No Time for Goodbye Part 43

I had one last conversation with Vince. "The ambulance has to be here anytime now," I said. "Are you going to make it?"

Vince was a big man, a strong man, and I thought he had a better chance than most of hanging on. "Go save your wife and girl," he said. "And if you find that b.i.t.c.h in the wheelchair, shove her into traffic." He paused. "Gun in the truck. Should have had it on me. Stupid."

I touched his forehead. "You're going to make it."

"Go," he whispered.

To Clayton, I said, "That Honda in the driveway. It runs?"

"Sure," Clayton said. "That's my car. I haven't driven much since I took sick."

"I'm not sure we should take Vince's truck," I said. "The cops are going to be looking for it. People saw me drive away from the hospital. The cops'll have a description, a license plate."

He nodded, pointed to a small decorative dish on a buffet near the front door. "Should be a set of keys there," he said.

"Give me a second," I said.

I ran around to the back of the house and opened up the Dodge pickup. There were quite a few storage compartments in the cab. In the doors, between the seats, plus the glove box. I started looking through all of them. In the bottom of the center console unit, under a stack of maps, I found the gun.

I didn't know a lot about guns, and I certainly didn't feel confident tucking one into the waistband of my pants. I already had enough problems to deal with without adding a self-inflicted injury to the list. Using Clayton's key, I unlocked the Honda, got into the driver's seat, and put the gun in the glove compartment. I started up the car, drove it right up onto the lawn, getting the car as close to the front door as I could.

Clayton emerged from the house, took tentative steps toward me. I leapt out, ran around the car, got the pa.s.senger door open, and helped him get inside. I pulled out the seat belt, leaned over him and buckled it into place.

"Okay," I said, getting back into the driver's seat. "Let's go."

I drove right across the yard and onto the road, turned right onto Main, heading north. "Just made it," Clayton said. An ambulance, followed closely by two police cars, lights flas.h.i.+ng but sirens silent, sped south. Just past the bar where Vince and I had stopped earlier, I headed east to get us back on the Robert Moses.

Once on the highway, I was tempted to floor it, but was still worried about getting pulled over. I settled on a comfortable speed, above the limit, but not high enough to attract that much attention.

I waited until we were past Buffalo, heading due east to Albany. I can't say that by then I was relaxed, but once we'd put some distance between ourselves and Youngstown, I felt the likelihood that we would get pulled over for what happened at the hospital, or what the police found at the Sloan home, diminis.h.i.+ng.

That was when I turned to Clayton, who'd been sitting very quietly, his head leaned back and resting on the headrest, and said, "So let's hear it. All of it."

"Okay," he said, and cleared his throat in preparation.

44.

The marriage was predicated on a lie.

The first marriage, Clayton explained. Well, the second one, too. He'd get to that one soon enough. It was a long drive back to Connecticut. Plenty of time to cover everything.

But he talked about his marriage to Enid first. A girl he'd known in high school, in Tonawanda, a Buffalo suburb. Then he went to Canisius College, the one founded by the Jesuits, took business courses with a sprinkling of philosophy and religious studies. Wasn't that far away; of course, he could have lived at home and commuted, but he got a cheap room just off campus, figured even if you didn't go far away for college, you at least had to get out from under your parents' roof.

When he finished, who was waiting for him in the old neighborhood but Enid. They started dating, and he could see that she was a strong-willed girl, used to getting what she wanted from those around her. She used what she had to her advantage. She was attractive, possessed a terrific body, had a strong s.e.xual appet.i.te, at least during their early courts.h.i.+p.

One night, teary-eyed, she tells him she's late. "Oh no," Clayton Sloan says. He thinks first of his own parents, how ashamed they will be of him. So concerned about appearance, and then something like this, their boy getting a girl pregnant, his mother would want to move out so she wouldn't have to hear the neighbors talking.

So there wasn't much else to do but get married. And right away.

