Читать книгу Float Plan - Rob Hiaasen - Страница 9

Chapter 1

The masked algebra teacher was drunk to the point of embalmment, as the blood orange machine dented his lap. Will Larkin bought the chainsaw online (“Choose the Best Chainsaw for You!”) and strummed its greasy fangs with his left index finger. A prick, ouch. He squeezed his finger to make blood, a drib. He drank again from a pitcher of mojitos infused with enough Myers’s dark rum to stoke a beach bonfire. Raising his pollen mask before each gust of drinking, the fall allergy sufferer knew he needed a posse of mojitos when the time came to act.

Nursing his first injury involving lawn machinery, Will left the back deck of his rental townhouse and went inside for a Band-Aid, the baby ones. He hoped his wife left him that much when she moved out this morning, hoped Terri at least left him Band-Aids and the biblical “Complete Cartoons of The New Yorker.” She left both – plus six coffee mugs from a fruitful litter of coffee mug parents. Baby bandaged, Will returned to his deck and mojitos. He needed an accomplice, but his network consisted of one dog, two friends, two parents, and Terri. He didn’t know any new people.

He waited for the recessed light of dusk. A red-shouldered hawk snagged a chickadee off their backyard A-framed feeder – a puff of dusty gray feathers parachuted to the ground.

Will patted his Poulan 14-inch chainsaw.

In time, partner, all in good time.

• • •

Last Sunday, omens.

Will forgot to put on his watch, a major breach in his morning routine. And when he reached for his off-white, un-lettered coffee mug, he sideswiped the cupboard’s corner and decapitated the ceramic handle. Will picked up the severed handle, light as a bird wing. Then, his Briggs & Stratton lawn mower that had never let him down wouldn’t start. Will pulled and pulled the starter rope until the handle snapped out of his grasp and whipped his hand. There would be no mowing.

Will moped over to their back deck where Terri was reading The New York Times. Every Sunday they carved up the Times – Terri crab-picking out “Week in Review and Business”. They believed themselves to be the only people under 30 who still got a newspaper. A couple of young-old souls, Will would say, gobbling up the sports section. He avoided the news, which made him antsy. News was always so loud.

“Don’t you care about climate change? Stormwater run-off? Syria?”

“I care about you.”

“I mean caring about something bigger than ourselves, bigger than us, Will.”

“I care about mowing our yard.”

“I’m being serious.”

He stared out into their woodsy backyard as if it was an ocean’s wobbly horizon. “Backyard watching” was his occasional Sunday morning pastime. The grandfatherly activity mystified Terri – that and how her husband waited, each year, for the return of a box turtle that once occupied the northern corner of the rental lot. The turtle never returned, a turtle he named Petey. Petey, the Non-Returning Turtle. Pining for a ghost turtle never struck Terri as something they both could enjoy.

“All right. Here’s something I care about,” Will said. “Maryland should have a law that makes air free at gas stations. No more paying four or five quarters for air.”

Who isn’t in favor of free air?

“You don’t know what the problem is, do you?” she said.

Will studied his hands, which appeared to be sprouting age spots. He would be 30 next year.

“Are you still pissed about the lobsters?”

In a rare solo run to Wegmans, Will found himself distracted by the store’s overhead train set and, in general, by the cavernous, cult-inducing Wegmanian vibe – but mainly by the awesome train. He wandered over to the seafood department where five, banded lobsters were stacked atop one another in a feature-less tank. He imagined a more exotic and natural existence for them. Could they survive in the creek way behind their townhouse? He had seen crayfish in Dan’s Creek and what were they but practice lobsters? The jovial man behind the seafood counter was more than happy to bag up five, 2-pound lobsters from Maine. Will left Wegmans forgetting every item on his list (TP, milk, pulp-free OJ, some sort of spatula Terri wanted) and returned home with $110 worth of live lobsters. And Wegman’s peach mango salsa. Never forget that.

