TWO
"Hey, don't jump man." There was a trace of sarcasm in the young man's amiability as he guided his bicycle along the curb. He was accompanied by an equally young woman. Ari thought they had the air of college students, sleek and untrammeled in their liberal arts cloud. He noted the flat rear tire of the girl's bike. Neither of them had thought to bring a hand pump. Cycling was not the primary means of transportation in this country. Not yet, at least.
Ari smiled in response to the young man's quip. "It would never occur to me to jump without taking someone with me."
They paused, hesitating to pass him. At a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike, the pump attendant had shot him an unfiltered scowl through the windshield--a clear reaction to his OPEC complexion. Perhaps this was due to the price of gas. But the young cyclist didn't have the look of someone with the courage of his prejudices. Perhaps Ari should not have made the inflammatory remark. But there it was.
The young man nodded at the girl and they pushed their bikes around the parked car, away from Ari and the bridge rail.
"You're blocking the bike path, man," the young man said over his shoulder as they walked away.
Ari studied the white line that demarked a narrow lane the length of the bridge. A bike path? He had thought it was a parking lane. Where he came from bicycles were an integral part of the traffic pattern, not segregated to the side.
Bracing his back against his car, he propped his feet on the narrow concrete sidewalk and gazed out at the James River. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a map of Richmond. He quickly pinpointed his location, then traced the line that had been marked out for him. He estimated he was still several miles from his destination. He refolded the map and returned it to his pocket. He stared out at the river a little longer, taking note of people far below, jumping from boulder to boulder like gnats on dirty soap bubbles. Then he hunched back to his feet and turned. And frowned. The car was a Scion xB. Ari had seen dilapidated heaps drawn by donkeys with more flair.
Riverside Drive was a narrow lane that squirted in and out of every cove and cranny on the south bank of the James. Ari drove at what he considered a perfectly normal speed, leaving a trail of swearing cyclists, who used the road to access the state park. After passing an apartment complex near the bridge exit, he saw nothing but residential housing on the bluffs overlooking the river. It was a sedate, older neighborhood, with chrysanthemums, asters and dahlias draped down the slopes like tossed bouquets. Across the road a chain of black-eyed Susans were like token charms on the forest that shackled the river.
He crossed Huguenot Road, collecting one or two irate honks from drivers coming up from the toll bridge. To him, that too was part of a normal traffic pattern.
Riverside continued, sloping down until it passed another park entrance, then flattening along a field that was nearly level with the river. Traffic signs advised Ari that there were pedestrians in the area and that the speed limit was 20 miles per hour. He found them nonsensical--both the limit and the pedestrians, some of whom flagged at him with their arms. Slow down? Why? This was a nice, clear stretch.
The road turned away from the river briefly. He stopped to check the nearest house number. Getting close.
He took the next curve slowly, keeping half an eye on the addresses. The houses here were larger, with thick borders of hedges and trees, imparting privacy and a sense of country living. He was approaching the river again. He made a right at Beach Court Lane and drove past a man sweeping a wand-like instrument back and forth at the edge of his yard. The man glanced up. Ari suspected traffic was not that uncommon here, but not that common, either.
He stopped at the next house. The number on the mailbox matched the one handwritten on the map. Someone had slapped a SOLD sticker across the FOR SALE sign out front. If there was a mistake, or a misjudgment, it was not his. Two bouquets of mixed flowers lay on the ground on either side of the mailbox post. Ari smirked. Was he being welcomed?
He hesitated pulling into the driveway, instinctively unwilling to stamp it with the burden of ownership. He switched off the engine, got out, and strolled a half dozen yards before stopping. Beach Court ended in a narrow turn-around a stone's throw from the James. A large patch of woods blocked all view of Riverside Drive and the houses further up the hill. All Ari could see of his immediate neighbors were two mailboxes on either side of Beach Court Lane. The man trimming his yard was invisible.
From the front, which faced the river, the house looked deceptively like a split-level rancher. A slight architectural variation became apparent from the road. The garage was tucked into the side. It was much lower than the front lawn, which dropped sharply to come level with the driveway. The bottom story cut through a small hill, perhaps part of an ancient embankment.
He stepped out onto the immaculate lawn, which swept downward to a narrow beach where several ducks were taking refuge from the rapids downriver. A gazebo, raised on a brick foundation against the threat of floods, provided an outpost of calm near the water's edge. The decorative bushes that dotted the yard were trimmed to an almost unnatural perfection. The real estate people must have hired a professional landscaper to maintain the yard.
The slate roof imparted an expensive patina, while little rustic touches contributed to the air of discreetly advertised wealth. He could just glimpse another house about fifty yards up the river.
