St. Albans Fire

Chapter 9

Gunther waited to return to the cutts house until long after the funeral, close to nightfall. He didn’t want to appear as people were still milling about as usual following a service, but he also didn’t want too much time to elapse before asking the family more questions.

He used another approach to the house than he had on the day of the fire. Then he’d come from the south, where the road curved around and delivered him abruptly to the dooryard. The northern reach, however, was entirely different. Cresting a hill not a half mile away, it afforded a view that would have been picture-perfect before the black hole of the burned barn ruined everything. From the rolling fields and clumped trees in the foreground, to the pristine white farmhouse and scattered outbuildings, and finally to the far-distant ski mountain crowning the horizon, it was all so emblematic of Vermont’s touted virtues as to moisten an adman’s eye.

But the cremated remnants of the barn were just as symbolic, as Joe was discovering-not just of the tragedy now crushing its owners but of the broader plights of family dysfunction and grinding economic struggle. If tourists driving by such sylvan centerpieces only knew, he thought, they wouldn’t see the rural life with such dewy-eyed romanticism.

He rode down the hill, pulled off the road, and got out of his car. Marie Cutts appeared at the farmhouse’s front door as if on cue.

“What do you want?” she called out to him, her voice sharp and unpleasant.

“Hi, Mrs. Cutts. Sorry to bother you. I just wanted to ask a few more questions.”

“We’ve done talking to you. You know what to do. Go out and do it.”

He approached the building, walking slowly. “That’s what we’re doing. We have quite a few people working on this, each one of us making sure every detail is covered.”

She glared at him suspiciously. “What’re you saying?”

He smiled slightly. “That my job is making sure I’ve asked all the right questions here.”

She wasn’t buying it. “The right questions? The ones you like the answers to, you mean. My son was slaughtered the same as all those cows, but I’m starting to hear that the police think one of us had something to do with it. What the hell were you thinking, coming to my son’s funeral?”

“I wanted to pay my respects…”

“That’s bullshit. I saw you talking to that whore afterward.”

Jeff Padgett appeared in the doorway behind her and placed his hands on her skinny shoulders. “It’s okay, Mom. Let him come in.”

She shrugged him off violently and pushed by him to leave, saying, “Don’t you tell me what to do. It’s not your place yet.”

Padgett looked at the ground briefly before he slowly straightened and forced a smile. “It’s been very tough on her.”

“I’m sure it’s been tough on you, too,” Gunther said, stepping onto the porch and remembering a similar exchange with Calvin.

“I loved him, but he wasn’t my son.”

“Good point.”

“Who would you like to talk to?” Jeff asked.

“Your wife, actually, if she’s up to it.”

Padgett nodded carefully. “I guess so. She seems a lot better. Got the wind back in her sails-better’n the rest of us.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Yeah,” he admitted wryly. “I’ve seen her do this before when times were tough. First she crashes, then she rallies like a trouper, charging around putting everything right.”

“And then she crashes again?” Joe surmised.

“Not always. I never know. Makes me nervous; we’ve never had anything hit us this bad before.” He paused. “She’s in the kitchen, you want to see her.”

“I do,” Joe said, “but first I was wondering, since you brought it up, what are you and Cal going to do now?”

“I don’t know,” he answered simply. “We’re meeting with the insurance people, then the bank. Guess we’ll know what we’re facing after that.”

Joe slipped by him across the threshold and patted his arm. “Well, good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Gunther walked through to the kitchen door, hoping Marie wouldn’t also be in attendance. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he saw only Linda, the two kids, and Calvin, who was sitting at the dining table reading the funnies to the little girl. Linda was showing her son how to load the dishwasher.

His quiet arrival allowed him to survey the scene unobserved, which, despite its domestic appearance, did strike him as Jeff had implied-a thing of infinite fragility. Cal reminded him of the haunting pictures of Lincoln shortly before his death. His appearance was ravaged by grief and sleeplessness, his eyes dark-rimmed and sunken, surrounded by careworn creases. His voice was soothing and quiet.

