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“Rope,
pistol, clothes, shoes, plastic bag, gloves… Rope, pistol, clothes, shoes…
Damn, I’ve got to stop this.” The list repeats over and over in Don’s mind
like a tune that he can’t stop. Since leaving
Nashville
he’s gone over every detail at least a hundred times. Still, one tiny slip-up
might mean disaster.
A
long ash from a cigarette dangling from his lower lip falls in his lap. Don
takes an ineffective swipe at his pants that merely smear the ashes as he reaches for a pack in his shirt pocket. Rats, empty. He crushes the pack, flips
it to the floor on the passenger side where it sinks into a sea of candy
wrappers, cough drop boxes, beer cans, potato chip sacks, and
God-only-knows-what-else.
Stubby
groping fingers find a new pack in a half empty carton lying on old newspapers
in the passenger’s seat. Ripping it open, he pounds out a fresh cigarette,
swaps it with the one in his mouth and lights the new cigarette from the old
one. Nicotine stained digits crush the butt in the ashtray; already full of
deceased butts.
As
he passes the 312 mile marker on I-40, Don looks at his watch. It’s
12:10 am
. Right on schedule. His cigarette sags as he smiles a crooked smile and reviews
his plan. From
Nashville
to
Kingston
at 70 miles-per-hour take one and a half hours. It won’t do to get caught
speeding. If stopped now, he’ll abort the whole plan. To be stopped after the
deed, going back to
Nashville
, would be terrible. That would establish a record of him being on the
Interstate in the middle of the night. Don mumbles, “If that happens, I’ll
just bend over and kiss my ass goodbye.”
Speaking
aloud, he says, “Won’t be long now. I’m not as nervous as I thought.
Brains and careful planning, that’s the key to success. Yes sir, ha
ha, careful planning, and brains too, of course, heh
heh. Rope, pistol, clothes, shoes… Perfect! Perfect! It’s going to be
perfect. No screw-ups, I’m calm as a… what am I calm as? I’m calm as… as
a man facing a goddamn firing squad, that’s what I’m as calm as. Oh shit!”
Don
rehearses umpteenth time how the conversation might go. “Claymore’ll say,
‘What the hell you doing here in the middle of the night?’ Then I’ll say,
‘Couldn’t wait, I need your John Henry on some papers. Sutter’s Forge is
about to cancel our contract. You know what that means. Our whole
partnership‘ll go down the drain.’ Then he’ll say…” Don frowns and
thinks for several seconds about Claymore’s reply, then concedes, “Hell,
how’ll I know what Claymore’ll say?”
Habit
glues Don’s cigarette to his lower lip. He hypnotically gazes at the dashed
white lines on the pavement as they sail by like spears being thrown at him.
At
length he perks up a bit and says, “Claymore! What a stupid damn name. I
wouldn’t name a dog Claymore. Well I’ll take care of that in about thirty
minutes. Ha, ha.” He composes a
ditty in honor of the about-to-be occasion, “Claymore will be no more.
Claymore will be…” He pauses for a few seconds and then sighs, “Don?
Donald? My name ain’t so damn classy either.”
Don
remembers how he and Claymore started their partnership thirty-four years ago.
They were determined to set the world on fire, get rich and all that. Claymore
was a great buddy back then, but he’s just plain disgusting now. The stupid
jerk had to marry that dumb bunny Denise. When she told him to jump, he’d say,
“How high, honey?” I didn’t shed a tear when she kicked the bucket.”
This
thought refreshes Don own memories of his ex-wives. Charlene the Mean, Berth the
Girth, and Elaine the Pain. Wow! What a man won’t put up with just for a
little poon-tang. I reckon my Momma was the only good woman that ever lived.
In
just two more cigarettes he’s almost surprised that the exit ramp is just
ahead. He would like to go over his plan one more time. He drives down
Kentucky Street
at second-thoughts speed, turns right on Elm, then right again on
Wilson Avenue
. Driving slowly, he turns out his lights just before coming to a stop under a
row of maple trees. He had picked this place to park the week before because
it’s black as sin at night and not in front of any houses.
He
has checked the time every minute for the last twenty minutes, but with his
lights out it’s too dark to see his watch. He’s tempted to turn on the dome
light, but that might attract attention. He decides, Hell, I don’t need to
know the time anyway. He pulls a plastic Kroger’s bag from the back seat.
Stubby fingers scrabble in the bag and he identifies by feel: rope, clothes,
shoes, pistol… His hand freezes on the cold shooting iron and he thinks.
It’s not too late. He could start the engine and return to
Nashville
and no one would ever know he’d had this plan. Scrabbling commences again.
The bag contains two pieces of rope. He coils a four-foot length and puts it in
his jacket pocket. He tries to put a fifteen-foot length in his briefcase but it
is already too full of raggedy sales brochures and letters. He dumps the
contents of the briefcase on top of the carton of cigarettes in the passenger
seat. Some papers and catalogs slide off between the seat and door. Now
there’s room for the rope, pistol, and gloves in his briefcase.
As
a final sales pitch to himself, Don says, “You got to understand, Claymore,
I’m doing this for you. You’ve been so damn miserable since Denise died,
I’m sure you want to join her. Of course you’ll be proud to know that with
your death our partnership insurance will take care of our cash flow problems. Heh
heh.”
Don
looks around. It’s pitch black and no sign of life anywhere. He gets out of
the car fast to limit the time the dome light is on. By habit he drops his
cigarette on the pavement and steps on it. Bad move, that’s DNA stuff.
Squatting, he feels for the flattened butt with his fingers. When found, he
stuffs it in his pocket and wipes his hand on his britches. On the sidewalk,
tree roots have broken up the concrete causing him to stump his toe; shock waves
reverberate up and down his belly. “Damn! What do we pay taxes for?” Fat
fingers comb his tousled hair and he pulls symbolically, but changing nothing,
at britches clinging desperately to disappearing hips.
Claymore
lives in a two-story house nearly invisible behind too many maple trees. It was
built in better days when their partnership was in the chips and the maples were
just saplings. On the doorstep, Don’s guilty eyes scan the neighborhood.
Nothing stirring, not even a mouse. He pushes the doorbell button and hears a
muffled, Ding, dong. While he waits for Claymore, he checks his jacket pocket.
The rope is still there. He stiffens when a blinding porch light comes on. As he
hears the latch open he has a sudden urge to jump into the shadows and run back
to his car. It’s too late.
Claymore
cracks the door. “What the hell you doing here? You’re supposed to be in
Nashville
.”
“I’ve
got some papers for you to sign.”
“What’s
so important it couldn’t have waited?” Claymore’s hair is sticking up
every which way and with his narrow head it puts Don in mind of a turtle wearing
a tiny wig. Gray whiskers follow the contours of deep wrinkles. Claymore’s
thin neck spreads out just enough to expose a bony frame that barely support his
oversize pajamas.
“Sutter’s
Forge is about to back out of renewing our contract.” Don stammers. “If we
plunk a signed contract down on old man
Butler
’s desk in the morning, they can’t renege on us.”
“If
they haven’t signed already they can still back out.”
“It’s
strategy Claymore. You never could strategize. Just sign the damn papers, will
you?”