A couple of months after that, she says she's not feeling well, says she's making an appointment to see her physician, Dr. Gibbs was his name. She goes to the doctor alone, comes home, says she lost it. The baby's gone. Lots of tears. One day, Clayton's in the diner, sees Dr. Gibbs, goes over to him and says, "I know I shouldn't be asking you this here, that I should make an appointment, but Enid, losing the baby and all, she'll still be able to have another one, right?"

And Dr. Gibbs says, "Huh?"

So now he has an idea what he's dealing with. A woman who'll say anything, tell any kind of lie, to get what she wants.

He should have left then. But Enid tells him she's so sorry, that she thought she was pregnant, but was afraid to go to the doctor to have it confirmed, and then she turned out to be wrong. Clayton doesn't know whether to believe her, and again worries about the shame he will bring on himself and his family by leaving Enid, starting divorce proceedings. And for a while there, Enid takes sick, is bedridden. Real or feigned, he's not sure, but knows he can't leave her when she is like this.

The longer he stays, the harder it seems to be to leave. He learns quickly that what Enid wants, Enid gets. When she doesn't, there's h.e.l.l to pay. Screaming fits, smas.h.i.+ng things. One time, he's sitting in the bathtub, Enid's in there with her electric hair dryer, starts joking around about dropping it into the water. But there's something in her eyes, something that suggests that she could do it, just like that, wouldn't have to think twice.

He puts his business education to use, gets a job in sales, supplying machine shops and factories. It's going to have him driving all over the country, a corridor running between Chicago and New York that skirts past Buffalo. He's going to be away a lot, his prospective employer warns him. That's the clincher for Clayton. Time away from the harping, the screaming, the odd looks she sometimes gives him that suggest the gears inside her head aren't always mes.h.i.+ng the way they're supposed to. He always dreads the drive home after a sales trip, wondering what list of grievances Enid will have prepared for him the moment he walks through the door. How she doesn't have enough nice clothes, or he's not working hard enough, or the back door squeaks when you open it, it's driving her mad. The only thing that makes returning home worthwhile is seeing his Irish setter, Flynn. He always comes running out to greet Clayton's car, like he's been sitting on the porch from the moment he left, waiting for the second he returns.

Then she becomes pregnant. The real deal this time. A baby boy. Jeremy. How she loves that boy. Clayton loves him, too, but soon realizes it's a compet.i.tion. Enid wants the boy's love exclusively, and begins, when Jeremy is barely walking, her campaign to poison the father's relations.h.i.+p with his son. If you want to grow up strong and successful, Enid tells him, he'll need to follow her example, that it's too bad there's no strong male role model under this roof. She tells him his father doesn't do enough for her, and how it's a sad thing that Jeremy has his looks, but that's a handicap, over time, he can learn to surmount, with effort.

Clayton wants out.

But there's something about Enid, this darkness about her, that to even hint at the subject of divorce, even some kind of separation, there's no predicting how she'll handle it.

Once, before leaving on one of his extended sales trips, he says he needs to talk to her. About something serious.

"I'm not happy," he says. "I don't think this is working out."

She doesn't cry. She doesn't ask what's wrong. She doesn't ask what she could do to help the marriage, to make him happy.

What she does is, she gets up close to him, looks deep into his eyes. He wants to look away, but can't, as though mesmerized by her evil. Looking into her eyes, it's like looking into the soul of the devil. All she says is, "You will never never leave me." And walks out of the room. leave me." And walks out of the room.

He thinks about that on his trip. We'll see about that, he tells himself. We'll just see.

When he returns, his dog does not run out to greet him. When he opens the garage door to put away the Plymouth, there is Flynn, a rope drawn tightly around his neck, hanging from the rafters.

All Enid says to him is, "Good thing it was just the dog."

For all she loves Jeremy, she's willing to let Clayton believe the boy's at risk should he ever decide to leave her.

Clayton Sloan resigns himself to this life of misery and humiliation and emasculation. This is what he's signed on for, and he's going to have to make the best of it. He'll sleepwalk through life if that is what he has to do.