He circled around the side, where the true size of the house was revealed--two floors and a basement--and stutter-stepped down a sharp slope to a patio. From this angle, the trees in the back loomed up like deep forest. Taking out a set of three keys, he judged which would most likely fit in the sliding glass door facing the patio and inserted it. He slid the door open and entered.
His shoes clicked on the highly polished tile floor as he crossed to the center of the room. After standing silently for a minute, listening, he called out, "Hello!" He did not expect an answer. He was testing the acoustics, which responded with a muted, hollow echo. He was drawn to a humming sound from behind a pinewood door. Opening it, he discovered a water heater, its PVC piping disappearing into the wall. There was also a washer and dryer.
Returning to the center of the basement, he reflected on its emptiness. This must have been the rec room. Four indentations in the tiles suggested a pool table. Perhaps there had been a dart board at that wood-pasted hole in the walnut paneling. This would have been an ideal place for children during winter days, isolated as it was from the rest of the house, from parents.
He found the stairs. Swinging open the door at the top, he found himself in a short hall leading to the kitchen. The stove was set against the wall, underneath a row of cabinets. Pots and cooking utensils dangled from a wide brass ring overhead. Plastic shopping bags were strewn across the counter. Ari glanced into several of them, frowned, then turned his back on the counter. He opened the refrigerator. The top shelf was stocked, the lower shelves were empty.
He toured the rest of the first floor. No carpets, not a single stick of furniture beyond the kitchen’s small round table and its two ladderback chairs. Nothing but dark olive window curtains to absorb the hollow echoes of his footsteps. In the front room he pulled back the curtain on the picture window for an unobstructed view of the gazebo and the river.
Upstairs was a little more interesting. The bedrooms were without beds, but there was a computer in what Ari presumed had been the home office, or perhaps some kind of studio. Although the windows here were covered with the same thick fabric, a skylight removed the somber darkness. The computer table and chair was the only furniture he had seen outside the kitchen. A cable ran from the wall to the mini tower. Nothing wireless. He sat in the chair and switched on the computer. It booted up quickly, opening onto a screen requesting the user name and password. Ari took out his wallet and removed a slip of paper. He studied the paper, brooded a moment, then returned it to the wallet. He switched off the computer.
A closet in the upstairs hall contained towels and wash cloths. In the bathroom was a bottle of shampoo, a can of shaving cream, a disposable razor and a bar of soap still in its wrapper.
He was back downstairs, looking out the picture window, when he heard a car door slam shut. Leaning forward, he could just make out the road and the entrance to the driveway. A police cruiser had pulled up behind his Scion. An officer had gotten out on the passenger side and was approaching the box-shaped car. He peered inside. Ari clearly heard his one-word shout:
"Suitcase!"
The driver of the prowl car got out and looked up at the house. Ari did not move away from the window. He was certain he could not be seen from that angle, with the sun reflecting off the glass. Without thinking, he reached across his stomach with his right arm and gripped the left side of his belt. When he noticed what he had done he smiled grimly.
The driver studied the SOLD sticker, then said something to his partner, who shrugged and shook his head, Ari thought, in disgust. He came back to the cruiser and removed a small wreath from the rear seat. He came around and placed it against the mailbox post. The driver seemed to find something aesthetically awkward about the placement and crouched down to align the two bouquets on either side of the wreath. Then he stood and returned his gaze up the hill. His partner said something and he shook his head. Sorrowfully, perhaps.
Both officers got back into the cruiser. Slowly, they circled the turnaround and were out of sight as soon as they passed the driveway.
Reaching into his pocket, Ari took out a pack of Winstons. He was about to light up when he remembered there was no ash tray on the premises. He doubted there ever had been. There was no hint of tobacco smoke beneath the prevailing atmosphere of pine-scented disinfectant. To his thinking, the house smelled like a hospital ward.
He went outside to pull the Scion into the driveway. The police cruiser had stopped along the grassy curb at the next house. The groundskeeper was leaning on his trimmer as he spoke to the officers, who remained seated in the car. He was pointing down the street. When his eyes followed his arm he saw Ari watching him. He lowered his arm, smiled uncertainly, and nodded. Ari sensed the policemen watching him in their rearview mirrors and nodded back at the groundskeeper.
Getting into the Scion, he pulled up the driveway, stopping a few feet short of the double garage. Taking out the set of keys, he guessed which of them would work on the garage door--the odds were down to fifty-fifty, now that he had used one on the basement--and again guessed right. He heard the bolt click, and he turned the lever. As he raised the door he noted the motor in the garage ceiling. He scouted around for a remote, but could find none.
