He was freaking out and totally missing the point. It seemed cruel to ask him any more questions, so I let it go. “I know you weren’t stealing, Eddie,” I said. “Francy wants you to read the book. Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you, like, helping the police or something?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Just asking questions.” I glanced sideways and saw his face turn wooden.
“Questions are dangerous,” he said. “Sometimes, you get hurt.”
“Everyone keeps saying that,” I said, “but isn’t the truth worth getting hurt for?”
“I don’t know. Mostly, I think the truth is stupid. You can let me out here, Ms. Deacon. Thanks for the ride.”
I pulled over just outside the entrance to the Schreier’s driveway. Samson Schreier’s pickup was parked near the door and there was smoke coming from the chimney. Home sweet home. I watched Eddie unfold his gangly limbs from the cab. I liked the kid, but there was definitely something amiss in Jesusland. I hoped that he would be able to cope with it, whatever it was. He was too old to hope for Children’s Aid protection. I swallowed hard. When an adult suspects child abuse, what do we do when the kid is out of the jurisdiction of the act? Pray?
I headed back out to the highway, digging Francy’s grocery list out of my front pocket. Here was something pro-active I could do to make the world a better place. I could help out my friend. I had a few things to buy for her, and I decided to pick up a bottle of brandy just in case Becker turned out to be interested in coming back up to my place for a nightcap later. Hope springs eternal, and all cops like brandy. I knew this was true: I had read it somewhere.
Nineteen
The shape of your skin,
The smell of your bones,
the sound of your hair when you’re
dancing alone…
—Shepherd’s Pie
The extremities of the puppet were finished. The head, hands and feet were complete, sculpted to resemble Mark Becker’s. I had molded a small pair of regulation police boots and I’d made one of the hands curl around thin air, ready for grasping weapons or food, like a G.I. Joe doll. The head, I have to admit, was dead on. Now I just had to make the body, and to do that correctly, I had to do some research.
In order for a marionette to work the way it is supposed to, the person building it must have a reasonable grasp of basic anatomy. If you make a knee joint the wrong way round, the finished puppet will walk funny. If you miscalculate the distance from shoulder to hand, your puppet’s knuckles will drag. But even the most anatomically correct puppet will remain lifeless until you give it character. Character comes from how the joints are fitted, which way a puppet leans when it walks. No human head is fastened squarely in the middle of the shoulders. If the head sprouts from a point close to the chest, the puppet will slouch. If you attach it towards the back, the puppet will strut. To get the character of the body right, I had no choice but to study the life-model, preferably in the nude.
I started to get ready for my date with a policeman by heating the water for a bath. While I waited, I picked up a stray lump of clay and started rolling it absently between my fingers. Five minutes later I had a perfect little puppet penis, testicles and all. Nothing monstrous. Just lovingly detailed. I felt shy for having made it, but I couldn’t destroy it, so I hid it in my stash box. Maybe later I could wire it up with the rest of the bits—just another moving part.
After my bath, which I had in the zinc tub in front of the fire, I ached with indecision about what to wear. Apart from the fact he was a cop, what did I know about him? Here I was planning to jump him and all I knew was his name and profession. How could I possibly jump him if I was wearing the wrong clothes?
I tried on everything I had, which took about four minutes, then I repeated the process a couple of times.
There were three ensembles to choose from. First, my “please, at least try to look respectable” outfit, a sober, black wool suit circa 1948, which had been my mother’s. It was perfect for weddings, funerals, and anything official which required a skirt. Outfit number two was for parties at which I wanted to look sleazy. I hadn’t worn it since Toronto. Narrow black jeans, a cropped, skin-tight tank-top and a jacket which was meant to be undone when it got too warm. Wearing it in Cedar Falls or Laingford would be reputational suicide.
Outfit number three was for meetings with people who wanted me to build puppets for them. It included a clean item from my shirt collection, a pair of trousers which weren’t stained and my city boots. I went with number three, but the shirt was silk and I accessorised, even. (My earrings and belt buckle were both silver.)
I don’t own any make-up, so it wasn’t an option, but if I’d had some it would have meant another half hour wrecking my complexion with three increasingly disastrous applications and three scrubbings off.
I put on chapstick, though.
I got down to George’s at seven and found a note on the door.
“Gone to the harvest dance at the Community Hall with your aunt. Join us? Will run past midnight.
George.
P.S. Night chores are done. Will be back tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? Aunt Susan and George were having a pyjama party? Oh God, if Aunt Susan married him and moved to the farm it would mean I’d have to go. My aunt was close enough in Laingford.
I let myself in and borrowed a shot of single malt scotch from George’s bottle of Glen Lach (clear your throat and mumble the next bit) Flanghlahlyn. I’d had a shock. I’d suspected that there was something up, but staying overnight? Was it wise? Or perhaps he would be sleeping on the couch. That was it. They’d stay up late playing cribbage and he’d fall asleep on the couch. Susan would cover him up with a blanket and make cocoa. Hah. No way. They were doing it.
Becker arrived in a black Jeep Cherokee. It was spit-polished and very big. Lug-nut stood on the porch, barking, and wouldn’t stop until I got in front of him and held his mouth shut. Becker stayed in the truck.
“Lug-nut, no. Friend. Hush.” I let go of his muzzle and he gave me a look straight out of a cartoon. I called to Becker.
“It’s okay. He just doesn’t recognize your vehicle.”
Becker got out and came over to where I held Lug-nut’s collar just in case. He was wearing designer casuals, expensive cowboy boots and that dizzying aftershave. I couldn’t help thinking that he must be making good money for a policeman. I mentally reviewed what I was wearing and thought about going back to change into the party outfit.
“Hey, Lug-nut,” Becker said, reaching out to the dog with a friendly hand. “We’re pals, remember?” Lug-nut sniffed his hand and relaxed, then wagged his tail, so I let go of his collar.
“I imagine, like me, he thinks you might be a different person, out of uniform,” I said.
Becker held out his hand again, this time to me. “Mark Anthony Becker, ma’am. I work for the government.”
“Pauline Deacon,” I said, taking it. “I work for food.”
I invited him in for a scotch, and he came, willingly.
I always kept another bottle of Glen-thing stashed up in the cabin and when the one at George’s got low, I switched them. George pretended it was his magic bottle. It was our own private Santa Claus game.
“Thanks,” Becker said, as I handed him one. “And where is your chaperone this evening, may I ask?”
“He’s with a lady at the harvest dance down in the village hall,” I said. “I thought we could