Far From True

Four

“That was delicious, Celeste,” I said. “Thanks again.”

“You know you’re welcome here anytime,” my sister said across the kitchen table to me. “You want some of the tortellini to take home with you? There’s tons of it. I can put it in a container.”

“That’s okay.”

“I know you’re tired of hearing it, but you know you’re more than welcome to stay here. We’ve got two spare rooms.” She glanced to her right at Dwayne. “Isn’t that right?”

Dwayne Rogers turned to me and said, without emotion, “Of course. We’d love to have you.”

I raised a hand in protest. I didn’t want to live here any more than Dwayne wanted me to.

“No, hear me out, Cal,” Celeste said. “I’m not saying you have to live here forever. Just until you find a place to live.”

“I have a place to live,” I reminded her. Celeste was two years older than me, and had always seen me as her baby brother, even though we were both now in our forties.

“Oh, please,” she said. “A room over a used-book store. That’s not a home.”

“It’s all I need.”

“He says it’s all he needs,” Dwayne told his wife.

She ignored him. “It’s a room — that’s all it is. You need a proper house. You used to live in a proper house.”

I smiled weakly. “I don’t need a big empty house. I’ve got all the space I need.”

“I just think,” Celeste continued, “that living in that miserable space is holding you back.”

“Jesus, let it go,” Dwayne said, pushing back his chair and going back to the fridge for his fifth beer, not that I was counting. “If he’s happy living where he is, then leave him be.”

“This has nothing to do with you,” Celeste told him.

“Cal’s doing just fine,” he said. “Aren’t you fine?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Dwayne just nailed it.”

He twisted the cap off the beer, drew hard on it. “I’m gonna get some air,” he said.

“You do that,” Celeste said, and looked relieved once her husband was gone. “He can be such an asshole.” She smiled. “He’s my husband, so I can say that.”

I forced a grin. “He’s okay.”

“He doesn’t get it. He thinks people should just suck it up, no matter what. Except, of course, when it’s something that’s happened to him.”

“Maybe he’s right. People have to move on.”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “If it had happened to someone else, if you knew someone whose wife and son had both been, you know...”

“Murdered,” I said.

“Right. Is that what you’d tell them? Just get over it?”

“No,” I said. “But I wouldn’t hound them, either.”

I knew it was a poor choice of words the moment I’d uttered them.

“Is that what I’m doing?” Celeste asked. “Hounding you?”

“No,” I said quickly. I reached across the table and took her hand in mine, aware of the absurdity of the moment. Here I was, comforting her over my reluctance to let her comfort me. “That came out wrong.”

“I’m sorry if that’s what I’m doing,” she said. “I just think that if you don’t deal with these things, if you don’t give a voice to your feelings, you’ll make yourself sick.”

I wondered when Celeste would get around to doing that with Dwayne. Dealing with him, giving a voice to her feelings.

“I appreciate your concern. I do. But I’m fine. I’m moving forward.” I paused. “I don’t see as I’ve got much choice. I’ve got work here. I’m getting referrals.”

To prove the point, I’d given my sister one of my new business cards. The words Cal Weaver: Private Investigations in black, raised type. A cell phone number. Even a Web site and an e-mail address. Maybe one of these days, I’d even be on Twitter.

“I worry about you in that apartment,” she said.

“I like it there. The guy who runs the bookshop, who owns the building, is a decent landlord, and he’s got a good selection of stuff to read, too. I’m good.” I figured if I said it enough, I might even believe it.

“It was smart, you moving back here from Griffon. After... you know.”

Celeste wanted me to face what happened, but could never bring herself to say what that actually was. My son, Scott, had been tossed off the top of a building, and my wife, Donna, had been shot. The people responsible for their deaths were either dead or serving time.

“Couldn’t stay there,” I said. “Augie had the good sense to leave, too. They’re down in Florida.” Donna’s brother, Augustus, the chief of police in Griffon, had taken an early retirement and, along with his wife, headed for warmer climes.

“You keep in touch?”

“No,” I said. After a few seconds, I nodded my head in the direction of the front door and asked, “How’s he doing?”

Celeste forced a smile. “He’s just out of sorts.”

“You guys okay?”

“He’s not getting so much work from the town.” Dwayne had a paving business. “They’re cutting back. Figure unless a pothole’s big enough to swallow up a car whole, they don’t have to fill it. Ninety percent of Dwayne’s business is with Promise Falls. The town’s always contracted out road repair. They’re just letting things go to shit — at least that’s the way it looks to me. I heard that Finley guy is gonna run for mayor again. He might be able to set things straight.”

I didn’t know much about him, except that his previous stint in the position had ended badly. We’d been living in Griffon when all that happened.

“Things’ll pick up for Dwayne,” I said, because it seemed like the thing to say. Maybe this was why Celeste wanted me to bunk in with them. She knew I’d insist on paying room and board. But I couldn’t live here, not under this roof. Not with my controlling sister and her moody, beer-guzzling husband. It didn’t mean I couldn’t help, however.

“You short?” I asked. “If you need some money, just something to get you—”

“No,” Celeste said. “I couldn’t accept that.” But she protested no further, and I wondered whether she was waiting for me to insist.

Next time.

I got up, gave Celeste a peck on the cheek and half a hug. On my way through the living room, I heard sirens.

As I came out the front door, the last in what looked like a convoy of half a dozen ambulances went screaming up the street. Dwayne was standing at the porch railing, beer in hand, watching the vehicles tear past, with a wry grin on his face.

“There’s always work for those bastards,” he said. “You don’t see the town layin’ them off, do ya?”