Too Close to Home

“Well, you’re not particularly talkative, you drive around in a truck these days cutting people’s grass, you used to spend your days driving Randy around, but there’s a lot more going on inside there,” and he pointed at my head, “than anyone would give you credit for.”

“Really.”

“You’re a very insightful guy. I’m betting you were a serious kid. You don’t talk much about growing up.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“Interesting thing about the brain, though. People like you, there’s a large part of it that can be tapped for creativity. But you’ve decided not to tap into it anymore.”

“I need to make a living,” I said.

Conrad nodded, as though he understood. “I feel I’ve done that a bit myself. Running Thackeray, all this administrative shit, when I should be tapping into that creative side. That’s the kind of thing that fulfills us, that nurtures us.”

Or maybe tapping into someone else’s creativity, I thought.

“Anyway, what’s on your mind?” he asked, putting the Promise Falls painting at the front of the pile.

“I had something I think should be passed on to Barry Duckworth,” I said, “but Ellen felt you were entitled to know about it first.”

“Really?” His eyebrows rose a notch. “And what might this be about?”

“You remember a student you had, about ten years ago, by the name of Brett Stockwell?”

“Of course,” he said without hesitation. I guess I was hoping he’d briefly pretend to forget, say the boy’s name a couple of times like he was struggling to remember. “Brilliant student, absolutely brilliant,” he offered. “A terrible tragedy. He committed suicide, you know.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

“I was stunned. Although, at the same time, I wasn’t totally shocked.”

“Really? Why was that?”

“Sometimes, very creative people are very troubled as well. Creativity’s more than a gift, Jim. It can be a curse. I don’t have to tell you.” He gestured again at my paintings. “You’ve had your downslopes, am I right? Times with the black dog? You have all these thoughts you want to get out, but if there’s not an avenue, no outlet, that can be terribly damaging.”

“So you’re saying you saw signs. With Brett.”

Conrad shrugged. “Well, Brett was moody. I remember that. Hard on himself. Like whatever he did, it wasn’t good enough. That line, that idea in your head, it never seems quite as good when you get it down on paper.” He paused. “So what makes you bring up Brett Stockwell?”

“Did you ever know his mother, Agnes?”

“I met her at the funeral, of course. I went to the service for Brett, and I can still see her there, standing over his coffin, crying. And so alone. Her husband was already dead.”

“She’s one of our customers,” I said. “Derek and I look after her yard.”

“Isn’t that nice,” Conrad said.

God, I just wanted to kill him right then and there. Get my lawn tractor out and run right over the smug fuck.

“She says you were very kind to her after her son died. Sent her flowers, even some concert tickets.”

He nodded, remembering, but there was something in his look that told me he was unnerved that I knew this.

“Agnes, she’s hung on to a lot of Brett’s things over the years,” I continued, “couldn’t bear to part with them, but a few weeks ago, she gave his old computer to Derek. Derek and Adam, the Langley boy, they liked to mess around with old computers.”

“Is that so,” Conrad said. He was running his hand again over the hedge trimmer, looping his finger over the trigger, squeezing, nothing happening because it wasn’t plugged in.

“Brett, he was evidently quite the writer, as you already know, having taught him. And on this computer, there’s an entire book.”

Slowly, Conrad said, “That’s not too surprising. I’d be surprised if there weren’t a book, or two or three, on his computer. He had ambitions to become a novelist.”

“All the boys found was the one, as far as I know. It’s about a man named Nicholas who wakes up one day to find his plumbing a bit rearranged.”

Conrad’s eyebrows floated upward. “No shit? Seriously?”

“He wakes up with a pussy instead of a dick.”

“I’m familiar with the story,” Conrad said. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“The computer that this was on, it was in the Langley house as recently as a couple of days ago. But it’s not there now.”

Conrad remained stone-faced. “I still don’t understand.”

“Frankly, neither do I. How does your book end up on a dead kid’s computer? How does it end up there a couple of years before your book even comes out? So I was thinking, it would make sense to bring this to Barry’s attention. Let him figure it out. But Ellen said I should talk to you about it first. That there might be a very simple explanation.” I paused. “As a courtesy.”

Conrad’s cheeks looked flushed, but his voice remained very even. “I don’t want to seem incredibly thick here, Jim, but I’m still having a little trouble understanding this. If this so-called computer you say your son was given is missing, how can you be so informed about what’s on it?”

I swallowed. “Because my son made a-” And then I stopped myself. I was overplaying my hand.