It was a city, a small city, population well under a million, in the northwest corner of the Continental 48. Despite its bantamweight it had a shopping district, a financial zone, a harbor, a university, even a block of Latin Quarter with a couple of art galleries, a dusty musty used book shop, and a Dixieland jazz club. The amenities of a city with few of the drawbacks.
On the outskirts, in a modern brick apartment building surrounded by older two-story homes, around the corner from a busier street full of shops and bistros, lived a confirmed bachelor in a two-bedroom apartment on the third floor. He never left the building. Groceries were delivered. He took the elevator to the first floor for his mail.
On the first floor there was a florist shop on one side, and a drugstore on the other, both accessible from inside the building. The man could send flowers on special occasions to his widowed mother. And he could purchase a bottle of aspirin or Alka-Seltzer.
He was a member of the Book of the Month Club, and had subscriptions to several popular magazines including National Geographic and U.S. News & World Report. So, the world came to him, there was no pressing reason to leave. After Korea, he lost a will to be out and about. Agoraphobia. Fresh air? Open a window.
Sometimes, on a rainy night, say, Walt Considine wonders what it would be like to step outside, to stroll to Pacific Avenue, to see the neon signs of drugstores and pizzerias dazzling on the big black mirror of wet pavement, to inhale the rain-cleansed atmosphere, to smell the damp evaporating from the hot macadam, to be among the living: a lady walking her dog, a businessman dropping a letter into a mailbox, teens on a date. To see his reflection staring back at him from the plate glass window of a haberdashery would be oneiric, a thrill. But he couldn't bring himself to it, an invisible hand held him back, kept him in his building. Instead, hands in pockets, he'd stare out the picture window, with eyes as gray as the Northwest sky.
He wasn't shell-shocked from combat. On the contrary, he'd manned a desk, was never near conflict. That said, he was a fine soldier, attained rank of corporal, honorable discharge. But military life snuffed something within him.
Walt didn't fret about it. He knew he was out of step with the world. So be it. He had friends, just a few, but good ones. And after his father's death, Walt was of independent means.
Across the hall from him lived a younger couple, Roger and Jean Rother, both employed by the local university press; Jean a proofreader and Roger the boy wonder editor-in-chief. They were splendid company.
Walt and Roger had a standing chess game. After a dinner, Jean would retire to the kitchen to clean the dishes, then to bed to read, while Walt and Roger concentrated on the chessboard, puffing pipes and occasionally conversing, commenting on a world situation or a local teapot tempest while sipping port.
In the den, the chess matches, played an hour or three at a stretch, could carry on for months.
Roger had his thumb and index finger on a knight, but hadn't lifted it off the board. Eventually he released his grip and considered more. He took a moment to relight his pipe, placed the used match in the large ceramic ashtray, leaned back and said, "As you may recall, before college, I had a stint in the air force."
Walt certainly did recall. And he knew that upon exiting the young lieutenant took an English degree from State, followed by a couple of years with the CIA, desk job.
Walt wasn't a jealous sort, but he felt a twinge of something approaching envy for the life Roger had led. USAF, CIA, and now happily married to a bright and attractive brunette, both with good jobs, a future. Young moderns ascending.
Time. Sooner or later, they'll have kids. Might put a damper on dinners. And chess. The board would have to be put in a secure place, inaccessible to a child, between rounds.
Toby left the pharmacy and made a beeline to the realtor. Having a specific mission, to look at houses, would focus his thoughts, pinpoint them, on something other than being guilty of manslaughter. At the realtor, he introduced himself to the receptionist and was led to a Mr. John Dando. In short order, they were in Mr. Dando's shiny new Buick and looking at a few properties, one of which Mr. Dando was certain would appeal to Toby.
As fate would have it, one, the best of the lot, a handsome Cape with a two-car attached garage was on Parchman Rd., about a half-mile from the Wrung cottage.
The house was a perfect fit for Toby, something with enough space that he could grow into it, but not so big as to be overwhelming.
But so close to the scene of the crime? Is this wise?
Wise or crazy, "It's as if God is telling me something. And I love the color, coffee ice cream, my favorite flavor. That's an omen."
