Too Close to Home

I pulled up out front of the Burgess house-I had yet to learn the man’s first name-and killed the engine. It was a simple, one-story home with a carport at the side, sitting about ten yards back from the street on a small lot. The treeless yard was well kept, not a dandelion or blade of crabgrass in sight. An older model Toyota and a new Civic sat in the driveway. Before I could knock on the glass-and-aluminum storm door, a man appeared there. In his early sixties, I guessed, thin, with hair to match. If he weren’t slightly round shouldered, he might have been six feet.

He opened the door a crack. “You’re Mr. Cutter?” he said.

“That’s right.”

He glanced at the truck and back again. “Kind of a good name for your line of work.” I smiled. He was the first to notice, today. “I’m not in the market for a lawn service, if that’s what this is about.”

“No, it’s not about that,” I said.

“Well, come in, then,” he said, but his tone was not welcoming.

He led me to a small kitchen and directed me to take a seat at an old Formica-topped table. “I’d offer you some coffee but it’s just so hot.” There was no air-conditioning on in the house, and it was bordering on stifling, even with the windows open.

“That’s okay, Mr. Burgess,” I said. “Thanks for taking the time to see me.”

“My name’s Walter,” he said.

“Walter,” I repeated. “So you teach English at Promise Falls High.” Derek went to one of Promise Falls’s other high schools, closer to where we lived, so I wouldn’t have heard of this guy.

“Well, I did. I’m retired.”

“I didn’t realize,” I said. “Been retired long?”

“Four years now,” he said.

“Well,” I said, giving him an obvious once-over, “it seems to agree with you.” I was about to ask whether there was a Mrs. Burgess, but some sixth sense told me not to.

As if on cue, I heard someone coming up a set of steps from the basement. Another man, about the same age as Burgess and as neatly dressed, but heavier, and with slightly more hair, appeared at the kitchen door. He, too, gave me the kind of warm look you might reserve for someone with the IRS.

“Trey,” Walter said, “this is Mr. Cutter. Mr. Cutter, Trey Watson.”

“Hello,” I said. Trey barely nodded.

I didn’t know what Trey’s relationship to Walter was, and wasn’t about to ask. But then Walter said, “Trey and I share this house.”

“Great,” I said.

“What’s this about?” Trey asked. It was the first he’d spoken.

“Mr. Cutter hasn’t quite gotten to that yet, but I’m given to understand it involves one of my former students.”

“For Christ’s sake, Walter, get him the fuck out of here.” Trey turned on me. “He’s been through enough. What trumped-up story you here to peddle?”

I looked from Trey to Walter. “I’m afraid I don’t know what he’s talking about. I came here to ask you about a student you once had named Brett Stockwell. Do you remember him?”

“Of course,” he said cautiously.

“He was one of yours, right?”

“Yes, I remember him.”

“He committed suicide ten years ago,” I said.

“Yes, I know,” he said.

“You see?” said Trey. “He’s going to find a way to blame you for that.”

“Trey,” Walter said gently, “why don’t you give me and Mr. Cutter a minute and afterwards I’ll make us some lunch.”

“Just not tuna,” Trey said. “You made that yesterday.”

“I was thinking maybe chicken salad.”

Trey grumbled something neither of us could hear, meandered through the kitchen, disappeared into another part of the house, and then we both heard a back door open and close.

“Sorry about that,” Walter said.

“That’s okay. Brett Stockwell,” I reminded him.

“Jumped off Promise Falls. I remember. Very tragic.” Walter Burgess looked genuinely saddened.

“Brett’s mother said you were very supportive of his writing.”

“Look,” Burgess said, “we don’t get a lot of drop-in company here, Trey and I, what with both our families pretty much disowning us, so it’s quite lovely and all to have someone drop by who wants to chat, but I don’t understand what you’re doing here. Are you related to Brett? I know you’re not his father. I remember meeting his father, back at parent-teacher nights. Besides, I think he died before Brett did.”

“No, I’m not his father. I’m not a relative.”

Burgess’s eyebrows soared for a moment. “So?” he said. “A stranger, no offense, drops by, asking about a student I had more than a decade ago. I don’t get it. It’s no wonder Trey thinks you’re here to do me harm.”

I said, “I don’t mean to do you any harm whatsoever.”

“I have my reasons for being cautious.”

“Okay then,” I said. “My son, Derek, he likes to collect old computers. Tinkers with them, fixes them up. He was given an old computer that Agnes Stockwell, Brett’s mother, had tucked away in her garage. She was probably going to throw it out eventually, but when Derek expressed an interest in it, she let him take it. When he was looking through what was on the hard drive, I guess it was, he found something kind of interesting.”

Burgess leaned forward a little. He looked more than curious. He looked apprehensive. “What was that?” he asked.

“A book. A novel. There was a novel on the computer.”