Once he was parked in the bay, he lifted the car's ash tray out of its slot and took up his suitcase from the passenger seat, placing both items on the steps leading inside. He was about to close the bay door when he heard the police cruiser driving away from the house next door.
He paused, balancing his needs against his curiosity. Curiosity won. Necessity too.
Ari began to make his way through the thick border of trees, then recalled stories of American hypersensitivity when it came to property. He backtracked and approached the house from the road. The groundskeeper had resumed trimming the grass in the shallow ditch. Seeing Ari, he stopped. A tentative moment passed before he managed a smile.
"Hello," said Ari.
"Hey," said the man, maintaining a firm grip on the handle of his garden tool.
"I've just moved into the house next door. I wanted to introduce myself to the owner here."
"That's me." The man stiffened proudly. The sweat on his face and forearms had captured bits of dirt and grass so fine it look like gunpowder residue. A man in mortal combat against his yard.
"Excuse me. I mistook you for the groundskeeper."
"That's me, too." Freeing one hand from the trimmer, he stepped across the ditch. "Howard Nottoway."
Ari took the extended hand and shook it. "Ari Ciminon."
“Most folks around here call me Howie.” A half head shorter than Ari, Howie raised a courteous if wary gaze. Sprigs of white hair sprang out above each ear, imparting a cockeyed awkwardness that seemed at odds with his status as a lawn warrior. "I didn't see any moving vans."
"My furniture will arrive later." Ari maintained a straight face, a lackadaisical assumption of bland truth. Absent the cookie-cutter smile, it was the same expression he had worn in New York, while standing near the PATH station at Liberty Plaza listening to the names of 9/11 victims being read out by relatives of the deceased. The somber memorial was marred by scuffling between anti-war protesters and those who supported the administration. Ari had played a mental truncheon across the skulls of the troublemakers. Americans were focused on being the sole victims of the September attacks, which he found puerile and unseemly--although Ari was the first to concede the worst hurts were those closest to home. It was the sense of exclusion that annoyed him. A bit like 'God Bless America.' Where did that leave everyone else?
Anyone taking note of him that day would have seen a man who looked sublimely untroubled, even a trifle amused at the noisy fuss the police caused when they broke up the fights.
An hour later, after making an overseas phone call, he was in route to Virginia to confront this quintessential American, taming the wild in goggles and muck boots.
Howie nodded, though he looked a little confused. Ari supposed it would have made more sense if the furniture was in place before the new owner moved in.
"I was wondering..." A vaguely childish expression crossed Ari's face. "What is that?"
"Mmm?" Howie glanced down in surprise. "Just a weed whacker."
"A weed...'whacker'," Ari repeated slowly.
Howie demonstrated with a couple of short bursts of the machine. Bits of ditch grass flew up like shattered feathers. "I guess you don't see many of these in the desert."
"Sicily isn't a desert island, but it is quite dry."
"Sicily." A blurry chart from Howie's elementary school geography class rattled down in his mind. "You're Italian?"
"The Arabs conquered Sicily during the Dark Ages. That accounts for--" Ari flicked his fingers in front of his own nose, as though splashing Semitic greasepaint on his face.
"Well, yeah," Howie chuckled nervously, knocking the shield of the whacker against his ankle as though admonishing himself against indiscretions. "I wasn't trying to...you know...I wasn't.... Where'd you learn your English?"
"The missionaries taught me."
"They did a good job. I mean, there's no trace of...you know...Italian, I guess." Howie paused. "Missionaries in Italy? Isn't that sort of like taking coal to Newcastle? I mean, with the Pope there and all..."
"They were Unitarian."
"Unitarian? I didn't think they...I didn't think they were...." Howie shrugged apologetically. "Well, you learn something new every day."
"That's a good philosophy," said Ari, being careful to erase condescension with a smile.
An evangelical bolt crossed Howie's face. "Say listen, I'm with the Methodist church just down the road. You're invited to come any Sunday."
"I'll bear that in mind," Ari nodded agreeably.
"You have family coming? They're welcome to the church, too. All of you." Howie said this with a trace of reluctance, as though envisioning a truckload of Italian kids clambering over the pews.
"No family," said Ari succinctly, leaving it up to Howie to sort out the why.
"None?" Howie was sorting, and if the furrow above his goggles was any indication, few of the options were very appetizing. "And you bought that big house just for..."
"Yes. I needed a place to stay. For my job."
"Yeah?"
"I'm an architect."
"Yeah?" Realizing the repetitive monosyllable skimped on courtesy, he added, "That's a break from all the doctors and lawyers around here--retired and otherwise. What firm?"
"I'll be working out of my home."