Back in the office of Garrisonville Realty, Toby signed papers and wrote out a check. He'd have the weekend to move his few things from the motel, and even do some furniture shopping at the Garrisonville Sears Roebuck. And with a two-car garage, maybe on Saturday, he could buy a second car? Nothing too expensive, but a fun car. The Dart for day-to-day, a sports car for weekends.
At Sears, Toby spent an hour of early Saturday selecting living room, bedroom, and dining room sets, plus a stereo, a TV, and an AM-FM radio. And while he was at it, a few LPs, starting a record collection over again, from scratch: Bernstein, Brubeck and a few Broadway musicals. Oh! And a Brothers Four! "Bob Bradshaw would, no doubt, sneer at my middle-class middle-brow taste. Who cares! I'm a free man in Garrisonville!" Still he could hear Bob, "Bourgeois, hopelessly bourgeois. Give him a choice between Norman Mailer and Sloane Wilson and he'll pick... I shudder!"
Furniture was loaded onto a truck, and Toby led the way, albums on the seat next to him. At the house, for an extra fee, moving men got everything out of boxes and in place. It wasn't even noon yet! He drove to his motel, returned his key and gave his forwarding address, then cleared out his belongings and left a generous tip. On the way home, he thought to stop for plates, glasses, cups, a coffee maker.
Mid-afternoon found him grocery shopping. He'd make dinner at home tonight! He was so involved with jump-starting a new life he hardly had time to think before he sat down in his new living room and turned on the TV, just in time for the six o'clock news. To his astonishment he learned that Richard Wrung was alive and making good progress, doctors expected him to return home next week. The newscaster alluded to an obviously false rumor that had circulated, and sniffed at the imprudence of hearsay.
A wave of relaxation swept over Toby, drawing him down into soothing turquoise waters. The sea was warm, the sea was cool, the sea was what the doctor ordered. It was like being in love.
That night he tuned the bedside radio to mood music, the very sort of "cream cheese" Bob Bradshaw would sniff at. In due course, a vivid dream took control of Toby, baffling him. He was at a supermarket, pushing his cart. All the products had a coffee theme. A box of Brillo looked like Chase & Sanborn, a can of Barbasol had Chock full o’Nuts graphics, a box of Wheaties was dressed up as Maxwell House. Confused, he looked around only to see other shoppers, contentedly pushing their carts with one hand, a mug of java in the other.
A lady said to him, "Where's your coffee? If you're too poor to afford a cup, you shouldn't be here. This isn't a soup kitchen, you know!" She wheeled away, muttering, "Some people's kids!"
He woke at dawn, refreshed, and made a pot of, well, coffee. He showered and shaved, dressed, and after a breakfast of bacon and eggs, and more coffee, he stepped out the front door of his new home and, moth to a flame, couldn't help but feel himself drawn in the direction of the Wrung bungalow. Sun barely up, at an angle blinding, Toby stepped a few steps just as a Karmann Ghia pulled into the driveway. Stunned, he didn't even have a moment to collect his thoughts before the driver's door opened and out popped the honey-blonde, Kathy, she bounding toward him like a go-go dancer. "Tiger! I've been searching for you!"
And just like that, Toby forgot all about Isabel Wrung and all the children they were to have. In his mind, he jotted down a poem, committed it to memory:
Dorothy McGuire,
1954, set to squire,
sleek summer suit,
beaming gold, New Mexico
sunset, stone's toss
to Navajo burial site.
1949 Ford,
top down, engine running,
radio on,
awaits.
Then he caught himself. He must put away childish things. Impulsive behavior must be verboten. Time to be a man, an actual man. Foolishness is a direct line to misery. Kathy was barely legal. And beyond that, immature for her scant years. Send her on her way. Gently. And for that matter, he surmised, "I'm not worthy of Isabel. I'm an idiot. I'll do what I can to be a good neighbor to them, maybe even send them money anonymously. But I've caused them more than enough trouble. In fact, maybe best for me to simply be alone for the rest of my days."
Then he walked to greet Kathy, cleared his throat and said what he had to say. Gently.