“Give
‘em here.”
Don
shuts the front door and lays his briefcase on a small table next to the door,
but he doesn’t open it. He says, “Got any coffee?” This part of his
perfect plan is designed to get Claymore to turn his back on him.
“Coffee’s
colder’n a mackerel,” Claymore growls.
“So
stick it in the microwave, Claymore, I need it, I’ve got to drive back to
Nashville
tonight.”
Claymore
gives Don a sour look and turns to lead the way beside the stairs toward the
kitchen.
Fingerprints
don’t concern Don because he’s been in the house so many times in the past.
It would be strange if they couldn’t find his prints. He pulls the four-foot
rope from his jacket and surprises Claymore by taking one full loop around his
neck and pulling it tight. Then he spins around so that they are back to back.
With the rope over his shoulder, he leans forward lifting Claymore off the floor¾body
and soul. Claymore’s arms and legs whirl like a run-a-way windmill and Don is
desperate to keep his balance. For a harrowing second he teeters on one foot
like an ice skater. He recovers, but not with the graceful sweep of an Olympic
performer. Weaving all around the entrance hall, he yells, “Damn it, Claymore,
stop kicking my legs, I’ll be black and blue!” Claymore doesn’t answer and
he doesn’t stop kicking either.
Claymore
executes a sudden cheerleader flap and Don hears a sharp crack.
Claymore’s body ripples limp from head to toe like a row of falling dominoes.
This, not a second too soon, for Don’s rubbery legs are on the verge of
meltdown.
At
last his prize catch has submitted to his powers of persuasion. The two of them
sag to the floor as Don keeps the rope taut over his shoulder. They sit back to
back in the entrance hall for a long minute. Don’s heart is pounding like
bongo drums and his breath is coming in wheezy gasps. His hands shake and his
right leg quivers. As soon as he has the breath, he moans, “Sheee Claymore. I
didn’t expect for you to object so strenuously. Wheeze. You done yourself proud, boy. Heh heh. Cough, cough.”
A cigarette sure would be good now, kind of like after sex, he thinks.
After
a minute Don’s breathing and coughing subside to a tolerable level. His legs
wobble as he gets up and his arms shake but he manages to keep tension on the
rope. The tether about Claymore’s neck holds him in a sitting position. Don
unreels him until the rope goes slack and Claymore is stretched out on his back.
Don pulls at sagging britches as he staggers over to his brief case to get the
fifteen-foot rope. On lifting Claymore’s head to remove the four-foot rope he
glances at Claymore’s bulging bloodshot eyes. He sneers, “God, but you’re
ugly, Claymore.” The fifteen-foot rope has a hangman’s knot that Don had
mastered with unabashed pride before leaving
Nashville
. He slips the loop around Claymore’s neck and is careful to position the knot
behind Claymore’s head before pulling the noose tight.
After
putting on his gloves and grasping the far end of the rope, he climbs the stairs
to the landing above. One turn is taken around the lower banister rail so
friction will help keep the rope tight. Inserting his legs between the rails, he
reaches through the openings and pulls on the rope. Claymore’s dishrag body is
heavier than expected and Don groans as the force slids his body up tight
against the railing. With his face distorted against the railing and much
groaning, Don finally secures the rope so that Claymore’s feet are about chair
height above the floor. Puffing and coughing, he rests his head against the
railing and whispers between gasps, “Claymore, you’re just about more
trouble than you’re worth.”
After
extricating himself from the railing, Don looks around to make sure that he’s
not leaving anything. Downstairs, he verifies that his old buddy is hanging at
about the right height. Claymore slowly rotates back and forth like a tourist
viewing the
Grand Canyon
. Two scrawny buns are all that keep Claymore’s pajama bottoms from stripping
away his last shred of dignity.
Don
brings a chair from the kitchen and lays it on its back close to Claymore.
Standing back he admires his handiwork. “Perfect! Perfect!” He swells with a
sense of pride for a job well done. He looks at his watch,
12:50 am
. “Perfect! Perfect! Cough, cough.”
He thinks it is too bad he couldn’t take a picture to remember his perfect
plan. He feels sweaty and grimy; his body is limp as dirty underwear; his arms
throb; and his right leg is cramping where Claymore kicked him.
Don
puts the short rope in his briefcase and looks around one last time. One of
Claymore’s house shoes was kicked across the entrance hall. He places both
shoes closer underneath Claymore where one might expect them to fall. Then his
mouth drops open and his eyes widen. What he sees electrifies the hair on the
back of his neck. A drop of blood splats on the floor directly under Claymore.
Damn,
damn. Don’s perfect plan didn’t include bloodshed. He had a pistol, but it
was for unexpected emergencies. The blood had dripped from a tiny cut on the end
of Claymore’s wiry big toe. He must have kicked something besides the back of
my legs, Don reasons. “Dang it, Claymore, you’re nothing but a thorn in my
side tonight.”
After
several minutes, he finds where Claymore had hit the edge of a stair step. He
wipes the step with the knuckle side of his gloves, along with several more
drops of blood on the hardwood floor. What can he do that will explain how
Claymore’s toe got nicked?
“Calm
down, Don. Just calm down.” It’s time to leave, but he can’t go now.
It’ll look like a sloppy job. That would be embarrassing. After studying for a
minute, he picks up the kitchen chair and touches the edge of the wooden seat
against the gummy blood on Claymore’s toe. He again lays the chair where if
might go after being kicked. Ingenious, he thinks. Now in a more charitable
mood, he says, “I’m sorry you busted your toe, Claymore, but you got to
admit, it wasn’t my fault. You had no business kicking like a hyena.”
Don
picks up his briefcase and looks around again. He’s surprised that a glance at
Claymore’s face almost makes him gag. The porch light switch is flipped and
the door is set to lock when he shuts it. His hurried pace down the sidewalk
make him look like a man in one of those silly walk races. He couldn’t run, of
course, that would be remembered if someone happen to see him. To sit in his car
again feels wonderful. To rest would be great, but he feels an urgency to leave
the scene at once. That urge is even stronger than his urge to light a
cigarette. His gloves go in the Kroger’s bag and he starts the engine.
On
the approach to the I-40, Don pushes the cigarette lighter with his thumb, puts
a cigarette in his mouth and beats the steering wheel with his fist while
waiting for the lighter to pop out. After lighting his cigarette he drags deep
and relishes the little pleasure demons stampeding through his body. Once on the
Interstate he feels the hard part is over with. “Oh jeeze, Don! You did it.
You fool, you really did it. Ha ha! Ha ha
ha ha ha, cough, cough.” A huge
weight is crushing his chest and it’s almost too much effort to puff, puff,
that cigarette.
Interstate
miles grind away Don’s energy reserve. Time and weariness tarnish his initial
sense of achievement. Until now it had seemed that he was a participant in a
weird dream. As long as it is just a dream he feels completely, absolutely, and
thoroughly innocent. He resists accepting the fact that he is more than just
someone looking through a window. He’s never done anything bad in his life,
other than a few hundred parking tickets, an occasional barroom brawl, and that
time Elaine filed assault charges against him. Okay, so it was two or three
times. She was a vindictive little witch.
