American Boy - Larry Watson [66]
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m giving them a chance to stop whatever they’re doing.”
“That’s real thoughtful of you. But that was loud enough to stop folks on the other side of town from what they’re doing.”
Johnny took a deep breath and opened the door.
“You want me to come with you?” I asked again.
He turned back to me with a look colder than anything the north wind had blown my way. “You might as well. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? To see her?” He wasn’t stupid. I climbed out of the car and trailed after my friend like a dog who had no will but its master’s.
Before we could knock on the door of cabin eight, its curtains fluttered, a light went on inside, and the door opened. There was Dr. Dunbar. I’d just seen a look on his son’s face that I’d never seen before, and now the father wore an equally unfamiliar expression. There was anger, certainly, but also befuddlement—as if, for the first time in his life, Rex Dunbar didn’t know what he should say or do next.
“Johnny? Johnny? What the hell are you doing here?” The doctor was no longer wearing the suit and tie he’d worn that morning to church. He answered the door in stocking feet, trousers, and an undershirt. Immediately his glance traveled past both his son and me, as if he were trying to see through the car’s frosted windows and determine whether his wife had also made this journey.
“Mom said we should find you....”
“I talked to your mother not an hour ago. She didn’t say anything about you....” He pulled his hand back through his hair, but his curls failed to settle back in place. “You drove through that storm?”
Johnny said, “It wasn’t that bad,” then stopped himself. “Mom was scared. She was worried that you might have gone off the road or something.”
The doctor’s wide shoulders blocked the doorway, but I tried to look inside the room. She was in there, I knew she was.
“Your mother knew this was an emergency. She knew I had to—. Oh, hell. I’ll have to go through all this again with her anyway.” Then he glanced back over his shoulder as if he noticed where I was staring. “Come on inside while I figure out what the hell we’re going to do.”
The cabin’s only light came from a floor lamp with a yellowed lamp shade, so every corner remained in shadow. The logs that had been whitewashed on the cabin’s exterior were left unpainted on the interior, and those heavy rolls of dark varnished wood—complete with knotholes and splinters—made it feel almost as if we’d stepped into a dim forest grove.
Most of the floor was covered with ratty, threadbare carpet, but an incongruous rectangle of linoleum protruded from under the bed. The bed was a double, covered with a blue and white striped pincord spread. The pillows barely made a bump at the head of the bed, and an army green wool blanket was folded at the foot. After careful but very quick study, I concluded that the bed’s covering had not been pulled back, but it was also possible that the spread had been hastily smoothed.
There was no closet, but a tubular steel rack had been screwed to one of the logs, and there hung the doctor’s suit coat, shirt, and tie. His overcoat was flung over a sagging, stained armchair, and under the coat’s tweed two other fabrics peeked out—the red and black plaid of Louisa’s mackinaw and the floral print of her dress.
I found this pile of clothing suggestive. First, off came Louisa’s coat and then her dress. Only after she was down to her slip, bra, and panties, did the doctor remove his overcoat. After all, while Louisa’s clothes could be carelessly tossed aside, the doctor’s garments—purchased, of course, in Minneapolis or Chicago—had to be carefully hung. I couldn’t see shoes or boots anywhere, but they could have been hurriedly kicked under the bed once it was discovered that the doctor’s son was outside. The bathroom door was closed, and inside was Louisa Lindahl. Of that I had no doubt.
Across from the bed was a tall chest of drawers, and resting on top was a pint of Jim