You Will Be Safe Here

Like This?

Like This?I am, if you will forgive the cliché, what is known as a bit of an odd duck. That is if by “odd duck” one means “educated sleuth.” To be sure, I have achieved my fair share of peccadilloes; to wit: the incident with the aquatic waterfowl when I was five, the unfortunate fascination with that actress at age twelve, nearly every day of my second senior year in high school, and finally, an episode I refer to as “The Mortification Beneath the Train Bridge.” However, none of these should be held against me. The world is filled with brilliant, if difficult, men. Walter Bishop. C. Auguste Dupin. Hercule Poirot. Not that I, poor little Jefferson Jefferson from Fredericksburg, VA, ever aspired to be placed among such august company as Auguste et al, but would that I could! But of course I realize that those men are fictional, and . . . yes, yes, it is perfectly rational to draw a rather negative conclu . . . but that is precisely the point to which I aim! Should I have a moment to straighten the rudder, then perhaps we shall thread the channel?

So. My point. My point.

Ah yes.

You see, I was most certainly not acquainted with the four uniformed officers traipsing in and out of the house on Hawke Street that morning. I was acquainted with other uniformed officers, granted, but not as well acquainted as I was with the detective standing just within the door. His name was Davis, and he was my cousin. Yes, we shared the same last name, and yes I am aware of its implications, but you may have my utmost assurances that Davis was not the least concerned with history or politics. He was not a member of any white-sheeted group. He did not attend reenactments. He did not subscribe to the bizarre notion of the southern states somehow salvaging the chimaeras of its erstwhile militaristic vigor. The south was as strong as ever, in Davis’ humble opine, thank you very much, and to contradict such a notion was to be guilty of heresy. Or something like that. To be honest, I do not think Davis thought a whit about the south, the Cause, its position in the world. He was a detective. And as such, he had criminals to detect.

Recently, however, the dragging economy led to a certain amount of uncertainty among the public servant set, and with sequestration and austerity measures and the Cypriots rioting and what not, Davis’ department had already eradicated its community outreach programs, (not to mention its long ridiculed cavalry), and there was frequent fervor of furlough and firings and further financial flap. Perhaps, I thought, my cousin might need to prove his mettle beyond his usual competence, beyond his usual skill and aptitude and expertise, and who better to aid him in just such an endeavor than his erstwhile incommodious cousin? I, in other words, wanted to . . . help? Is that the word I’m looking for? Well, if not, it will do for now.

Davis had always been handsome, yes, and even now, even in his advancing years, he retained the square jaw and evenly proportioned features humans find so attractive. The golden ratio, what. Though his frame was still trim, still demonstrative of a lifetime’s effort on the pitch or diamond or court or wherever it was the good man spent forty-three years spiriting ball or birdie or what-have-you into some narrow orifice or other, did I detect a burgeoning paunch at his midsection? A certain fleshiness to his chin? A pronounced recession of hairline? We all grow old, do we not? Even former high school sport stars. And I, for one . . . no, there is not a hint of that particular emotion in my voice, and besides, green does not wear well on me.

To his credit, when he did finally notice me standing there across the street, Davis did not scream or yell or pitch a fit. He is—was—a professional, after all. No no, he didn’t entirely ignore me per se (Mama Dee would have descended into a state of drooling convulsion had he executed such a common pedestrianism), but he did proceed with his duties for a time until he finally disposed himself to pull away for a moment to parlay with a beloved, if long absent, cousin.

I declared his name as he crossed the street, a respectful, if familiar, Ah, Davis.

I noticed his chosen attire was not nearly as natty as I expected. He was a public servant, I suppose, but gracious me, could they not afford to pay him just a parcel more, enough to, perhaps, invest in some quality footwear? His sport coat, while immaculate, was certainly straight off the rack, and the thread count on his cotton shirt must have numbered in the ones. Tsk tsk, FPD. Tsk tsk.

I, for one, picked my ensemble with an eye to impress. My shirt? Ralph Lauren. Thread count, 80. Pants: Armani. 100. Shoes: A. Testoni Norvegese. I accessorized as well. I bought a new Samsung Galaxy.

Nonetheless, after putting the final flourishes on my morning’s blog, I informed my dear cousin how good it was to see him again, how wonderful, how spectacular.

Davis cringed.

“Jefferson, what are you doing here? And where did you get the money to buy that phone?”

I informed my cousin that, although yes I’d been recently let go, rough economy, sequester cuts and layoffs et cetera, ad infinitum, he needn’t worry about my financial situation. Davis, however, did not seem to enjoy this particular response. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Does Mama Dee know you’re here?”

Of course she did. And may I ask, dear cousin, the nature of his day’s work? Was it a kidnapping? A rape? Child abuse, s*x scandal, suicide, domestic strife, drug bust, meth lab, burglary, car jacking, terrorism, serial—

“Murder, Jefferson, okay? Two college kids were murdered.”