At
length he moans, “What have I done? Ohhh Claymore. Why didn’t you stop me,
Claymore?” A hazy image of Claymore’s strangled face with his bulging eyes
appears ghostlike in the windshield. A heave boils up from down deep, but
nothing erupts for there is nothing in his stomach to throw up. Tears form in
his eyes as he reaches for another cigarette. His chin quivers and he mutters,
“I’m sorry, Claymore, I’m so sorry that I had to do it.” His leaking
nose is the benefactor of a trombone maneuver of his jacket sleeve.
**********
Don
parks
in the shadows at a deserted I-40 rest area. He shoves the pistol into the full
glove compartment and he has to push hard to re-latch the cover. In the dark, he
squirms around until he has changed his clothes and shoes that he’d brought in
a Kroger’s bag before leaving
Nashville
. He puts his old clothes, gloves, and shoes in another grocery bag. The jacket
and four-foot rope go in the bag that his change of clothes came in. Both bags
are so full that he has trouble tying them and he wishes he had brought a third
bag.
No
one is close by, so he drops the bags in a large trash container in the picnic
area. Kablump, they fall to the bottom. He expects that there will be a large
amount of trash deposited on top his bags before it is collected again. The next
stop will be his motel room. He is close to being on schedule. Talking aloud
bolsters his spirits, “Careful planning and brains, that’s the secret to
success. Ha ha.” He drops his
cigarette and grinds it into the sidewalk. Just thirty more minutes to his
motel, and home free.
**********
The
phone rings, “
Seven o’clock
, wake up call, Mr. Jorgensen.”
“Yeah,
yeah, thanks.” In spite of the fact that he was exhausted, Don hadn’t slept
like he thought he would and he was already awake. He had dozed off and on, but
every time he fell into a deep sleep he would come to with a start. Now, he
didn’t want to get up, and he didn’t want to lay there either. With
complaints from stiff muscles, he sits on the side of the bed and reaches for a
cigarette while he rubs the back of the leg that Claymore had kicked.
A
shower, shave, and fresh clothes revive him and he realizes that he’s hungry.
And why not? He deserves a big breakfast after a hard night on the road.
At
Naoma’s House of Pancakes, Don watches Rose outmaneuver Donna to get to him.
One of Don’s mottos is: Be a big time tipper and people will fall over each
other to serve you.
Rose
grabs a coffee pot and mug and hurries to Don’s table. “Hi hon. The usual
sweet roll and coffee?”
“Not
this time, darling. I’ll take two eggs sunny-side-up, bacon, grits¾the
works.”
“Say,
hon, you must’ve had a busy night.”
His
bloodshot eyes roll up and look at Rose though tangled eyebrows. “You might
say that.” No sooner said than he thinks that it would have been smarter to
have kept his mouth shut.
A
fresh cigarette has just been lit when Rose sets the plate in front of him. He
looks with contempt at the huge yellow eyes staring at him. Wrinkling his nose,
he pokes one of the eggs gingerly with his fork, as if he’s afraid he’ll
hurt the poor thing. After two bites he abandons the eggs, picks up one piece of
bacon and chomps off a mouthful. The grits are kicked around with his fork, but
not eaten. Despondent to find that he isn’t hungry after all, he leans back
and studies the whole mess for a minute. His cigarette lurks in an ashtray
beneath a teasing curl of smoke. Taking one deep drag, he blasts his eggs with a
puff of atomic bomb smoke. Still not enough revenge, he jams the cigarette butt
in the eye of the un-poked egg. Standing up, he pulls a money clip from his
pocket, peels off a ten-dollar bill and tosses it on the table. He’ll let Rose
settle up with the cash register and pocket the difference.
Ten
minutes later, Don opens the door at Sutter’s Forge and approaches Phyllis, a
gorgeous blond secretary. He speculates that he wouldn’t kick her out bed, but
her buckteeth might cause problems.
Phyllis
stops typing. “I thought you finished here yesterday afternoon, Mr.
Jorgensen?”
Don
says, “I did, but I forgot to leave a brochure on Weldtight’s new alloy. Is
Mr. Butler busy?” He knows that
Butler
already has the information, but his perfect plan calls for him to establish
evidence that he’s in
Nashville
this morning.
“He’s
meeting with the engineers. It may be awhile. Do you want to wait?”
“Nah,
just see that he gets this brochure, will you?”
“Like
my life depends on it, Mr. Jorgensen.”
Don
wonders what the hell does she means by that? I’m not going to hurt her.
She’s a smart ass. He wishes at least two people could witness he’s here
because he isn’t sure he can trust this dizzy blond.
Going
out the door, he waves. “See ya, darlin’.”
**********
Driving
back to
Kingston
, Don speculates about who will find Claymore. He’s counting on that nosy
widow that lives across the street. Claymore had complained about her checking
up on him everyday. Always bringing him stuff like collard greens and cornbread.
Stupid woman, she doesn’t have a chance in hell of ever making Claymore forget
Denise. Then he remembers that Claymore isn’t here to forget anything today.
I’ll bet he’s sitting on a cloud with Denise right now and she’s nagging
him like always, and he’s loving it. Yes sir, Claymore, I sure did you a big
favor, buddy. Ha ha. He has an uneasy
feeling that Claymore is hearing his thoughts, maybe even up there somewhere
watching him. His laughing stops abruptly. He wants to think about something
else for a few minutes, but he can’t.
**********
Don
counts on his cigarette to calm him as goes in the door of DON &
CLAYMORE’S WELDING SUPPLY. He’s got to act surprised when he first hears of
Claymore’s suicide.
“‘lo
Marge.”
Marge
picks up her coffee mug and brushes away the donut crumbs scattered on the Knoxville
News-Sentinel. Many times she had explained that she brings in yesterday’s
paper. That’s cheaper than buying at the newsstand on the way to work. She
resists reading her paper at night on her own time. Of course that means the
news is a day old, but she figures that if she’s always one day behind, she
wouldn’t know the difference.
A
middle-aged woman of generous proportions, Marge is more generous in the middle
than on either end. She settles in her secretary’s chair like a giant pear and
the tormented chair is almost lost in the overall scene of things. She has a
sun-toughened face, but it must be in her genes for she is seldom exposed to the
sun. Her hair is wound up into a fuzzy roll that sits on top of her head like
it’s not really connected to her, as though she could lift it off and park it
on a shelf if she’s a mind to.
“Trip
Okay?” Marge asks.
“Yeah,
any messages?” Dang, it’s obvious that no one has found Claymore yet.
“Yeah,
here’s two.” She holds them up by her shoulder for Don to come get them.
He
wonders what happened to the days when Marge put the messages on his desk. He
goes in his office, drops his briefcase on a stack of old catalogs lying in a
chair. The messages go on top of six other messages he’d ignored a few days
earlier before he’d gone to
Nashville
. After lighting a cigarette he returns to the main room for a cup of coffee.
It’s paper cups now. His mug got so cruddy that Marge must’ve thrown it
away. She wouldn’t admit it, but he’s sure that’s what happened to it. Her
days are numbered around here, that’s for sure. Claymore isn’t here to
defend her now.