While Terri took a rare Saturday afternoon nap, Will scurried down-slope to the creek bed with his special groceries. Lobsters, which are not prone to frolicking, hunkered down in the shallow slippery water and assumed their same docile positions in the bare fish tank at Wegmans. In a further disappointment, days later Will discovered the Freedom Crustaceans in no way adapted to life in the wild. They croaked. And the household still needed TP, milk, pulp-free OJ, and some sort of spatula.

“No, Will. This isn’t about your lobsters.”

“Then help me out here.”

“The problem is,” Terri said, “you’re here, but you’re not. You stare off into the back yard. You drift away. You’ve been drifting away, and I’m the only one who seems to notice or care. You don’t even know when you’re not here with me.”

“I’m here, I’m here. What do you want, Terri? Tell me.”

“I want a gazebo.”

Two years ago, their neighbors built a redwood-stained gazebo. Buffered by blooming forsythia, a 30-foot wooden walkway led from the Dunhams’ back door to the screened gazebo, which stood on five posts tucked into the woods both townhouses shared this side of Dan’s Creek. Chestnut and live oaks nearly suffocated the back yards of the houses built here in 1975 – the last suburban parcel developed in Anderson Woods. On fall nights, the elderly Dunhams could be seen dancing in the gazebo. Show-offs.

“I think a gazebo would be a nice change,” Terri said.

There was nothing wrong with their back yard. Plus, they had never talked about gazebos – especially on Sundays.

“Why do we need a gazebo?”

He heard the machine-gunning of a red-headed woodpecker drilling a tulip poplar. Chasing the morning sun, Will moved his deck chair. Clouds like shaving cream mounds slipped across the sky, as seashell chimes fluttered from a neighboring porch.

“A gazebo extends a home, creates a new room in the woods. Gives you a new perspective, a new place to be.”

Had she enrolled in a continuing education course in architectural drafting? Studied the pros and cons of cedar vs. pine gazebos? Vinyl vs. aluminum? Octagon vs. rectangle? Did she want her gazebo screened or one gone commando?

“You want a place to go that’s still your house but away from me,” Will said.

“I didn’t say that.”

She was saying that.

“We’re not getting a gazebo, are we?”

Will looked over at the neighbor’s yard. The stilted gazebo looked like it might tear itself from the townhouse and raft through their woods. Someone should do something about that goddamn gazebo.

• • •

A week later, Will was sideways into mojitos, his lap heavy with chainsaw. He raised his pollen mask to drink to his crumbling marriage. Two years and eleven months, a 2.92-year marriage. Will never rounded off – math teachers rarely do. He met Terri at a soul-sucking faculty meeting (although he remembered her from high school; the opposite was not true). Teresa Morrow was Lakeview High’s new English teacher and girls’ lacrosse coach. They sniffed around each other for a few weeks – Terri hated the word sniffed. “We’re not dogs!” – until they had coffee, a weekend lunch, three dinner dates. Soon Terri visited Will’s two-bedroom apartment he shared with Mack, his best friend. That night, she wore what she called her ABC dress – ass barely covered. In the morning, she put it back on.

She had always wanted to be a teacher. He had wanted to be a teacher or maybe a journalist.

“Journalism is too risky. No job security. At least in teaching you know you can have a job for life.”

“Well,” Terri told him, lacing her fingers through his hand, “I think you’re a great teacher.”

Should you marry someone if you want to live off the air they were breathing at the moment you first kissed them? Will imagined he was the lone holder of Terri’s air each time they kissed. He wasn’t sure the thought rose to the level of romanticism, but it had to be in the ballpark.

Barb and Bill Larkin immediately liked Terri and wrangled her into the family even though she wasn’t a Catholic. A year later, when the young people asked to get married in his parents’ back yard and not at St. Mary’s, Barb Larkin agreed and promptly set a dragnet for a suitable caterer. Her husband didn’t care either way. Church. Back yard. Shopping mall. Delicatessen. It didn’t matter where you started, only mattered where you wound up, as Bill Larkin told his son. It’s about the history you make and hold together. Married people are each other’s history holders, he told his son.