Oh dear. Poor young ladies.

“How did you know they were girls, Jeff?”

Please, Davis dear, it’s Jefferson.

“Jefferson! How did you know they were girls?”

I pointed at the house, from which two paramedics were hauling a young lady on a stretcher.

“Holy Christ.” He ran across the street calling out for them to stop. He and the medics exchanged some choice words at the curb that ended with the medics pushing past him and loading said young lady on the stretcher up into the ambulance and slamming the doors tight behind them and speeding off seconds later, the siren screaming in the early summer morning.

It would appear as though the job was not entirely complete. I sucked my teeth.

Davis spat a curse at the ground, hands on hips, sport coat pushed back, issuing the classic pose of the exasperated police detective. I’ve watched many television programs, not just during that stint of untoward unpleasantness with the state, but more recently I’ve watched them, though “weathered” might be a more apropos choice of diction, with Deirdre, my grandmother. Her preferred moniker, much to my endless mortification, was “Dee,” as in Mama Dee, which, yes, she forced me to call her. Mama Dee loved to watch police procedurals, and the plots were as ludicrous as they were monotonous.

It usually went something like this: a murder would occur, (it doesn’t matter what or who or where), after which the main characters, two wisecracking, hardboiled veterans, investigated. Two attempts to solve the crime ensued, the first one abortive, the second one not so much, and then one of the heroes found himself in tense confrontation with the killer. Sometimes he killed the killer; sometimes the killer gave up, but no matter what the lead detective always finished the show with a clever line of dialog.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” the killer would say. “To kill someone.” Then the lead detective would shoot him.

And after he kicked the killer’s weapon away and made sure he was dead by pressing fore and middle finger on carotid artery, he holstered his own gun, rose to his feet, sighed and said: “Like this?”

Like this.

Clever dialog.

Textbook procedure.

Whatever the case, the manner in which Davis stood right then reminded me of any number of fictional television detective, from Jim Rockford to Lenny Briscoe. Then he crossed the street to me.

“How did you know, Jefferson?”

I informed him again. I did not know anything. I only saw a young lady being carted out of the house on a stretcher. I did not know where I’d been all morning. No no no no, listen, I did remember where I’d been, I was here, I mean NO I was at home with Mama Dee and then I went for a walk and I saw him and now here we were and why was he yelling at me why was he yelling at me why was he yelling at me why was

I am somewhat at a loss as to what occurred next. Davis must have struck me, yes, because for some reason I was on the ground, and he was standing over me saying “Okay, Jefferson. You’re okay.” My face was wet with tears, and the gawkers by the yellow police line were now gawking at me, the nerve. Perhaps I . . . but no. He must have hit me. Davis often hit me, yes. Yes, I’m telling you, it’s true. He hit me. He hit me when we were boon companions in childhood. I told him this. I asked him if he enjoyed hitting me. I told him he must enjoy hitting me because he’d done it so often. My face must be particularly attractive to his fists, I said.

Davis swallowed. Hard.

“Jefferson. You’re my cousin, and I love you. But you can’t do stuff like this. There’s been a murder, and I’ve got a job to do. If you want, I’ll catch up to you at Mama Dee’s tonight, okay? We can talk then.”

I said nothing. Davis waited for a minute or so and then he sighed.

“Okay. Promise me you’ll take your meds, right?”

I said nothing.

“Jefferson? I’ve gotta go. Go home and take your meds. Leave the police work to the professionals, okay?”

I continued my silent vigil.

Davis sighed again. He said, “Okay,” again. He wiped his hands off on his department store slacks and then he turned and sauntered back to the crime scene. It wasn’t until I realized that he wasn’t going to come back that I found my voice.

And how does one do “real” police work? I asked.

“Like this,” Davis said over his shoulder. Then he trotted up the steps and disappeared inside.

Like this.

Clever boy.

~

Was there a certain otherworldly zest to my current case? A pinch of peculiar, an essence of ethereal? Or was I fooling myself, living on Grub Street and dreaming of Baker? The thought plagues all the greats, my friends, and I will not discount myself among their number. I mulled the events of the day as I pulled into the drive of my grandparent’s way, the headlights falling upon the suddenly active forms of my beloved canines, Howard and Philip.

I named them, of course, after the great Monsieur Lovecraft, though given the circumstances perhaps the monikers Raymond and Chandler, or Dash and Hammet would have been more suitable. Ce la vie. Howard, a basset hound, had the mien and droopy eyes of Jerry Orbach, while Philip, a mastiff, resembled Humphrey Bogart and behaved like a hyperkinetic pugilist. Rocks clattered the wheel-well as I trolled up the long drive, barking up a cloud of dust in my wake. I parked at the top of the circular way and watched as their forms sprinted toward me, feeling immediately centered, tethered to the earth. Have I mentioned this before, my predilection for brute beasts? It is not unheard of, certainly. Many of the world’s greatest were similarly inspired. Animals, not music, Mr. Seger, soothe the soul, fasten feet to floor, stick the wit, humor the humors.