Marge
said, “Don, I’m going to have to have a raise. Ever since Denise died I’ve
had to do all of Claymore’s bookwork. I don’t think he’s ever going to
come out of his blue funk.”
Ah
ha, Don thinks. A perfect opening to prove that he’s innocent of any
shenanigans. “Where is Claymore?”
“Don’t
know. He doesn’t come in but every now and then. What about my raise?”
“Everything
is tight right now, Marge. We’ll talk about it later, Okay?” He figures that
Marge’ll never leave, she has it too good. She’s as much a part of this
business as that chair her butt’s draped over. Anyway, she can’t leave,
she’s the only one that knows shit from Shinenola about our books. I hate her.
“You’re
working the hell out of me, Don.” She looks at Don over the top of her glasses
as she takes a sip of her coffee.
“I
know darlin’, but just hang in there. I’m working on a deal to bring in some
big buc… I mean, I think I’m about to land a big contract. If I do, you’ll
get your raise.” He’d better shut up, he might say more than he intends to.
He can tell by the way she’s shaking that donut at him that she will say
something as soon as she swallows, so he cuts her off by walking into his office
real quick. He looks around. What a mess. Clutter everywhere. I’m going to
straighten this up some day.
Don
diddles his fingers on haphazardly strewn papers that covered his desk. What can
he do to look like he’s busy? He could return some of those phone calls, but
he knows that they’re just picky customer complaints and he isn’t in the
mood for that right now. Where in hell is that widow woman? If she doesn’t
find Claymore pretty soon, he might spoil on us.
The
afternoon drags like flat beer. Time passes a little faster when Don studies
about how he is going to spend the insurance money. He and Claymore had bought
the policy ten years earlier when business was brisk. If one of them dies, the
surviving partner will be sole owner and get $700,000 insurance to buy out the
deceased’s beneficiaries. With Denise dead, Don figures that there won’t be
anyone to pay off so he’ll have it all. Business is so slow now that it
isn’t worth much, but he’ll sell it for as much as he can and retire.
He’ll travel some, live a little, and move to someplace with more action, like
Vegas maybe, or
Knoxville
. Yeah man, get away from this rat race.
He
thinks about the source of his good fortune. He goes over all the reasons why
Claymore is better off now and how it is best for him and everybody concerned.
Then he remembers Claymore’s face with the rope around his neck and those
bulging eyes. He tries to think about something else because this leaves a hurt
inside that he can’t explain. It defies logic.
He
thinks about how he’ll be so nice to Marge when he fires her. He’ll sing
praises to high heaven for her work at dear old DON & CLAYMORE’S WELDING
SUPPLY. Then he’ll pop a cork and celebrate when she waddles out the door for
the last time.
A
little before
five o’clock
, he hears Marge go into the rest room. This means that she will be leaving in a
few minutes. One good thing, he thinks, when she’s fired; they won’t have to
replace the toilet seat anymore. He thinks about asking her to check on Claymore
on her way home, but decides that might make her suspicious. How can he get that
widow woman to check on Claymore? It occurs to him that maybe she has already
checked on him and assumed that he isn’t home. I’ll bet she isn’t very
bright.
Marge
looks in. “I’m going, Don. Have you thought anymore about my raise?”
Don
is exasperated. How can she think about her raise while Claymore is over there
swinging at the end of a rope? “Sorry Marge, but I’ve had more important, er,
I mean some very important things on my mind this afternoon.”
“Yeah,
well, maybe you can think about it while you’re eating supper.”
“Right,
maybe.”
Marge
asks, “Claymore hasn’t been in since yesterday morning. Have you talked to
him?”
“No
Marge, why don’t you stop by there on your way home and see if he’s Okay.”
“I’m
hungry now. I might do that in the morning. What do you reckon he does over
there all the time? I don’t think he ever goes anywhere.”
Don
wants to say that he guesses Claymore is just hanging around the house, but
instead he says, “He’s just mooning over Denise. Depression I guess you’d
call it.”
“Yeah
I reckon. See ya, Don.”
“See
ya, Marge.”
**********
Don
opens his front door. The lock broke two years ago. That’s also exactly how
long he has intended to call a locksmith. A lesser man would retreat when
assaulted with the stench of stale tobacco air in the living room, but Don is
immune to it. He throws his briefcase and jacket on top of two years worth of Playboy
and Sports Afield that completely cover the seat of a lounge chair.
He winds his way down the hall between stacks of newspapers, bags of dirty
clothes, and a disassembled VCR that he took apart last year and he didn’t
have a clue about what was wrong with it. In the kitchen he opens the fridge
door and leans back when a pungent odor lands a solid punch to his nose. Whew!
Something died in there. That’s worse than a camel’s fart. He holds his
breath, grabs his last two beers, and slams the door on the uncouth camel. He
curses because he forgot to bring home more beer.
A
heavy glass ashtray, twelve-inches across, dominates the table beside his easy
chair. He treasures this ashtray that he had found in Pigeon Forge. He only has
to empty it every other week and this isn’t the week. The base of the lamp is
a faded figurine of a nude woman and her face is mostly hidden behind a cocked
dirty shade. Surrounding the ashtray and lying in a fuzzy carpet of dust is a
greasy TV remote, a flattened cigarette pack, a lighter, a can of lighter fluid,
and a few peanuts. Lying in the floor is an assortment of beer cans, potato chip
bags, paperback books, and such.
The
cushions of his easy chair are sunk in to precisely match the shape of his body
and over time a dingy shadow has been ground into the upholstery of the
depressions. At a quick glance the sharpness of this image creates the illusion
that an invisible person is sitting in the chair. Don plops down into the
matching mold. It took a long time to whip this chair into shape and he
wouldn’t trade if for an all night frolic with Madonna. He lights a cigarette
and inhales deeply. A sharp stab at the TV remote forces a picture to slowly
emerge on his 1982 Motorola. Who can say whether it‘s the picture tube’s age
or the scum of cigarette smoke on its screen that make the picture so fuzzy.
Among books and other clutter on top of the TV is a smoke coated 5x8 picture of
Elaine the Pain. This is the only picture of an ex that he allows in the house.
It’s sort of a sexual thing. She was a bitch, but she fucked like a
El Paso
whore. He had to give her that.
Don
was disappointed that he’d missed the highlights of last night’s football
game. The evening news didn’t interest him and his mind wandered. Daylight is
fading and in the darkened room, color is draining from Don’s world. The
garbled voice of Tom Brokaw is describing some far away catastrophe. Flickering
glow from the TV reflects on a soulful face that is blurred behind a vale of
cigarette smoke. “Claymore, if you knocked on my door right now, and I could
see that you’re all right, I’d hug your damn neck. To hell with the
business, to hell with the money, and to hell with Denise.” Tears well up in
his eyes. “Damn you Don. Damn you, damn you, damn you. You strung up the best
friend you ever had.” His shoulders shake and tears roll down anguished
cheeks. His voice is elevated and crackles, “I’m going to miss you old
buddy.” He pulls at a corner of his handkerchief and it streams from his
pocket like a battle-worn surrender flag, only surrender flags are whiter. He
wads it up, blots his eyes, and blows his nose with a loud honk.
**********
Marge
is eating her first donut when Don arrives. “My god, Don. You look like
something the cats drug in. You feel all right?”
