Mantua Bay (7)
7
He rejoined the accident on Joshua Street in time to see Shawn Lipman’s body get zipped up and wheeled away. The overturned car had vanished without a trace, and Lee assumed the police already had it impounded. A good thing too, he felt. The contents of that vehicle troubled him greatly, and he was in no mindset to discuss it, lest incur the risk of being brought downtown himself for being certifiably insane. There wasn’t much else for him to do, but Lee saw to it that the proper accident report documents were filled out on behalf of the young dead officer. He guided Austin and Julia through the checkboxes as if they had never filled out a form before.
Shawn Lipman had still been breathing an hour ago, yet news of his death spread tremendously. All the county papers were picking up the incident, and with township planning already in place for a massive vigil, Lipman’s death was geared to be the tragedy of the summer. The kid had been a local favorite in high school; Lee remembered his football prowess making headlines some years ago. As starting quarterback Lipman had led the Mantua Mavericks to two state and three divisional championships. Texas Christian picked him up on a full scholarship, but he’d go on to plateau as a red-shirt freshman.
With all paperwork in order and nothing further to say, Lee extended his regards to the police and congratulated Austin and Julia on a job nicely done. The lifeguard headquarters would be desolate at this time of day (his secretary Mindy only worked half-days Wednesday) and Lee was delighted at the idea of being alone the rest of that afternoon.
He turned in the direction of his pickup to find a man leaning against the bed. The day had regained a thick humidity following the squall that had washed away spectators from Shawn Lipman, yet this man wore a full suit. The formal dress threw him off some, but Lee guessed he was a few shades under forty, perhaps thirty-seven or eight. Dark close-cropped hair had greyed on the sides where bristled beginnings of sideburns grew. The blue jacket and slacks were immaculately pressed as if he’d slipped them on a moment before. His purple tie, however, sported what appeared to be a fresh mustard stain which had run, and formed a comma shape under the Windsor knot.
“Lee Coslet?” The man extended a hand. Lee took it in his and nearly recoiled from the stark cold of silver jewelry: a ring engraved with the body of a fox sat on the right index finger.
“You presume right, sir. Lee Coslet, Mantua Bay Beach Patrol Chief. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”
“Lemuel Christopher Bennett, U.S. government. Please, just call me Chris.”
“Sure thing. Er—do you happen to have a handkerchief handy, Chris from the U.S. government?” Lee pointed at the man’s tie.
Chris brought his chin chest-level to get a look, sighing deeply at the mustard. In two swift, aggravated motions, he unknotted the soiled tie, folded it up, and stuffed it into a pocket. “Goddamn Aunt Anne pretzel nuggets. Word to the wise, do not ever drive on the Garden State Parkway while you’re hungry.”
“They’ll get you every time. Sorry about that tie though.”
Chris shrugged. “Gift from an ex-girlfriend.” He indicated the black car parked across the street. “Can we go for a quick ride? It’s about the car.” Lee eyed the car with its government tags and tinted windows that seemed to leer with officious self-awareness and frowned.
“About that car?”
Chris grinned shyly and stuck in his hands in his pockets. “No, sir. Not mine. The one that crashed next to where we’re standing. The one with that odd custom job inside. I’d also like to talk about June 1970.”
******
He thrust his office window open, a lit Winston hanging from his mouth. Lee stopped smoking regularly ages ago, but there were moments when only a Winston could help him think. An emergency pack hid well in his desk for times like that. He thought of the day’s tragedy, the fresh cigarette burning between his fingers. No one he spoke to that day would’ve been old enough to remember that summer forty-seven years ago, that June when he’d first gotten the taste of strangeness in Mantua Bay. Things never felt right again after 1970; it was a feeling he’d been living alongside something ungovernable, unruly, even unforgiving. The tragedy on Joshua Street aligned well with what he experienced in ‘70, and Lee had no doubt there would be more problems to come. Certainly, Chris Bennett had no doubt.
The drut was out toward the limits of the yard where a see-saw teetered in motion. Tin cans and bottle shards splayed through weeds. Lee could tell from where he stood that the rusty see-saw was a piece of garbage like everything else around him. He navigated his way through the high weeds, feeling an uneasy fascination come over him. The see-saw teetered this way and the other, yet wasn’t making a sound. Even in their better-loved times, one would expect to hear that mechanical whine from the foundation of a playground seesaw. Yet this one teetered briskly to the left and right in utter silence.
Lee grimaced, having inattentively stomped over a sharp fragment of a mason jar with the bare sole of his foot, yet did not take his eye off the see-saw and its incessant movement. He spread the final patch of weeds curtaining his access to the machine—the drut may as well have been coming through a PA system for how loud it had become—and felt a hotness in his crotch at the sight of what hid on the other side. A little girl lied in a sprawl in front of the see-saw. At least, what was left of her. Her face had sunk in like it had been slow- cooking all morning. The hands and feet looked the same, melted down, like they’d been taken out of a Good Humor truck and left to thaw in the sun. The only thing Lee could use to determine her sex was the dress. Red and white checkers. Like a tablecloth.
Lee turned away, bent over, and wretched, voiding himself of the lunch his mother had made what felt like several days ago. For a while after the nausea passed, Lee still hung toward the ground bent over, arms at his sides, looking down at remnants of tuna salad, rye bread, and Tahitian Treat. He couldn’t decide whether he should leave, or if he did, where he should go. Covered in his own urine, and catching his breath, he sat in the grass, his back to the girl in the checkered dress. He wanted to cry, but no tears would come. He knew that if he tried to yell, he’d have no voice. The expulsion of fluids from his body had seemed to render motor skills useless. Worse than that, he felt himself begin to lose consciousness.
The Mantua police cruisers went out looking for him later that day, and each one that passed Earl’s Court gave it a quick glance before passing it by, as the blue Schwinn no longer stood parked within the bend of the cul-de-sac.