The familiarity of the family grounds, Northrop, provided additional comfort, especially after the scene on Hawke Street. Though my face bore no hint of Davis’ fist (all the more evidence to his experience with hitting me), I could still feel the imprint of his knuckles. But the ill-will that broiled in my temples the rest of day seemed to dissipate that moment I placed my hand on the brass doorknob to my home. Perhaps Dr. Black was correct; perhaps I couldn’t do this alone. But why did I feel so elated? As if all of that black anger had, upon stepping into the air-conditioned foyer, turned into white vapor? You will, of course, inform me of my sojourn of sorts, the hours-long stroll through the streets of the city upon which I embarked following Davis’ outburst? Psychic trauma alleviated by physical activity, what.

The bottom floor was dark and empty. Mama Dee’s television blared from her room upstairs. She had a hearing problem, Mama Dee. That’s what she called it, at least. The rest of the world labeled it “partially deaf,” but our family labored under a tragic preference for poetic euphemism. Mother didn’t die of cancer. She “wasted away.” Father wasn’t an alcoholic. He “tippled.” Brother Joseph didn’t blow his head off with a shotgun. He suffered “the dismals.” Mama Dee wasn’t nearly deaf. She had “hearing problems.”

Grandfather was most likely out on the back deck, reading. The sweat on my skin dried and cooled in the central air. Mama Dee kept the house at Antarctic levels due to her “life change.” The sumptuous scent of dinner filled the air. Chicken and vegetables and mashed potatoes and freshly brewed tea and apple pie. My stomach gurgled, and I realized I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“Jefferson? That you?” Mama Dee called.

Quite.

“Why you back so late?”

Well, there was an unfortunate incident with Dav—

“What’s all that yelling about?” Grandfather yelled. He came in through the kitchen door startled at the sight of me. “Jefferson! Where’d you get them clothes?”

I winced. Years of living with a deaf woman (sorry, woman who is “hard of hearing”) had naturally amplified his voice by at least a dozen decibels. It was yell or repeat himself several dozen times.

Mama Dee was at the top of the stairs.

“Who you talkin’ to, Jefferson?”

“He’s talkin’ to me, Dee!”

“Who?”

“You want some chicken, boy? Mama Dee baked us some.”

Mama Dee descended the stairs with the grace of a toddler, white knuckling the railing.

“Where you been?”

Well, as I was trying to explain before—

She reached the bottom stair and started sniffing, if you can believe it, around my face.

“You been drinkin’ again?”

Of course not, Mama Dee. That would put me in violation. And, as you know, the medication does not react well to alcohol.

“You lose time again? Did you call Dr. Black?”

I sidestepped the first one, explaining to Mama Dee, that I was merely late.

“Look at me, boy.”

She put her papery palms on each cheek. Her skin was ice cold. Then she peered into my face for any signs of dissembling.

“Well, you ain’t lyin’. But you ain’t tellin’ the whole truth, neither. I suppose they can’t put you back for that, not that they’d take you.” She brushed past Grandfather. “C’mon. Let’s get you something to eat.”

We dined in the kitchen. The oven ticked. Mama Dee forked salad onto her plate.

“Mr. Mack called when you was out runnin’ around.”

Oh?

“Uh huh. Said if you missed work again like today, he was like to fire you.”

I explained it to them again. Mr. Mack ran his kitchen like a fascist. He was Mussolini to my FDR, Franco to my—

“He’s your boss, Jefferson. And you do as you’re told. Ain’t got a lotta room for mistakes here, boy.”

The phone rang. A landline, of course, and Grandfather excused himself to get it. I heard him talking in the living room. No details, just snippets and murmurs and the occasional “what?”. I tried to clean my plate as quick as possible, and was just standing when he returned. “You done already? Sit you down and let me get some pie.”

Of course I’d love to indulge, but I was scheduled to work the breakfast shift tomorrow.

“Nonsense. Sit down.”

He gathered up the plates and deposited them in the sink.

“Maid’s off.”

I chuckled at the familiar joke and caught him glancing at the front door.

I suppose that was my dear cousin Davis on the phone?

“Huh? Oh, no. Not Davis. That was Mr. Mercer. Said he saw headlights in the drive, wanted to know if we was okay.”

Mama Dee cut the pie with a steak knife, doled out fat slices onto paper plates. She always used a steak knife to cut her pie, and she always served her pies on paper products. “You said Davis was investigatin’ a murder?”

Nearly a double. College girls.

I took a bite and chewed. I had to choose my words carefully.

The attack was gruesome.