“Yeah,
I’m fine. I’m just not sleeping too good lately.” Don leaves his briefcase
in his office and returns for his breakfast, a donut and a cup of coffee. One
thing Marge is good for is bringing in fresh donuts and making strong coffee.
When he looks back, Marge is absorbed in her newspaper. He studies her like an
engineer surveying a railway trestle.
After
a minute Marge says, “Listen to this, Don. Here’s a guy who killed his own
brother in a squabble over who would get their dead daddy’s car. Can you beat
that?”
Don’s
chest sags and he thinks, yeah, he could beat that. He wants to change the
subject, “Did you check on Claymore this morning?”
“He
didn’t come to the door. I guess he was sleeping so I didn’t try much.”
Don
nods and goes into his office. This is worrisome. He doesn’t think he can
muster the courage to go over and find Claymore himself. He slumps in his chair
and feels so tired it’s an effort to light his cigarette. Maybe he can think
of a reason to send Marge back over there.
At
eleven o’clock
Don is pacing the floor when Marge shrieks. He shudders like she had poured ice
water down his back. Finally, somebody’s found him. In the front office two
policemen are talking to Marge. She’s standing. It’s a big event when Marge
stands.
Don
recognizes Steve Morris, the Chief of Police. “What’s up, Steve?”
“Hello
Mr. Jorgensen. I’m afraid I have some bad news. It looks like your partner,
Mr. Harford, has taken his life.”
“What!
Claymore has han…uh, committed suicide?” Questions race through Don’s
mind. What does he mean by it looks like? Did I overlook something? Are they on
to me?
Morris
continues, “Yes sir. Mrs. Wilson, the lady across the street, looked in Mr.
Harford’s living room window. She could barely see Mr. Harford hanging in the
hallway.”
“Hanging,
huh? Well I’ll be damned.”
“Me
too, sir. Looks like he’s been there awhile. When was the last time you saw
Mr. Hartford?”
“I
haven’t seen him since before I left for
Nashville
about four days ago. Have you seen him, Marge?”
Marge
shakes her head and mumbles between sniffles, “No.”
Morris
says, “Well, the autopsy will tell us when he did it.”
“Autopsy!
You’ve got to have an autopsy for suicide?”
“Routine
in suicide and murder, Mr. Jorgensen.”
The
word murder causes Don to flinch. His eyes widen and he stammers,
“What… what do you mean murder?”
He was doing Claymore a favor, you can’t call that murder. Well, not in the
ordinary sense, anyway.
“Oh,
I don’t think it is murder, Mr. Jorgensen, but it is an unnatural death.”
Don
is puzzled; Steve doesn’t think its
murder? He knows something and he won’t say what it is.
Morris
asks, “Do you know his next of kin? We’ll have to get in touch with them.”
“He
was an orphan and he’s a widower. The people that adopted him are dead and I
don’t think he has any next of kin.”
“That’s
too bad. Maybe you could make the funeral arrangements for him.”
“Bury
Claymore? Oh! Yeah, well I reckon.” Don’s perfect plan didn’t cover
funeral arrangements. Maybe Marge’ll do it. Women know more about such stuff.
He hopes Claymore has the cash to pay for it.
Morris
asks a few more routine questions and finishes with, “Well, I’ll be getting
back with you.”
Don
said, “No need. I won’t know anymore later than I know now.” As Morris and
his right hand man go out the door, Don thinks, you’ve got a tough nut here,
buddy. If you think I’ll fold like a pansy, you’ve got another think coming.
I don’t care what evidence you’ve got, I won’t talk in a million years.
Hmm, I wonder what he knows?
Marge
wails, “Lordy, Claymore was such a saintly man.”
**********
Don
is surprised at the turnout for Claymore’s graveside service. Brother Reams
finds a lot of nice things to say. This in spite of the fact that Don didn’t
think Reams had ever met the dear departed before today, and for that matter
they didn’t exactly shake hands today. Don is wearing his best suit, the one
he wore at his mother’s funeral twelve years ago. A little tight here and
there, but by sucking in his gut he could button his jacket and that would hide
the fact that he couldn’t completely zip his fly.
Marge
is draped in about forty yards of black cloth and bawling like a heifer. Widow
Wilson asked for and was granted permission to sit on the front row with Don and
Marge. She also carries on right smart during the service. Don squirms like a
salted snail. Get with it, Reams, I’m lying if I ain’t dying for a
cigarette.
A
somber patchwork of neighbors and business acquaintances stand behind the VIP
grievers. Of course this includes the WELDING SUPPLY’s two stockmen, Harley
Smith and Dennis Clowers. Don doesn’t recognize them at first because they are
wearing suits. Mayor James and three councilmen stand proudly like a polished
package of…whatever. They attend all prominent citizen’s funerals and most
especially suicides. These esteemed gentlemen shook the hand of every person
there before the service, and then again after the service. Nor did they forget
to shake the callused hands of Charlie Haygood and Otis Thurdston, who are
waiting in their coveralls to shovel dirt on top of Claymore.
When
the service is over latecomers lean close around widow Wilson. With waving hands
and oval mouthed whispers, she dramatizes, “And I slooowly made my way through
the shrubs and peeeeped through the window. Everything was neat. You know how
Claymore, uh Mr. Hartford, was always so neat. But I just felt in my bones that
something wasn’t right. You know how sometimes you just know something isn’t
right. I could barely see into the hall. And, then I saw it—that poooor
man’s feet were about two feet above the floor. Oh, I tell you. Shivers ran up
and down my spine. I just knew that wasn’t right…”
Don
stood back a ways puffing on a cigarette. He watched the widow
Wilson
hands waving in the breeze. He reckoned her carrying on was like a cow wearing
a cowbell. At first the bell’s clang, clang is sharp and clear, but after a
while you don’t even hear it ringing.
Two
of Claymore’s neighbors stand in the fringes to discuss UT’s win in last
Saturday’s football game. They speculate that the VOLS will stomp on
Arkansas
this Saturday. Don’s cigarette droops when he sees that Chief of Police
Morris, his right hand man, and a stranger are watching from the gravel road
that meanders through the cemetery.
**********
The
day after the funeral, Marge unlocks the door to the welding supply business.
Laying down yesterday’s Knoxville
News-Sentinel and a box of Krispy
Kremes, she goes to the coffee station to start a fresh pot. While waiting
for coffee to perk, she removes the sign from the inside of the front door. Hand
printed in large red letters, it said, Closed
due to untimely death of Mr. Claymore Hartford. She folds it twice to force it into her wastebasket.
Marge
is into Section B of the News-Sentinel
and on her second donut when Don walks in. She looks at Don over the top of her
glasses, “‘lo Don. Nice funeral, huh?”
“Yeah
it was, Marge.” He drops his briefcase in his office, pauses over an ashtray
long enough to light a fresh cigarette from the one he’s nearly finished, then
goes for his usual breakfast, a donut and a cup of coffee.
Marge
waits for Don to turn around, “Now that Claymore’s gone, I need that raise
more than ever, Don.”
“Damn
it, Marge, I don’t know what’s going to happen now. I may have to close this
place.” He escapes to his office, leaving Marge with mouth open and eyes as
big as the donut she’s about to bite into.
