungry?"

  "Starved."

  I make the world's most delicious grilled cheese sandwich, bar none. While I flitted around the kitchen whipping us up a couple of masterpieces, I filled her in on my woodland idyll with Anna.

  "How great, you got whole-wheat bread! Now, now, now, a lee-tle boot-er…"

  "Do you really think that Richard Lee would have shot you?"

  "Saxony, I not only think so, I've got sweat stains to prove it. That man was not kidding."

  "Thomas, you said that David Louis told you that crazy story about Anna screaming at him to get out, and that she wrote him mean letters whenever he sent someone out here to write about her father?"

  "Louis didn't send anyone out, Sax, he would just answer their questions. They came out of their own accord, like us."

  "All right, they came out on their own. But didn't he say that when they did come out, she would send him letters telling him that it was all his fault and that he had no right doing it?"

  I nodded and slapped the spatula on the counter.

  "All right, then tell me this: Why is she being so nice to you? If she hates biographers so much, why did she invite us to dinner and then drive you out to the Queen of Oil's house today?"

  "That's one of the strange things that I was talking about, Sax. Either David Louis is screwy in the head, or else he just detests Anna France for some reason. Almost everything he said about her so far has proven wrong."

  "But remember that she did lie about her father a few times last night, didn't she?" Her voice was triumphant.

  "Yes, she did. She welcomed us with open arms and then started lying when she was talking about him." I flipped the spatula in the air and caught it by the handle. "Don't ask me about these things, dear, I only work here."

  "It's interesting, you know?" She walked to the cabinet and got out two bright blue plates.

  "Yup." I scooped the sandwiches out of the skillet at exactly the right moment and slid them onto a piece of paper towel to take up the extra grease. The secret of the perfect grilled cheese.

  7

  The next few days nothing much happened. I poked around town and talked to people. Everybody was very nice, but no one told me much that I didn't already know. Marshall France was a good old boy who liked to hang around and shoot the breeze just like any other mortal. He didn't like being famous, no sirree: a good family man who maybe spoiled his daughter a little now and then, but what's a father for?

  I went to the town library and reread all of his books. The librarian was an old lady with oyster-shell-pink rhinestone glasses and puffy, rouged cheeks. She bustled around as if she had a million things to do every minute of the day, but I saw that the bustling was all busywork and that what she really liked to do was sit behind her big oak desk and read.

  A couple of kids were plagiarizing reports out of the World Book Encyclopedia, and a very pretty young woman was glued behind a month-old copy of Popular Mechanics.

  I went over all the France books with a mental magnifying glass to find parallels between them and Galen, but the search was uneventful. I assumed that what France did when he wrote was to take a grain from something real and then drastically reshape it for his own purposes. So Mrs. Lee had been a blob of human clay that he had sculpted into the Queen of Oil.

  When I was done investigating, I pushed away from the desk and rubbed my face. I was working in the magazine room, and when I came in I'd noticed a surprisingly good selection of literary magazines on the periodical shelves. I got up to get a copy of Antaeus. The librarian caught my eye and crooked her finger for me to come over to her desk. I felt like the bad kid who's been caught making noises in the back of the stacks.

  "You're Mr. Abbey?" she whispered sternly.

  I nodded and smiled.

  "I'll make up a temporary card for you if you'd like. Then you can take books out instead of having to read them in here."

  "Oh, that's no problem, thank you anyway. It's a nice room to work in."

  I thought my charm would at least make her smile, but she kept a kind of prim frown. She had those little vertical lines under her nose that come from a lifetime of pursed lips. Everything on her desk was orderly too. Her hands were crossed in front of her, and she didn't move or drum or twiddle them when she talked. I was sure that she'd kill anyone w
ho put a book back on the wrong shelf.

  "There have been people who came before to write about Marshall, you know."

  "Yes?"

  "Anna didn't like any of them, especially the man who wanted to write the biography. He was so rude…" She shook her head and clicked her tongue.

  "Was that the man from the East? The man from Princeton University?"

  "Yes, he was the one who wanted to write the biography of Marshall. Can you imagine? They tell me that Princeton is an excellent university, but if they're turning out graduates like that man, they wouldn't get my vote."

  "Do you happen to remember his name?"

  She cocked her head to the side and raised one chubby hand from the desk. Tapping her chin with a finger, she never took her eyes off me.

  "His name? No, I never asked him and he never offered it to me. He came in here like Mr. Mucky-Muck on a high horse and started asking me questions without so much as a please." If she were a bird and had had feathers, she would have ruffled them then. "From what I've heard, he was that same way with everyone in town. I always say that you can be rude, but don't be rude on my doorstep."

  I could picture the toad from Princeton with his little Mark Cross briefcase, a Sony tape recorder, and a deadline on his thesis, going from person to person trying to pump them for information and getting exactly nowhere because they didn't feel like being pumped.

  "Would you like to see one of Marshall's favorite books, Mr. Abbey?"

  "I would love to, if it isn't too much trouble for you."

  "Well, that's my job, isn't it? Getting books for people?"

  She came out from behind the desk and moved toward the back shelves. I assumed that she was heading toward the children's section, so I was taken aback when she stopped at the shelf marked "Architecture." She carefully looked all around to see if anyone was nearby. "Between you and me, Mr. Abbey, I think she's going to let you try. From everything I've heard, she's going to let you."