Mama Dee gave me the eye. Had I been too animated? I concentrated on the pie. It was the most interesting thing I’d ever seen. Grandfather looked over at the front door again.

“Jefferson?”

I shan't lie; I started to lose myself a little. It happens sometimes. Sometimes all I have to do is shake my head and it goes away, so I did it, I shook my head vigorously, but it didn’t help. I shook it again, harder and longer. Nothing. I left my body, floated up to the ceiling, and saw us all there. Me, my long hair falling in my face, Grandfather’s wispy strands, Mama Dee, standing, shaking my arm.

“. . . fferson!” she shouted, and I was sucked back into my body.

The switch made me dizzy, and I shook my head again. Mama Dee’s face trembled a few inches from mine. I saw the wrinkles in her skin, smelled the baby powder she used. My eyes focused and unfocused.

“Jefferson? You here?”

I smiled. Of course I’m here. Where else would I be?

Grandfather was no longer in the room. I heard him somewhere, talking on the phone.

“Prove it to me,” Mama Dee said. “Show me you’re here.”

I let my hand rest on the steak knife in the pie tin, and suddenly, like a switch was tripped, I could concentrate again.

Like this? I asked.

~

Friday night at the Hyperion was always busy, even during the hottest months. This evening was not an exception. I ordered my tall iced cafe mocha with whip cream and cinnamon, then took a table in the new extension in the back, next to the window. I saw Davis cross William Street, alone, as I insisted. I waved him over when he entered and asked if he would like to order a drink.

“No, Jefferson. I’m not thirsty.”

I told him that I had some information, something new that had come to light, through what channels I cared not to divulge. Connections, rumors floating through my old acquaintances, the junkies, the dealers.

“You still hang out with them?”

Was he aware of the circumstances surrounding my release? Ah, he thought he was. No doubt he was aware of the recent sequester, of the decade long cuts to public services? He leaned back and eyed me.

“Yeah, I am. Haven’t had a raise in four years. Cut three deputies last month. More to come.”

I nodded. My meds, as he knew, were not inexpensive. How was the girl?

“The girl?”

I held his eyes.

The girl.

“She’s . . . she didn’t make it.”

Pity.

“Uh huh.”

We stared at each other for quite some time.

“Jefferson? Is there something you want to tell me?”

I let my forefinger flick the tip of the steak knife in my pocket.

The basement.

“Of the Hawke Street house?”

I nodded.

Summer in Fredericksburg can be quite stifling. While not necessarily the Deep South, the city was southern enough, and the humidity made it feel as though one were breathing underwater. The insects adored it. The cicada’s call rose and fell in waves, and pockets of peepers sang in the little copses as we made the short walk along Princess Anne. I jiggled the change in my pocket, my other pocket. Davis walked in front of me, thumbing his iPhone.

“So what do you think’s in the basement?”

We passed The Kenmore Inn. A light sweat gleamed on my forehead. I heard the trails of a bluegrass band playing in their little courtyard, the one they rented out for weddings. I felt myself trailing away again, floating in the air behind us, tethered loosely to my body.

Grandfather liked to talk about the Civil War, but Davis knew this, didn’t he? A veritable expert on the Battle of Fredericksburg. He oft spoke about the aurora borealis, how it grew so cold the night of the battle that men froze in ditches, dragged themselves into basements to try to escape the cold.

“Uh huh,” Davis grunted, not really listening. He demonstrated a similar disinterest at Grandfather’s feet whenever he inculcated us with his historical lectures. We turned on to Hawke Street and strolled up to the house. Yellow police tape still stretched across the little white picket gate at the bottom of the porch steps. “Well, we’re here.” He scanned the street, first Princess Anne, then Caroline.

Inside. It’s inside, in the basement.

He tilted his head at me.

“Okay. For a minute. But then . . .”

Before he could finish, I ducked under the yellow police line.

“Jefferson, wait.”

But I’d already entered the house. The hinges creaked, revealing the dark, empty hallway. The light clicked on. Davis was behind me.

The girl lay on the floor, spilling out of the basement just as I’d left her.

I knelt down to see her eyes, but she disappeared, replaced by the dark stain on the hardwood.

“Okay, Jefferson. What now?”

I pointed at the basement door. Davis flicked the light switch. A single bulb in the hallway glowed to life.

“Down there? Right now? You’re sure?”

Could there possibly be a better place? Could there possibly be a better time?

His phone buzzed. I grabbed his wrist and held it there.

No. Not now.

“Jefferson, I have to take this.” He turned his back to me, the git. “Yeah. When did that . . . we’re here.” He paused, took a step down into the basement. “No, I’m okay.” He took another two steps down. I gripped the knife in my pocket. “Okay. I will,” he added, then pulled the phone away from his ear and punched the screen with his fingers. He took a step back, and I saw his hand rest on his hip.

“Okay, Jefferson.” He turned around. “So how’d you do it?”