At
ten-twenty, Marge yells, “A Mr. Judd is on the line.”
“Hello,
Don Jorgensen here.”
“Mr.
Jorgensen, I’m Fennel Judd, adjuster for American Business Insurance out of
Knoxville
. We have received your call concerning Mr. Harford’s death. I’m sorry for
your loss.”
“Yes,
yes, Mr., er, Jude?”
“Judd,
sir. I would like to make an appointment to come see you as soon as
convenient.”
“Anytime,
anytime at all, Mr. Judd. Will you ahhh, well you understand, I don’t want to
be mercenary at a time like this, but ahh, will you be bringing the check with
you?”
“No
Mr. Jorgensen, we have to follow a procedure, but I assure you it’s not
involved. One thing we must have is a copy of Mr. Harford’s death
certificate.”
“Oh,
I can have that by this afternoon.”
“Fine,
I can be there by three. Will that be convenient?”
“Absolutely.
Do you know how to find my place?”
“Yes,
I’m familiar with
Kingston
. Bye, Mr. Jorgensen.”
Don
snuffs out his cigarette and tells Marge as he walks out the door, “I’ll be
back shortly.”
Driving
to the coroner’s office Don sings to himself, “You’re a fine feller,
Claymore. You’re going to solve all my problems, ha, ha. Hot damn!”
He
is frustrated to find that the coroner has not released the death certificate
because he hasn’t written the autopsy report. A girl at the counter assures
him that it will be finished soon. As he leaves the office, Don decides that
he’ll let Finell Judd come on as planned. Maybe he can impress upon him that
the sooner, the better.
**********
Finell
Judd walks in promptly at three. He is about twenty-five years old, erect,
wearing a business suit and tie, and is movie star neat. The crease in his
trousers could cause paper cuts and the reflection in his shoes look like tiny
lights. Don had been listening for the door to open so he came out to meet Judd
before Marge had a chance to say anything.
“Come
in, Mr. Judd. Come in my office.” Don kicks a box of welding rods over enough
to shut the door. He doesn’t figure this will be a conversation for Marge’s
big ears. He lifts a stack of catalogs out of a chair and dumps them on top of
another stack of catalogs in another chair. Several catalogs open up as they
avalanche to the floor. “Have a seat, Mr. Judd.”
Judd
is pleasant but looks around him with a curious expression, maybe looking for a
decent place to lay his new looking briefcase. He sits with care and the
contrast of his presence sparkles against the drab background.
Don
notices that Judd looks puzzled about something, but that isn’t his concern.
After years of selling welding supplies, he considers himself a connoisseur
extraordinaire when it comes to sizing up people. He sums up this Mr. Judd in
the time it takes to flick a cigarette. A young smart ass, fresh out of college,
shines like a new penny, but can’t grab his butt with both hands. No matter,
he’ll deal with him. “That damn coroner hasn’t released the death
certificate yet. They told me it’ll be ready soon.”
“That’s
all right, Mr. Jorgensen, you can mail it to me.” Judd opens his briefcase in
his lap. A photo of its contents would make a nice ad for briefcases, the kind
you see in slick office magazines. He retrieves an engraved business card from a
side pocket and hands it to Don.
“I’ll
send it by priority mail.”
“Regular
mail will be fine, Mr. Jorgensen. You see our investigation may take a week or
so anyway.”
Don
stiffens. “What investigation?”
“Well
sir, of course you understand that Mr. Harford didn’t die of natural
causes.”
“I
didn’t have a thing to do with his
death.”
“Oh,
I didn’t think you did, Mr. Jorgensen. It’s just routine, when a person dies
of unnatural causes, we must investigate all the circumstances.”
“Well
I’m sure you won’t find anything.” Don lights a fresh cigarette and
inhales deeply.
“I
don’t expect to Mr. Jorgensen.” Judd pulls out a legal pad, closes his
briefcase and uses the lid as a desk. He enters the case number, date, time, DON
& CLAYMORE’S WELDING SUPPLY, and Don’s full name.
Don
scowls.
“Now,
Mr. Jorgensen, how long were you and Mr. Harford partners?”
“Thirty-four
years come March.”
Don
answers several more questions about the number of employees, and so on. At
every new question he impatiently flaps his elbows like a bird needing cool air
under its wings.
“Now,
Mr. Jorgensen, I must ask about your company’s finances. In general, do you
consider your business to be prosperous?”
“Hell
yes, we’re doing great. Well, of course you understand that competition is
tough in this racket. Now days, shops can go to Home Depot and get stuff cheaper
than we can buy it wholesale.”
“I
see. Would you grant one of our Accountants permission to review your books?”
“What’s
that got to do with insurance? I don’t understand the books myself. That was
Claymore’s job.” Don thinks, this young whipper-snapper suspects there’s
something shady going on here. I may have to trim his horns.
“It’s
just that we have to cover all the bases. Do you have an accountant?”
“Marge
helped Claymore take care of all our paper work.”
“Is
Marge the lady sitting out front?”
“You
got the picture, Mr. Judd. You can talk to her, we’re not hiding anything.” Ha,
Don thinks. Marge’s books will stop them dead in their tracks. Even Claymore
couldn’t figure out her stuff. He blows a victory smoke-ring toward the
ceiling.
“Can
you estimate how much outstanding debt that the partnership owes?”
Don
puts his fists on his desk and leans forward. “What’s going on here? You
think I had something to do with Claymore’s death, don’t you? Well, I’m
innocent as a virgin in June.” He relaxes a bit and pushes his lower jaw out.
“Claymore was depressed, that’s all. He couldn’t get over the death of
Denise, his wife. He’s been brooding for months. Ask Marge, she’ll tell
you.” For a green yuppie, Judd didn’t seem as impressed with Don’s
outburst as he should have been. Maybe he’d dealt with forceful characters
before.
Don
and Judd gaze at each other for several seconds until Don diverts his attention
to his desktop. He drums the fingers of both hands and his eyes dart from item
to item as though he’s looking for his lighter or something.
Judd
says, “Perhaps that will be enough for now. I’ll ask Marge a few questions
since you have so kindly granted me permission.” He gets up and extends his
hand to Don, but Don declines to shake it. “You’ve been most helpful, Mr.
Jorgensen.” Judd carries his briefcase flat with the legal pad on top and
leaves to talk to Marge. He shuts the door as he goes.
Don
flings his cigarette toward the ashtray and it bounces out on some papers. He
pounces on the butt with his left hand and slaps the papers with his right hand
to make sure they aren’t ignited. He looks at the bent butt in his hand and
plugs it back into sullen lips and starts searching for his lighter.
**********
For
the next two days Don feels he is on an emotional tight wire holding a
celebration in one hand and despair in the other. At any instant celebration
could tip him into everlasting joy and happiness, or despair could prevail and
plunge him into fire and brimstone. Several times he finds himself about to
light a fresh cigarette while the last one still dangles from his lip. Will joy
and happiness ever be possible as long as he’s seeing Claymore’s awful face
looking at him everywhere he turns? He sees him in the mirror when he shaves,
his image rises out of his cereal bowl at supper time, and he’s even seen him
in the toilet bowl when he pees.