In the beginning, Terri was amused by Will’s ways. His feet rubbed together at night; he claimed he suffered from Restless Leg Syndrome. Her quality of sleep was reduced, as she could only hope his legs would grow out of their restlessness. And this was a minor grievance, but Will refused to ride roller coasters. At the State Fair in Timonium one year – two years – Terri tried to lure Will onto a roller coaster, but he was not a roller-coaster person. People tried to make an early-riser out of him, too. But some people will never be early-risers or roller-coaster people.

Will loved Terri’s ways. Her mistrust of exclamation points and the way she dog-eared the bottom of book pages signaling favored lines. Her devout preference for lawn seats at Merriweather Post Pavilion. How she hated green Bic pens and magic tricks – nothing more than a slick form of lying! How she liked his height – 6’3” – his shady blue eyes, the untamable cowlick in what she called his pelt of chestnut hair (“It’s just brown,” he’d say, “I don’t have a pelt”), even his elbow-sharp Adam’s apple.

He did have grievances: the woman once wore a Red Sox sweatshirt to Camden Yards until a robust crowd reaction steered her toward different wardrobe choices at ensuing games. Less embarrassing was her refusal to throw her peanut shells on the ground during O’s games. She was a neat, brand-challenged fan. Although she teased him about “minor infractions” (cramming the dishwasher; leaving his socks balled up in the laundry; snoring like a drunk Sasquatch), one growing complaint was Will could overdo his drinking, especially in social settings, which he tended to avoid so the issue didn’t find initial traction.

They both agreed Thursday was the finest day of the week and Sunday the bluesiest. Terri didn’t mind Will joy-riding on shopping carts in the Wegmans parking lot. He didn’t mind the English books cramping their starter bookcases – multiple school copies of Catcher in the Rye, The Grapes of Wrath, Fences, To Kill a Mockingbird, Johnny Tremain, and a warehouse of anthologies. Terri made room for Will’s favorite book, a raggedy paperback of Instant Replay: The Green Bay Diary of Jerry Kramer. The book was from his grandfather, William Larkin Sr. (in a namesake firewall, his son was William Larkin Jr. and his son was William Larkin, no rank). From his grandfather, Will held loyalty to the Packers of old, Lombardi’s Packers.

The novelty of each other lost its novelty. In the last frayed months, they hit rough patches until every day felt rough. Kissing was the first to go, followed by a sexual drought of Guinness Book proportions. Will thought it was a simple case of romantic remission. But things were said. He could be a cynical, young man who drank too much; she could be a nagger as if her mission was the overhaul and perfection of his character. Will obsessed over the New Yorker cartoon contest but didn’t want to visit the city. Too many people, too nerve-wracking even thinking about getting around there. He even shied away from the neighbors’ block parties. All that ho-humming around, all that smiling.

“You don’t want to do anything or meet anyone new,” Terri said.

“I have you,” he said.

Until he didn’t.

“A fucking gazebo,” Will mumbled to Dean, their 9-year-old basset hound. The raising and lowering of his pollen mask was beyond the powers of his coordination, so Will kept the pollen mask on top of his head like a party hat. He faced Dean.

“Tell me, kind sir, do you want a gazebo?”

The dog was snoozing, his caramel-colored back leg bicycling. Will wondered what Dean would look like in a pollen mask. He would resist.

Under the cloak of night (9:15 p.m.), and with the Dunhams away, Will commanded Dean to stay on the deck, but the dog honored no commands. Will carried his weapon low on his left side, the chainsaw thumping against his leg. It was 45 yards to the gazebo. Earlier in the day, he had road-tested the tool. Terri hadn’t taken all of her books yet, including several of her English textbooks. The chainsaw’s single slice into The Bedford Introduction to Literature (Eighth edition) was thrifty and punishing; Will’s hard target was the section “Approaches to Poetry” (p. 1067), which lay shredded in murdered verse on the garage floor. He considered cleaving The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson when he remembered he bought Terri the anthology. Sorry, Emily. In multiple cuts, the chainsaw dismembered 1,775 of her poems, all her dashes dashed, her lyrical stanzas pulverized. Will viewed the episode as his only successful approach to poetry.