Linda, by contrast, was the epitome of brittle cheer, like a lightbulb whose filament was burning dangerously bright. She fussed about, instructing and teasing her son, her voice high-pitched and nervous, her hands fluttering like cornered birds, grasping plates and glasses, then lighting on the boy’s narrow back as she directed him.

As at the service, however, Joe was again struck by her beauty. Even now, dressed in an old flannel shirt and jeans, she was distractingly attractive-slim-hipped, athletic, and graceful, with shoulder-length, thick blond hair that always fell perfectly in place as she moved.

He cleared his throat, causing the four of them to look his way.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was just wondering if I could ask Mrs. Padgett a few questions, since we missed each other the first time.”

There was an awkward silence as father and daughter exchanged glances, using body language to determine how to handle the kids.

Cal finally rose and waved young Mike over to join him. “Why don’t we go up to the sugar house and see how Billy’s doing?”

It was the right suggestion. Both children grasped their grandfather’s hands and escorted him from the room, barraging him with eager questions.

With a sad cast to her face, Linda watched them leave. Afterward, she smiled weakly at Joe and pointed to a chair at the dining table. “Would you like some coffee? It’s fresh.”

He nodded as he sat. “That would be great. Thanks. I haven’t had the chance until now, I’m afraid, but I wanted to extend my condolences.”

She poured him a cup and brought it over to the table, sitting down opposite him. Facing her this close, he could see the exhaustion around her eyes and the slight pallor to her cheeks. This was a woman working hard to maintain her composure.

“Thank you,” she said. “I keep waiting for it to sink in. Right now it’s more like he’s just running late or something.”

“That’s pretty common.”

“I suppose you see this kind of thing a lot.”

“Often enough,” he admitted, before asking, “I heard Cal say that someone named Billy was at the sugar house. You going to do some sugaring, after all?”

“No. Billy St. Cyr volunteered to collect our sap and boil it down for us. He only wanted a percentage of the yield, so Dad said it was okay.”

“St. Cyr?” Joe questioned, recalling the big man at the funeral. “I thought they didn’t get along.”

She smiled faintly. “Guess that’s what tragedy will do. He came over this morning and offered to help. I’ve never seen him so sweet.”

Joe took a sip from his mug before commenting, “That’s what I hear about your brother-that he was a very sweet guy.”

She cupped her cheek in her hand, her elbow resting on the tabletop, and stared into middle space. “Yeah,” she said softly. “He was that.”

He matched her tone of voice. “What do you think happened?”

Slowly, she refocused on his face. “It was an accident.”

He waited for more, but she stayed silent, looking at him.

“How do you mean?”

“He wasn’t supposed to be in the barn. I mean, it’s not like he shouldn’t have been. Annie was going to calve, although not for a few days. But there was no reason for him to be there.” She scratched her forehead. “I guess I’m not making much sense.”

“No, you’re doing fine,” Joe reassured her. “Did he often visit the barn at night?”

“We all do now and then. It’s a peaceful place at night-not peaceful-quiet, mind-it’s actually pretty noisy. But peaceful in that you feel all alone on the face of the earth, just you and the cows. I used to think it felt like what Noah’s ark must’ve been. I’d stand at the window sometimes and imagine there was only water out there. I swear to God I could almost feel the floor rock under me a little, just like a ship.” She sighed. “Maybe that’s what he was feeling.”

Joe doubted it. He’d been caught in a fire, years ago, and it had been nothing like being on board a boat.

“Did he have reason to seek out a little thinking space?” he asked instead.

She looked at him more directly. “There’d been some trouble in his love life.”

“Marianne Kotch?”

She smiled slightly. “I heard you’d been asking around. Yeah. Mom wasn’t too keen on her. But then, that’s kind of her way.”

“Like when you and Jeff got together?”

“She wasn’t too thrilled then, either.”

“How did she react?”

Linda straightened and crossed her arms. “Angrily. She’s never liked Jeff.”

“Why?”