Don
is desperate to talk to someone. Why, he doesn’t know. Is it a selfish need to
share his secret burden with another person, or some ghoulish need to boast of
his cleverness? Whatever the reason, there is no one to confide in. Claymore was
the only person he could ever talk to. Well anyway, he could before Claymore
went berserk after Denise died. They never agreed on anything, but Claymore was
always there to listen to him. Good old Claymore, that dumb knocker.
Don
dreads the nights. They seem to last forever. Sleep is just something he did BC,
Before Claymore. One night he has the impulse to go outside and
run down the middle of the street yelling, “Look at me! I did it! I’m
guilty! It was me!” Maybe he can pick a time when no one will hear him. Get a
grip, Don. You don’t have the wind to get to the end of the driveway, much
less run and yell at the same time. He sits on the side of the bed and muses,
life is so damn unfair.
**********
Marge
yells to Don, “Judd on the phone.”
Don’s
chest collapses as if pricked by a pin. He gives the phone a mean look before
picking up the receiver saying with a sigh, “Yeah, Judd.”
“You
did it, didn’t you Mr. Jorgensen?”
Don’s
jaw drops. While trying to catch his cigarette, he bats it to one side and it
falls to what could be called a carpet, archeologically speaking. Don whispers,
“Did it?”
There
is a blood freezing delay before Judd continues, “You did tell me that you’d
mail Mr. Hartford’s death certificate, didn’t you?”
Don
takes in a deep breath and his quivering lips drift toward a silly grin. “Oh,
I forgot, but I’ll check on what’s holding it up, Mr. Judd.” He stretches
his leg and stomps on the smoldering cigarette. There is no damage to the
carpet; it is just one more burn spot to match all the others.
“I
think a picture of what happened is taking shape, Mr. Jorgensen.”
“Picture?”
“Yes
sir, I just need to fill in a few gaps. According to the autopsy report…”
“How’d
you get the autopsy report?”
“Oh,
I’ve been working with Chief Morris.”
Don
is barely audible, “Morris?”
“Yes
sir. It seems that Mr. Hartford died on the night of November 10th.
Where were you on that night, Mr. Jorgensen?”
“You’re
trying to pin this on me, aren’t you? I’m innocent. You just want to weasel
out of paying the insurance.” Don summons an alert call to all cogs. He
can’t blurt out something stupid now. This jerk doesn’t know anything;
he’s just fishing.
“Not
at all, Mr. Jorgensen, just routine, we have to ask these questions.”
“If
you must know. I had a meeting with Floyd Butler at Sutter’s Forge in
Nashville
, and I spent the night at the Bluebird Motel, and I didn’t call Claymore and
ask him if he’d please hang himself.”
“Please
Mr. Jorgensen; I’m not saying you did. Now, do you remember other stops that
you made on that evening?”
“I
had a couple of beers at Charlie’s Bar. That’s on Franklin Pike. Be sure and
tell Charlie you think I murdered my best buddy. That’ll get me in solid with
Charlie and the boys.”
“Did
you make any stops the next morning?”
“I
stopped for a few minutes at Sutter’s Forge before I left for
Kingston
.”
“Anywhere
else?”
“Damn,
you want to know when I went to the bathroom, don’t you? I had breakfast at
Naoma’s House of Pancakes. I eat there every time I go to
Nashville
. You can ask a waitress there, it’s Rose, or something or other. I forget
what her name is. I just call her Darlin’.”
“Just
one more question. You drive a company car don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Will
you let me go over your mileage book?”
“I
haven’t entered anything in that in five years. I’m not even sure where it
is. All car expenses are paid with a credit card and that’s all the records we
keep. Can I go now? I’m a busy man you know?”
“Yes,
thank you Mr. Jorgensen, you’ve been most helpful. I’m sure we’ll have the
full picture soon. We’re working very hard on this case.”
“We?
Who are we?”
“Chief
Morris and myself. Have a good day, Mr. Jorgensen.”
Don
hangs up and cups his head in his hands. Smoke curls up from the cigarette stuck
to his lip. It’s a good thing I bought extra gas with cash, he won’t learn a
thing by checking credit card receipts. But he knows something. Strange that he
got the autopsy report but not the death certificate. I wonder where I slipped
up? It won’t be long now, I guess.
**********
The
next morning as Don enters DON & CLAYMORE’S WELDING SUPPLY, Marge looks at
him with a curious expression. “Chief Morris just left.” She holds some
legal looking papers. “They had this warrant to search Claymore’s office.
They went through it with a fine tooth comb and took a box full of papers and
stuff. He said for you to come to the police station.”
Don’s
chest falls. Oooh me, they’ve figured it out. It’ll be a relief to have it
over with. He notices that Marge is staring at him with dumb written all over
her face. “Yeah, thanks Marge. It’ll be nothing, I’m sure.” He gets a
cup of coffee, but skips the donut this time. At his desk he holds his mug with
both hands to suppress nervous fidgeting and thinks about whether he’ll go
with denial, or blab his heart out.
Morris’
office is on the second floor and Don has to stop on the landing to get his
breath. He sees Morris talking to someone dressed in a suit. No doubt a
detective or the DA. Don flinches when he speculates they are on to something
concerning Claymore’s death.
Morris
turns around. “Hello, Mr. Jorgensen.” He excuses himself from the man in the
suit. “We’re through with the papers from Mr. Hartford’s office. We
didn’t find any suicide notes and just as you said, we haven’t found any
relatives of Mr. Harford. If you think that you have any claim to his house or
personal possessions you should contact your attorney.”
“Well,
uh, I wasn’t even thinking about that.” This thought kicks Don’s gears
into overdrive. Wow, Claymore’s house’ll bring plenty—his car is
better’n mine, too.
“I
advise you to talk to your attorney. He’ll help you, I’m sure.”
“What
happens to his property if I, uh, nobody claims it?” Pucker your ass, Don. It
won’t do to grin here.
“I
guess the state will get it, but the judge will decide that. If you’ll sign
for his papers, you can take them with you. I’m snowed under this morning so
excuse me, I have to get busy. Shirley’ll give you the box of papers.”
“Yeah,
yeah, sure. See you, Steve. Uh, have a good day, old buddy.”
Don
scribbles his name on a slip of paper, hands it to Shirley and picks up the box.
On the landing, he tries to suppress celebration but fails and a big grin
spreads from A-to-Gizzard. Home free, Steve doesn’t suspect me of a thing.
Driving
back to the office, Don talks aloud, “Claymore. I love you, Buddy. By damn,
you can count on me, old pal. I’ll die before I let the state take one penny
of our property. Ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha, ha,
ha… Ha, ha, ha…” Laughter is easy to start, but hard to stop.
**********
For
two days Don’s mood swings from glee to doom with the frequency of a cuckoo
clock’s pendulum. What’s going on, he wonders? If they are going to arrest
me, arrest me. If they’re not, then tell me. What’ll I do with all that
money? Will it go easier on me if I go to Steve and bare my soul? Should I tell
my attorney? Oh buddy, the first thing I’m going do is buy one of them Lexus
cars. Claymore was well liked. Will everybody in
Kingston
spit in my face when they find out I done it? I can’t wait to see Judd’s
face when he has to hand me that check. Ha,
ha.
