She pulled up in front of the building and her front right tire went up on the sidewalk. Parking the car like that, she turned it off, then opened the door, hinges crying out. Owen waved and she approached him, waddling along in a blueberry-colored skirt and jacket, white corsage pinned to the lapel. Her shoes were flats and her hat was a pillbox type he’d not seen worn since he was young and his parents would take him to church. Mrs. Hultz was radically bowlegged. Without saying hello to him, she walked up and took a seat on the bench.
“I see you’re goofing off on the job,” she said.
“Just too nice out today. What are you up to?”
“I came to see you.”
“To what do I owe the honor?”
“I’ve got a secret to share.”
“Well?”
“I was at the gas station, and the attendant was filling my tank—a young guy—big and burly with a long beard and a rat’s nest of long hair. Anyway, when he brings me back my credit card and the receipt to sign, the cuff of his shirt rides up a little and I see he has a small black tattoo of a circle with a cross in it on his wrist.”
“So, you’re thinking he’s part of the gang you told me about the other day?”
“What else?”
“And?
“We need to know what these people are up to.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re dangerous. The one who shot the poor Roan girl was obviously on drugs of some kind.”
“Did the police report that?” asked Owen.
“Not yet, but come on. It was the dumbest robbery ever. Zero planning. The guy was desperate for money to get high.”
“You should have your own TV show.”
“I’m not joking. As an upstanding member of the community, you need to help me.”
“Help you what?”
She stood up and started walking back to her car. Without turning she said, “I’ll be here at three to pick you up.”
“Why?”
“A stakeout.”
He tried to protest but she acted as if she couldn’t hear him. The door squealed open again, she got in, started the invalid vehicle that wheezed, and lurched away.
At three, good to her word, Mrs. Hultz was there at the curb, waiting for him, when he locked the front door of the building. Owen resigned himself to his fate. When he got in the passenger side, she handed him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“What’s this for?” he said.
“I thought you might be hungry after work.”
He really wanted to be on his way, cutting through the woods and across the old tracks, so he could get to the cemetery before dark, but at the same time he remembered what great friends Mrs. Hultz had been with his mother. He thought of all the times he played with her daughters, Ellie, Sue, and Lila, when they were young. She was there for his mom through her decline and final illness, even more so than Owen and his dad were. For that, he kept quiet and ate peanut butter and jelly.
“It’s going to be hard to be stealthy with this car,” he said to her.
“Are you kidding?” she said. “It runs like a charm.”
“Which do you think is in better shape? You or the Caddy?”
“What kind of question is that, Owen? Are you being disrespectful?” she asked, and laughed.
In three minutes, they were in the center of Westwend, a block of storefronts on either side of Cobb Street—a traffic light, a bar, two churches. She pulled into the grocery store parking lot, which was across from the gas station they were supposedly staking out. She kept the car running but put it in Park.
“Do you see the guy?” he asked. There were a couple of young men pumping gas for customers.
She shook her head. “It’s not one of them. I wonder if he’s already gone for the day. That would be a shame.”
“I can wait for a little while,” he said, “but I have to get back before it gets too late. I have an appointment at four.”
“Girlfriend?” she asked. “Who is it?”
“No, not a girlfriend.”
“A boyfriend?” she asked.
“No, I’m currently not engaged in a relationship of any kind.”
“Why not?”
“Too much bother.”
“You might as well join a monastery,” she said.
“There’s more to life than relationships.”
“No, there isn’t. You’ve got to get out there and meet someone.”
He was about to tell her off when she grabbed his arm and said, “Look, the guy coming out the bay door of the garage. That’s him.”
He saw a large man, 6′2″ at least, as she’d described earlier, with long tangled hair and a bushy beard. They watched as he made his way along the sidewalk and then turned off Cobb onto Margrave Street. Mrs. Hultz put the car in Reverse and backed out of the parking spot. When she shifted into Drive, the car made a sound like the transmission had fallen out. They were off at a blistering ten miles an hour.
“He’ll be in the next state by the time you catch up to him,” said Owen.
When they made the turn onto Margrave, the tires squealed.
“Do you see him?” she asked, and slowed to prowl along the suburban street.
As she spoke, the car passed by a house with more land than the usual half an acre, set back among pine trees. The path to the front door was visible from the car. The gas station attendant stood on the porch and stared out at them as they crept by. Owen saw him at the last second and tried to cover his face with his hand.
“He’s seen us. Hit the gas,” he said.
She jammed her foot on the gas and the car released a blast and a cloud of black smoke before crawling away.
“Are you worried about him having noticed your car?” asked Owen.
Mrs. Hultz shrugged. “I’ve got the old gat at home.”
“The old gat?”
“My husband’s gun.”
“Oh, Christ,” he said. “Do you know how to use it?”
“How hard could it be?”
“You’re a dangerous woman,” he said, and then asked if she’d drop him off at the cemetery on the way home.
“Socializing?” she asked.
7
MRS. HULTZ DROPPED HIM off at the entrance to the park. He walked past the baseball diamond and along the gravel path leading to the cemetery. Taking a hard look at the scenery, he compared it to how it had looked late at night. When he reached the acreage of burials, he traveled aimlessly up and down the rows with the sun slowly falling. His mind wandered, thinking about Mrs. Hultz with a gun. After a little more than an hour had passed—out of the corner of his eye—as he lurched along an aisle of headstones, he saw the name HELEN ROAN.
The setting looked different by the light of the waking world. The grave was no longer empty and already there was grass sprouting on the packed mound of the burial. There was a tree behind the headstone when he’d visited it by night, but there was no sign of ribbons or deflated balloons hanging from its branches. Upon seeing this, he had no choice but to conclude that his so-called OBEs were merely a recurring dream. “Who would have a ceremony for a dead daughter at an open grave in front of a tree with pink ribbons and balloons?” Owen said aloud, admonishing his own foolishness. With that thought, his perception of being a sleeper went from freedom to suffocation. A sinking deeper into oblivion.