Poor Vic was at least fifty pounds overweight, and except for his weak chin, had not inherited any of his father’s physical characteristics, or his father’s mental acuity. She would catch Vic staring at her breasts, or at her butt when he could, but she only felt sorry for him. He did not have the predatory nature that his father and brother had in abundance. Vic was a weak man.
As she prepared their dinner, none of them spoke about the events of the morning, and Jennifer didn’t ask about the police cruiser or the other vehicles that had passed by the house. No one offered to bring her into the conversation. As Jennifer pulled the bread from the cupboard and began making sandwiches, the three men discussed Michael’s odds at the upcoming wine contests and his plans for a wine show in Michigan. Anthony and Michael chuckled with each other; Vic did not say much at all. Compared to his father and brother, he looked grim, shaken. His light-blue golf shirt was stained dark below his armpits; his eyes were red. Despite his tan, he looked pale. He would not look Jennifer in the eye, and when she walked by, he did not make a point of staring at her breasts, as he usually did.
Across from Vic, there was the empty chair, where none of the men ever sat. Antonio’s chair. He had passed away almost three years ago. Jennifer missed Antonio. Of all Michael’s family, it was only his grandfather that Jennifer had ever bonded with. He had been the heart and soul of the family. Widowed for five years, he had given Michael and Jennifer his home as a wedding present. He had planned to move himself into a retirement home, but Jennifer had insisted he stay with them. He had lived with them for two years before he too had fallen ill. She missed him a lot.
“Busy day?” Jennifer asked.
“A bit,” said Michael.
“Are you in town long?” she asked Vic.
“Just for the rest of the day,” Michael answered for his brother.
Vic didn’t look up. “He’s got to be heading back to Toronto.”
“Does she know?” she heard Vic whisper. Then, “You should tell her.”
Jennifer turned to her husband and saw a momentary uncertainty pass across his face. When his eyes met hers, it was gone.
“She already knows,” he said.
“It’s Anna,” she said.
“Yes,” said her husband. His father and brother stared at their plates.
“They found her,” she said.
“She’s dead.”
“But how…”
“Don’t worry yourself with that,” he said. “Dead is dead.”
“But she eloped…”
“She’s gone, Ginny. You’ve been trying to convince me for days that she died. And I’m sorry to say you were right all along.”
“But someone killed her!”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But it’s true. Do they know who did it?”
“Ginny.”
His practiced stern tone silenced her. Jennifer pulled the tea towel between her fists, fighting back the tears. She watched the men slowly returned their forks to their plates, tapping steady rhythms on the floral stoneware. The silence of the kitchen resonated with the sounds of their chewing, dry swallows of food, and slow measured breaths.
Jennifer retreated to the living room. She sat at the piano bench for a half hour, listening to the murmur of their words until she heard the men rise from the table, followed by the sound of the screen door gently closing by the effect of Michael’s firm hand.
Jennifer went to the window, looking towards the loading dock, hoping in vain to catch a sight of Ben. As tears filled her eyes, running down her face, she knew only one thing now. She needed Ben to finally take her away from here.
Scotty Doherty wore two silver hoops on his left ear, eight on his right, and long pork chop side burns. On his left shoulder he had a tattoo of a hawk, but only the talons were visible beneath the sleeve of his beige t-shirt. On his right arm he had a tattooed ring of barbed wire.
Scotty kicked down on the brake of his faded blue Camry and cranked his steering wheel around as the tires dug into the loose gravel, stopping six feet in front of Ben Taylor. He turned to face Taylor and folded both arms on the ledge of his open window.
“Hey!” he called to Taylor. “Where you been all day?”
Taylor stopped, thumbs in his front pockets, and raised his eyebrows quizzically.
“Ohhh, I’m just yankin’ ya,” said Scotty. “Where you off to, all on your lonesome?”
“Off to get some dinner,” Taylor said with unconcealed irritation.
He was annoyed that the day had ended so early. It was only seven o’clock. Eleven hours without a cigarette had slit open and exposed every nerve.
“Straight up. Wanna ride?”
Taylor walked behind the Camry and, once Scotty remembered to unlock it, opened the passenger door. Metal ground against metal near the hinges as he forced the door closed.
“Where were you today?” Taylor asked.
“Hiding from that pig,” Scotty laughed. He pursed his lips and added needlessly, “Caines really busts my ass.”
Taylor buckled up and rolled down the window. Scotty spun his steering wheel round and kicked down on the gas pedal, wheels pulling up gravel. Once he passed the Voracci house and approached the end of the laneway, Scotty turned up the radio. Tom Petty was “Running Down a Dream” at top volume.
The old Camry had seen better days. Specks of rust elbowed their way through the dust on the blue paint. Exhaust escaped through the holes in the muffler. Inside, the car smelled of tobacco, grease and sweat. Crumpled Burger King bags and empty cans of Coke littered the passenger’s side of the floor. A faded paper pine tree swung impotently from the rearview mirror. Yet the black vinyl seats, dashboard and steering wheel had been treated with Armor All religiously once a month for the last two years. This was Scotty’s home and his only refuge through the busy season. It was the place he lived, ate and slept when he worked sixteen to eighteen hours a day from June to October.
“That fat slob Caines really screwed up my day,” Scotty said as he approached the highway. He turned the wheel and directed the car towards town. “I’ll tell ya, I thought I’d never get out of there.”
“Could be worse.” Taylor slid back in his seat and looked across through the driver’s side window at the steady line of trees bordering the road.
“Oh, yeah!” Scotty turned his head to Taylor with a sudden grim realization. “Did you hear they found Anna? Just fucking awful.”
“I know.”
“I found out just after lunch. Maria was crying at the picnic table and told me. Just awful. When did you find out?”
“When Juan and I found her this morning.”
“This morning?” Scotty did a double-take, trying to keep his eyes on the road. “That was you? I thought it was Juan and Michael Voracci. That’s fucking awful. I’m so glad I wasn’t there.” He whistled, loud and piercing. “I