Small Town

“A country-music station. Or if there is then I can’t find it.”

“There’s one,” he said, “but it’s no good. Chirpy disc jockeys and nothing but Top Forty shit. You like country music? Hang on a minute.”

He got out his Bobby Bare album, the one where Shel Silverstein wrote all the songs. It was vinyl, so he put the A side on the turntable and adjusted the volume. After the third cut played he said, “You’ve got to hear this one,” which was unnecessary, as they’d listened to the first three in respectful silence.

The song was “Rosalie’s Good Eats Café,” a story song about the habitués of an all-night restaurant, and it ran over eight minutes, and when it ended he took the record off and put it away. “I just wanted you to hear that,” he said. “We’ll listen to the rest another time.”

“I can see why you like that song. I mean, besides the fact that it’s terrific. It’s a novel, isn’t it?”

“That’s exactly what it is. There was a DJ who played that cut all the time. He got in trouble, because he wasn’t getting enough commercials in, but he played it anyway. You’re too young to remember.”

“The other day your lawyer told me I was too young to remember To Have and Have Not. The movie, not the novel. I remember it just fine.”

“Because they show it on television. That album was released in 1973. Were you listening to much country music in 1973?”

“I was eight, so what would I have been listening to? Supertramp. God, do you remember that group? No, of course not, you’re too old to remember Supertramp.”

“Touché. I remember the Bobby Bare album because I was a college freshman, and that one song made me realize I wanted to be a writer.”

“Really?”

“Well, I already half knew, but that closed the sale. I realized I wanted to tell stories. Can I ask you something? And what’s so funny?”

“Can you ask me something? Duh, no, I don’t want to reveal anything of myself to you. Ask away.”

“You started off thinking I killed her. Marilyn Fairchild.”

“Well, it’s more like I assumed it.”

“What changed your mind? Reading my books?”

“That’s how I got to know you.”

“And you sensed that the person who wrote those books couldn’t commit murder.”

She was silent for a moment. “No,” she said. “Not exactly.”

“Oh?”

“One thing I got from the books,” she said, “is that anybody could commit murder. Not that there’s a lot of killing in your work, but you get the sense, well, that anybody is pretty much capable of anything.”

“I guess I believe that. I didn’t realize it was a message I was sending.”

“It’s one I got. There was one story, ‘A Nice Place to Visit,’ except that’s not right. This young couple, they’re in a motel—”

“ ‘A Nice Place to Stop.’ God, you’re amazing.”

“What, because I remember a story?”

“It’s the book I’m writing,” he said, and explained. She said she couldn’t wait to read it, and he said it was almost done, he’d reached that point where it was all clear in his mind and it was just a matter of getting it down right. And then he asked her again how she knew he was innocent.

“You said you didn’t do it,” she said simply.

“The prisons are full of people who’ll tell you they never did a bad thing in their lives.”

“But I don’t believe them. I believe you.”

He looked at her, thinking what a treasure she was, thinking how brave she’d been, willing to risk it all in order to let him see her real self. Did he dare to be any less daring himself?

“Come here a moment,” he said, leading her to the bookcase. “I don’t know if you happened to notice this.”

“The rabbit? Yes, I was looking at it before. It’s southwestern, isn’t it? Zuni, although they’re not the only ones carving them nowadays. May I?” He nodded, and she picked it up. “I think it’s very good. The stone’s beautiful, and the carving’s perfectly realistic, and not decadent the way some of them are. Not Roman Empire decadent, but when you know the artist is just going through the motions. Is it the only fetish you have?”

“Unless you want to count an enthusiasm for women with shaved twats and nipple rings.”

“Well, it’s a nice one, and I’m glad to see you’re taking good care of it. Cornmeal?”

“Stone ground.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Gristedes.”

“Idiot. Where did you get the rabbit? Were you in that part of the country, or did you buy it locally?”

“Neither,” he said. “I brought it home from Marilyn Fairchild’s apartment.”

As he spoke, a line ran through her head. A catchphrase, it had turned up everywhere for a while, until people got tired of it.

I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.

Listening, she could feel his hands on her throat.

Her heart was beating faster, but the cause could as easily have been excitement as fear. Maybe the two weren’t so different, maybe that explained the appeal of roller coasters and scary movies.

When he’d finished she said, “But you don’t remember killing her.”

“No, but I can imagine it vividly enough. Maybe that’s a form of memory.”

“Do you always imagine it the same way?”

He shook his head. “Different versions.”