His feet crunching leaves, he walked past his rotted wood pile and found cover in his neighbor’s yard in a cathedral of spring-green oaks, sprawling azaleas and finally, the Dunhams’ hedgerow of forsythias. As Dean snuffled about, Will eyed the five posts. He remembered his father telling him the right way to saw. He hadn’t listened.

Will assessed the wood pentagon above him and chose the gazebo’s post farthest from the house. A lefty, Will struggled at first with the wrap handle, but true to its hype, the chainsaw started on the first pull, unlike his mower. Will cut a groove in the post, and the saw sharked into the wood, spitting out shavings. One post down, four to go. Then two. But the early work, coupled with massive amounts of rum, left him prematurely fatigued. Will sat down on his neighbor’s grass, the chainsaw grumbling in neutral. He fought off early onset napping but granted himself a 20-minute restorative break. Then he rose to assault the deck’s third post.

Dean was the first to detect the intruder.

“Excuse me, can you tell me what you’re doing?”

Will looked up the slope. The Anne Arundel County sheriff’s deputy looked eight feet tall. He appeared to have left his neck at home. The young deputy billy-goated down into the woods toward the wounded gazebo. Will thought he might have taught the kid a few years back.

“We’ve had complaints from two neighbors who say they saw someone under the house here.” Will put the chainsaw down on the ground, nice and easy-like.

“Sir, do you want to shut it off?”

Will stipulated that, yes, he should turn the chainsaw off.

“The neighbors reported they saw someone sawing down this gazebo. Does that sound like something you would be doing out here?”

“Normally not. But today is different.”

Yup. Had him three years ago. Billy Snyder. Did not excel in algebra. Caught the kid opening a back window to my classroom so he could have a smoke while I was teaching. Probably had the Herps.

“I taught you,” Will said. “Algebra. Eleventh grade. Billy Snyder.”

“Deputy Snyder.”

“Deputy Snyder.”

“Have you been drinking, sir?”

“In abundance.”

While not technically a hobby, it was a decent starter crime. Will sawed two-fifths of a gazebo and, to his delight, the law was after him. Not something he and Terri could laugh about now, but they would laugh about this later.

“You gave me a D,” Deputy Snyder said.

“I didn’t give you a D. You gave yourself a D.” Even in the throes of possible alcohol poisoning, a teacher has a code.

“Screwed up my college apps.”

But look at you now – a cop, with a loaded weapon, and a genetically altered torso that did not require a neck. All coming back to him – the kid’s dad came in for a teacher conference, raised macho hell, claimed his son had turned in all of his homework. The forensic evidence was absent, and Will told both son and father he did not change grades.

“I don’t change my grades,” Will muttered under the gazebo. Dean had placed his head on the deputy’s black boot, as the man wrote a citation for William Philip Larkin, 29, of Anderson Woods, Annapolis. Trespassing. Malicious destruction of property. Public intoxication.

“Trespassing? I live next door,” Will said, his twisted pollen mask covering one ear like a headphone.

“Please read the back of the complaint before signing. You will be agreeing to appear in the District Court of Maryland.”

“Can’t you change the charge?”

“Mr. Larkin, I don’t change my reports,” the deputy said. “Out of curiosity, what are you doing out here?

“Fighting back.”

• • •

In the Anne Arundel School system, employees have 24 hours to the report to the Office of Investigations a charge, arrest or conviction for any offense. The school system, as Will learned after finally reading the employee handbook, took self-reporting very seriously. Depending on the severity of the offense, “administrative actions” could be taken, including a written reprimand, suspension or termination and loss of one’s teaching certification. The laundry list of offenses did, in fact, cover Will’s infractions: public intoxication, malicious destruction of property and trespassing. Twenty-one hours after his failed gazebo murder, Will turned himself in.