Don
stops at the foot of the stairs going to his bedroom. They seem more like
climbing a mountain every night. Upstairs, he takes off his shirt and pants and
throws them over the back of a chair. This reduces him to his usual nighttime
attire of socks, T-shirt, and baggy jocks. He articulates his way down a path
strewn with magazines, dirty clothes, and beer cans. The path ends at a rumpled
bed where clean sheets are an ancient memory. Sitting on the side of the bed he
pinches the gummy toes of his socks, pulls them off, and flings them. He leans
back against two pillows and blows smoke rings.
Exhaustion
overtakes him after three cigarettes. He lays flat on his back and succumbs to
fitful sleep.
“Donnn.”
Don’s
arms shadowbox in slow motion and his lips move as if talking.
“D-o-n-n-n-n.”
Don
bolts upright in his bed. In the darkness he can see Claymore’s gaunt frame
floating about two feet above the floor. “Claymore! Is that you? Say
something, Claymore. Oh God, I’m so sorry Claymore.” His eyes focus
better and he can see that Claymore is only an old bathrobe that is hanging on
the front edge of the door. It was just a dream. Don twirls face down and
collapses into uncontrollable sobs. There’ll be no more sleep for Don this
night, only guilt, regrets—and cigarettes, of course.
Just
as there was no sleep at night, there is no elation in
Kingston
come morning. Don knows now what he’ll have to do. He can’t live with
guilt, that unseen force that mercilessly grinds a man into powder. His perfect
plan never anticipated guilt, remorse, embarrassment, humiliation, nausea,
paranoia, and a few other things that he can’t put his finger on right now.
Confession is the only possible relief in sight. He must go to Steve Morris and
hold out his wrists for the cuffs. Throw his worthless soul on the mercy of the
people.
Driving
to town, it occurs to Don that he’s being hasty. Steve doesn’t suspect
anything. Maybe Judd is bluffing. What if no one ever suspects his guilt? No,
forget it; He still can’t live with the guilt. He’ll never have a moment’s
peace. This is the only way. You’re a sad sack, Donald Jorgensen. Furious
puffing fills the car with smoke.
The
police building and courthouse are adjacent and use the same parking lot. The
lot is almost full. He didn’t know that this is court day. Occupying one of
the last spaces, he turns off the ignition. He gets out and stands beside his
car, about three heartbeats from the police building. He needs a few more puffs
to bolster his courage.
A
commotion occurs on the steps of the police building. A rifle-toting policeman
is escorting two men in bright yellow coveralls. No doubt the men are going to
the courthouse for trial. Both men are negotiating the steps with care because
their ankles are shackled with chains. Their wrists are shackled also. The older
prisoner is spindly with a question mark posture. He has a leather complexion,
bushy eyebrows, and a menacing face. Don can almost see tattoos through his
coveralls. The young rotund prisoner has steel-girder arms and a whale-sized
belly sitting on pylons for legs. He will snap those chains just by flexing his
muscles if his trial doesn’t go to suit him.
God
a’mighty! Don wants to remain strong, but his courage melts away like ice in
boiling water. He’ll have to live with guys like that? And wear yellow
coveralls and leg chains everywhere? He’d always be begging for cigarettes¾and
there’d be no beer? He slumps back against his car. A shudder shakes his
shoulders and his whole body feels cold except for his rear that is soaking up
heat from the warm engine. His cigarette falls from his lower lip and tumbles
down his pants to the pavement. When the full impact of the real world converges
on Don’s brain, he scrambles into his car with agility that he didn’t know
he possessed. He starts his car and drives out of the parking lot. Shaky fingers
squeeze a cigarette pack out of his shirt pocket. Three cigarettes spill to his
lap before he captures one. He jabs it in his mouth and sucks on it, forgetting
for the moment that cigarettes don’t come pre-lit.
While
waiting at a stoplight his lips mouth, “Daytime nightmares are as bad as
nighttime nightmares.” A melancholy tidal wave rolls over him. “I’ll never
confess, not ever. Claymore, we were partners in life, partners in death, and
now it looks like we’re partners forever.” The sound of a horn from an
impatient driver penetrates his consciousness like a poke in the ribs. His light
was green. Tires squeal as Don jackrabbits across the intersection. Just as
quickly, his speed levels off at 20 mph. He mustn’t attract attention to
himself.
Tires
squeal again as he abruptly wheels into the Rocky Top Mini-Mart. It’s a sight
the amount of beer and cigarettes murder miseries can consume. He'd better stock
up for the long haul.
Don
gasps as he turns the corner leading to his home¾a
police car is parked in his driveway. A plain car is parked at the curb. He
pulls in behind the police car and looks forlornly for a time at Police Chief
Steve Morris and a policeman standing on the porch. They have just knocked on
the front door and since the lock and latch were inoperable it swung open as if
they had commanded “Open Sesame.”
Finell
Judd is standing beside the police car. Don gets out of his car and ignores Judd
as he walks past him and asks, hesitatingly, “What’s up Steve?”
Steve
hands him a folded paper. “We have a warrant to search your home, Mr.
Jorgensen.”
“What
for? I’m innocent of everything.”
“We
just have to be thorough, sir.”
“Well,
uh, okay. Well, all right. You just make sure you guys don’t mess up anything
in there, you hear.”
As
Don starts to follow them in the house he glances back to see Judd looking in
the passenger’s window of his car. He wheels around and bounds down the steps.
His belly jostles up and down like a mound of Jello. “Hey you, Judd! Stay away
from my car, that’s none of your damn business.”
“I
was just looking in the window, Mr. Jorgensen, but the search warrant includes
your car, too. I’ll wait for Chief Morris to search it.”
Don
stands beside the hood on the driver’s side. “You won’t find anything;
you’ll just mess up all my stuff.” After a minute his shoulders sag, “Ah
go ahead and search it, Judd. You won’t find anything. I’m pure as the
driven snow. When are you going to get off my back?” His hand shakes as he
lights a cigarette while Judd thumbs through the papers in the passenger seat.
Apparently
Judd finds nothing of interest in the seat and using his pencil he sorts through
the assorted objects in the floor. There’s crumpled cigarette packs, candy
wrappers, cough drop boxes, beer cans, potato chip sacks, and then¾God-knows-what-else.
Don
watches intently as Judd backs out of the car, pulls a plastic bag from his
pocket and spreads it out on the hood.
Judd
returns to the assorted trash in the car and picks up one corner of a wadded
strip of paper. He lays it on top of the plastic bag and meticulously presses on
several points with his pencil until it is flat enough to read. Without raising
his head, he rolls his eyes up to look at Don.
Don’s
lips squirm rubber-like, but utter no sound.
Judd
eyes roll back down and he reads aloud, “Lowe’s, store number five-two-one,
Nashville, Tennessee, Hmm, November 9, 2001, Hemp rope, Type B, one-half inch,
nineteen feet, six dollars and eighteen cents.” He stops and again rolls his
eyes up. He frowns at Don.
Don
swallows hard and his lips part slightly. Cigarette smoke curls upward in front
of hangdog eyes.
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