Howie was alerted to the need for discretion--an alert he did not heed. "You wouldn't be involved with that new baseball field downtown, would you? The one they're shoving down our throats? I won't tell anyone. Uh...you know baseball, right?"
"I'm not an ardent fan, but I occasionally follow Montepaschi Grosseto.”
“The who-da wadda?’
“I’m not familiar with that phrase. Grosseto is the best team in Italy, to my way of thinking. Of course, many of its players come from here.”
What concern Ari could see gathering behind Howie’s goggles relaxed on hearing this. European baseball. Who would have thought it? But it was nothing to be alarmed about. Just the same American sewage overflow as European basketball and European football.
"In any event,” Ari continued, “I came over here to introduce myself. I suppose that's what I've been doing. I also wanted to ask..."
"Yeah?" said Howie, relapsing into single-word monotony.
"Those police officers you were speaking to. I noticed that they left some flowers next to my driveway."
"Yeah...they were the ones who found them."
That Ari found this answer nonsensical was written in his expression. Howie saw this and drew a face of disgust.
"Those bastards--pardon my French."
"I'm confused. Sorry."
"The real estate people.” Howie propped the weed whacker against his leg, as though grounding arms. “They'll do anything to make a sale. Your agent...he didn't say anything to you about what happened here?"
"I purchased the house through a third party," Ari sighed with the guilt of gullibility. "I provided him with a list of my basic needs and he came up with this." He gestured down the road, as though pointing out a white elephant half-hidden behind the trees.
Howie clucked, revving his neck with a vigorous head-shake.
"He didn't go into any details beyond the basic floor plan, and gave me very little about the history of the place," Ari continued. "He assured me, however, that this was a quiet, safe neighborhood."
"Maybe I shouldn't say anything." Howie looked like he would be perfectly delighted to spill some broad hints, if not exactly his guts. With his free hand he pulled on one of his white tufts of hair, as though pulling the string on a doll. "I mean--"
"Please. Was there an accident? Is the house unsafe?"
"The house is fine. It's great. Just an oversized rancher, but the best one in the neighborhood for location. There was a time most anyone around here would have snapped it up if they could have afforded it. The price dropped...afterward. But we all knew what had happened. No one would buy."
"It's very scenic."
"Yeah." Howie seemed to struggle with himself. He pulled off his protective goggles, as though to show Ari the sincerity in his eyes. "I shouldn'tve blabbed."
"Those weren't the only flowers. There were others..."
"A family," Howie said. "All of them. Father, mother, two young sons."
"Died?"
"Murdered." He turned a narrow glance on Ari. "It wasn't funny."
"I'm sorry. I was just thinking about what you said. About real estate agents. But of course that's terrible. How long ago?"
"Nine months."
"The killer?"
"Never caught. But they think there was more than one of them." Howie seemed reassured by Ari's abrupt gloom. "You've closed, right? There's no way you can back out?"
"You mean leave the house? I don't think that's possible."
"I have a lawyer friend who might be able to help you." It almost sounded as though he was offering Ari the loan of a loaded pistol.
"I'll bear that in mind." Ari turned towards his new house. From here, he could see only a few small patches of the white vinyl siding in the back. "They were killed in the house?"
"Yeah, and no one around here knew anything about it. Jesus, shot in broad daylight, and nobody heard."
"Really?" Ari thought about how he had been able to hear the shout of one of the police officers from inside the house.
"I would have called it in if I'd heard anything," Howie said a little defensively. "My wife, too."
"I don't doubt it," Ari said politely.
"But even if we'd heard, we would have thought they were firecrackers or something. You get a lot of kids out on the islands in the river. They fire off what we used to call Whistling Jupiters. Toy rockets. Noisy. The Mackenzies...they live on the river too, on other side of you, through the woods there. They didn't hear anything, either." A slight accusatory inflection had entered Howie's voice. As though, by taking possession of the house, Ari was retroactively guilty of not reporting the crime.
Ari nodded. "I understand perfectly."
Howie's expression relaxed. "Yeah. You said Sicily? Mafia-land, right?"
"La stessa cosa," Ari said with a sad smile. "'The same thing.' Cosa Nostra."
"Yeah? I guess stuff like that happens all the time over there."
"All the time."
"I'm sorry." Howie's sudden cultural delicacy was blurted, as though he had been poked by an invisible cattle prod. "I didn't mean to imply anything. I'm sure most of you folks are peaceful. Law-abiding, I mean."
"It's a beautiful island, even when Etna erupts."
"The volcano, right? That must be something to see."
"Very scenic."
“Jerry was a painter,” said Howie. “An artist. No enemies. I mean, who shoots artists?”
“Who shoots little boys?” said Ari.
“Well, yeah. Right.”