She glanced at the door, as if checking to see who might be listening. Her voice was barely audible when she spoke. “I think because he got in the way of Bobby.”

“As a sort of surrogate son?”

“Yeah-that’s a good way of putting it. The sad thing is that Bobby loved Jeff and was really happy when Dad said he’d give us the farm.”

“Bobby didn’t resent not getting it himself?”

She shook her head. “He was very happy being number two. Told us that straight-out when it happened, and I know he wasn’t lying.”

“Didn’t he like farming?”

“He loved it. It was his whole life, which is a good way to look at it if you’re going to do this. He just knew he had a lot to learn and that Jeff would be the perfect teacher, that’s all.”

“How ’bout you?” Joe asked suddenly, noticing how her phrasing became almost clinical at times.

She raised her eyebrows. “It’s all I’ve ever known.”

“But do you like it?”

“What’s not to like? It’s a good life.”

“The hours are brutal, the work’s tough and nonstop. I was born on a farm.”

She gave a laugh. “Well, then you know. I kept milking and haying the fields and stacking bales even after the kids arrived, just so I could see my husband other than late at night, when he’d come in smelling of cow manure and engine oil and fall asleep with a beer in his hand.”

Joe stared meditatively at his coffee, thinking back to his own father and how he, too, would come in exhausted every night, barely able to talk to his wife and two sons.

“I always wonder how women put up with it,” he mused.

“They don’t always,” she commented. “Even though more and more women are becoming farmers themselves.”

He looked up at her, studying her serious blue eyes. “Your mom seemed to be having a hard time even before Bobby died.”

Linda pursed her lips. “That goes way back,” she admitted. “Her father’s to blame.”

“How so?” he asked, remembering the story Calvin had told to him.

“You heard he was a drinker?”

He nodded.

“Well, that’s it in a nutshell. ‘He drank the farm and five generations’ worth of hard work.’ That’s how Mom puts it. She hated him for it, and maybe she hated the farm for pushing him too hard, ’cause she loved him, too.”

“And then she married a farmer?” Joe asked. “Risky move.”

“She didn’t feel she had a choice. For some of us, it’s all we know, till we wake up too late.”

“Does that include you?” he asked.

She smiled. “No. I married Jeff, and my dad’s nothing like my grandfather. My mother’s disappointments aren’t my own.”

“But you are in a pickle now,” he said. “What happens if this farm can’t recover?”

She held his gaze. “The farm may not, but we’ll recover. We’ll just do something else. Dad can retire. Jeff can get another job. IBM’s hiring all the time in Burlington. There’s no telling what the bank and the insurance company will say. Maybe something will work out.” She leaned forward again for emphasis. “The point is, it’s not what you’re doing so much as who you’re doing it with. As long as our family’s okay, we’ll be okay.”

He took one last sip of his coffee and stood up. “Well, it’s getting late. I ought to get out of your hair. I do thank you for talking with me. It helps to get as much background as possible.”

She stood up with him, in the process brushing against a corkboard hanging on the wall. He noticed, among the snapshots, children’s drawings, and assorted business cards, one from a Realtor named John Samuel Gregory, out of St. Albans.

He pointed at it, something tugging at his memory. “Quite the name.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “People like him come by all the time, especially these last few years. Flatlanders pay top dollar for farmland. I’ve heard some of them say it’s like getting back in touch with the land. They have no clue.”

“He offer to list the place?”

“We didn’t let him get that far. Do you think you’ll catch who did it?” she asked, circling the table.

“We’ll do everything we can,” he promised.

Linda escorted Joe out of the kitchen to the front door. “That’s not the same thing, is it?”

He reflected on that for a moment, wondering what to say. He preferred to be honest, although official training on the subject suggested a little bravado never hurt, especially when people were feeling vulnerable.

“We’ll catch him,” he finally said, for that split second believing it himself.

Perhaps not surprisingly, she didn’t break into applause. Instead, she studied him for a couple of seconds, reached out to touch his forearm lightly, and said, “I think you will do everything you can.”