He works hard at not despising the boy. Jeremy's mother has brainwashed him into thinking his father is unworthy of his affections. He sees his father as useless, just a man who lives in the house with him and his mother. But Clayton knows Jeremy is as much a victim of Enid as he is.

How can his life have turned out like this? he wonders.

There are numerous occasions when Clayton considers taking his own life.

He's driving across the country in the dead of night. Coming back from Chicago, rounding the bottom of Lake Michigan, doing that short stretch through Indiana. He sees a bridge abutment up ahead and bears down on the accelerator. Seventy miles an hour, then eighty, ninety. The Plymouth begins to float. Hardly anyone wears seat belts, and even if they did, he's unbuckled his, thereby a.s.suring that he'll go through the winds.h.i.+eld and perish. The car eases over onto the shoulder, spewing gravel and dust behind it, but then, at the last minute, he veers back onto the highway, chickens out.

One time, couple of miles west of Battle Creek, he loses his nerve, steers back onto the road, but at that high speed, when the front right tire catches the ridge where shoulder meets pavement, he loses control. The car veers across two lanes, right into the path of a semi, plows into the median, coming to a stop in high gra.s.s.

What usually makes him change his mind is Jeremy. His son. He's afraid to leave him alone with her.

He has to make a stop in Milford one time. On the prowl for some new clients, new businesses to supply.

He goes into a drugstore to buy a candy bar, and there is a woman behind the counter. Wearing a little name tag that says "Patricia."

She is beautiful. Reddish hair.

She seems so nice. So genuine.

There's something about her eyes. A gentleness. A kindness. After spending the last few years trying so hard not to look into Enid's dark eyes, to now see a pair so beautiful, he feels light-headed.

He takes a long time to buy that chocolate bar. Makes small talk about the weather, how only a couple of days earlier he'd been in Chicago, how he's on the road so much of the time. And then he says something before he's even aware he's said it. "Would you like to have some lunch?"

Patricia smiles, says if he wants to come back in thirty minutes, she gets an hour off.

For that half hour, as he wanders the shops of Milford's downtown, he asks himself what the h.e.l.l he's doing. He's married. He has a wife and a son and a house and a job.

But none of it adds up to a life. That's what he wants. A life.

Patricia tells him over a tuna sandwich in a nearby coffee shop that she doesn't go to lunch with men she's just met, but there's something about him that intrigues her.

"What's that?" he asks.

"I think I know your secret," she says. "I get a feeling about people, and I got a feeling about you."

Good G.o.d. Is it that obvious? Can she divine that he's married? Is she a mind reader? Even though when he first met her, he'd been wearing gloves, and now has his wedding ring tucked into his pocket?

"What sort of feeling?" he asks.

"You seem troubled to me. Is that why you're driving back and forth across the country? Are you looking for something?"

"It's just my job," he says.

And Patricia smiles. "I wonder. If it's led you here, to Milford, maybe it's for a reason. Maybe you're driving all over the country because you're supposed to find something. I'm not saying it's me. But something."

But it is her. He's sure of it.

He tells her his name is Clayton Bigge. It's like he has the idea before he actually knows he has the idea. Maybe, at first, he was just thinking about having an affair, and having a fake name, that wasn't a bad plan, even for an affair.

For the next few months, if his sales trips only take him as far south as Torrington, he drives the extra distance south to Milford to see Patricia.

She adores him. She makes him feel important. She makes him feel as though he has some worth.

Driving back on the New York Thruway, he considers the logistics.

The company was rejigging some of the sales routes. He could get the one that ran between Hartford and Buffalo. Drop going to Chicago. That way, at each end of the run...

And there's the money question.

But Clayton's doing well. He's already been taking extraordinary measures to conceal from Enid how much money he has tucked away. It would never matter how much he made, it would never be enough for her. She'd always belittle him. And she'd always spend it. So he might as well tuck some aside.