He contacted Lakeview’s assistant principal, Mr. Thomas Hull, who seemed to run the school more than the principal, a sour, hairless bureaucrat just riding out his string until retirement. As part of his pre-punishment, the math teacher had to listen to Hull lecture him on the school system’s ethical code. Hull said the superintendent would have to be notified, of course, and an internal investigation into the incident might result. Suspension or termination could result if a “nexus” existed between the charges against the employee and his “duties and responsibilities” with the school system, Hull said in closing.

“What do you mean by lexus?” Will asked. Given Hull’s mild speech impediment, Will misheard and, reasonably, couldn’t fathom why a luxury car was central to the deliberations. He clearly walked over to his neighbor’s yard. He didn’t roll over there in his Honda.

“Nexus – not Lexus,” the assistant principal said.

Thomas Hull was unusually curt with the employee and before ending their conversation, informed Will that his self-report file will be removed if the courts confirm by receipt a ruling of not guilty or an expungement of his offense. Until then or until the Office of Investigations concluded its review, he would be allowed to continue teaching until further notice. If, however, there was another incident requiring “criminal sanctions,” his teaching career could be irrevocably jeopardized.

“Goodbye, Will.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Hull.”

He had never been so happy to get off the phone with another human being.

Five weeks later, Will told his parents about the gazebo ambush but didn’t say a word about Terri leaving. One wrecking ball at a time. They brought penne pasta with tomatoes and olives to his house for Sunday dinner.

“You were arrested?”

“Technically. I was summoned to appear in court on trespassing and destruction of property charges.”

“This isn’t like you.”

Barb Larkin was mistress of the sublime, while Bill Larkin, retired attorney, was jungle hunter of trophy facts. His son did the best he could, given the humiliating circumstance, given he had been to court, admitted his guilt, fined $500 and handed 100 hours of community service.

“Judge give you a PBJ?” said his father.

“He did.”

“What’s that?” Barb Larkin said.

“Probation Before Judgment. I have to complete an anger management class and do community service at a soup kitchen, although I don’t think they call them soup kitchens anymore. I’m not sure what they call them. Maybe they don’t even serve soup.”

“The experience might broaden your worldview,” his mother ventured. Will was hoping his worldview had broadened enough lately.

Barb Larkin scooped out enough penne pasta for three dinner plates, a new, odd number. The Larkins sat around Will’s dining room table – the table Terri had picked out. Dean lowered the boom of his muzzle on Will’s foot. No one had much more to say about Will’s criminal case.

“I didn’t bring any dessert.”

“That’s OK, Mom.”

“How’s the other thing?” she said.

The Other Thing was code for his mother’s private worry. She knew boys drank in college, a sloppy rite of passage, but she also knew or hoped boys grew out of all that drinking. She knew Will hadn’t.

“That thing is under control, Worrier Queen.”

“Were you drinking when you destroyed your neighbor’s property? And I’m sorry but I do worry.”

“Yes, I was drinking.”

Will’s rental townhouse seemed quieter with more people in it. He hoped they didn’t notice two-thirds of the books were gone from the bookshelves – along with all of the artwork, most of the dishes, the finicky food processor, the hanging fuchsia on the front porch, and the smaller of the two flat screens. But how could they not? Terri had been his girl, and he had been her guy. Until today, their separation seemed like a mirage, as if she had simply gone for a long weekend with her girlfriends, some place out west like to a spa in Big Sur. Of course, his parents noticed her absence.

“Where’s Terri?” Bill Larkin announced. His courtroom voice always carried more in private than his wife would have preferred.

“She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“What does that mean? What the hell did you do?” he said. Barb Larkin reached across the table and covered her husband’s hand with hers. A step behind more than usual, he struggled to find a softer thought.

“Well, none of my business. You two will work it out.”

They said their goodbyes out front on the driveway, with Will promising to call. He couldn’t stand another minute in his home, so he walked around to the back deck where there were still two Adirondack chairs. Across the yard, the amputee gazebo was still standing and in between, a field of fireflies in synchronized spectacle. His wife left and he mowed down her literature and poetry books, tried to kill his neighbor’s gazebo, and was headed for anger management and community service.

What the hell did he do?