It might be enough, he thinks. Just enough, for a second household.

How wonderful it will be, for at least half the time, to be happy.

Patricia says yes when he asks her to marry him. Her father had already died, but her mother seems happy enough. Her sister Tess, though, she never warms to him. It's as though she knows there's something off about him, but she can't put her finger on just what it is. He knows she doesn't trust him, that she never will, and he is especially careful around her. And he knows that Tess has told Patricia how she feels, but Patricia loves him, genuinely loves him, and always defends him.

When he and Patricia go to buy rings, he maneuvers her into picking a wedding band for him identical to the one he has in his pocket. Later, he returns it to the store, gets his money back, and is able to wear the one ring he already has, all the time. He fraudulently fills out applications for a variety of munic.i.p.al and state licenses, everything from a driver's license to a library card-it's a lot less tricky then than in a post-9/11 world-so he can bamboozle the marriage license office when the time comes.

He must deceive Patricia, but he tries to be good to her. At least when he is home.

She gives him two children. A boy first. They name him Todd. And then, a couple of years later, a baby girl they christen Cynthia.

It is an astonis.h.i.+ng juggling act.

A family in Connecticut. A family in upstate New York. Back and forth between the two.

When he's Clayton Bigge, he can't stop thinking about when he will have to return to being Clayton Sloan. And when he's Clayton Sloan, he can't stop thinking about hitting the road again so he can become Clayton Bigge.

Being Sloan is easier. At least that's his honest-to-G.o.d name. He doesn't have to worry so much about identification. His license, his papers, they're legitimate.

But when he's in Milford, when he's Clayton Bigge, husband to Patricia, father of Todd and Cynthia, he's always on his guard. Doing the speed limit. Making sure there's money in the meter. He doesn't want anyone running a check on his license plate. Every time he drives to Connecticut, he pulls off the road someplace secluded, takes off the orangey-yellow New York plates, puts a stolen blue Connecticut plate on the back of the car in its place. Puts the New York plates back on when he goes to Youngstown. Has to always be thinking, watch out where he makes long-distance calls from, make sure he doesn't buy something as Clayton Sloan and give his Milford address without thinking.

Always uses cash. No paper trail.

Everything about his life is false. His first marriage is built on a lie told by Enid. His second marriage is founded on lies he's told to Patricia. But despite all the falsehoods, all the duplicity, has he managed to find any true happiness, were there any moments when he- "I have to pee," Clayton said, stopping his story.

"Huh?" I said.

"I gotta take a leak. Unless you want me to go right here in the car."

We'd recently pa.s.sed a sign promising a service center any time now. "There's something coming up," I said. "How you feeling?"

"Not so good," he said. He coughed a few times. "I need some water. And I could use some more Tylenols."

I hadn't thought to bring any bottles of water, given how quickly we had left his house. We'd been making pretty good time on the thruway. It was nearly four in the morning and we were closing in on Albany. The Honda, as it turned out, needed gas, so a pit stop was a good idea all around.

I helped Clayton shuffle into the men's room, waited for him to do his business at the urinal, a.s.sisted him back to the car. The short trip drained him. "You stay here and I'll get some water," I said.

I bought a six-pack of water, ran it back out to the car, cracked open the plastic cap on one of them and handed it to Clayton. He took a long drink, then took the four Tylenols I'd put into his hand and downed them one at a time. Then I drove over to the gas pumps and filled up, using almost all of the cash in my wallet. I was worried about using a credit card, fearful that police had figured out who'd taken Clayton out of the hospital, and that they'd be watching for any transactions by my credit card.

As I got back into the car, I thought that maybe it was time to let Rona Wedmore know what was going on. I felt, the more Clayton talked, the closer I was getting to the truth that would, once and for all, end Wedmore's suspicions about Cynthia. I dug around in the front pocket of my jeans and found the card she'd given me during her surprise visit to the house the previous morning, before I'd gone looking for Vince Fleming.