Facets. Part 8

Cutter snorted again but didn't say another word. He thought it was fine and dandy for Eugene St. George to talk about earning money. He lived an easy life, had everything he needed, and if there was something he wanted, all he had to do was open the company till and help himself. No one would call him a thief. No one would come running after him, threatening to lock him up. Some people had it made in life, that was all there was to it, and Cutter wasn't one of them. He couldn't earn decent money because he wasn't trained for a d.a.m.n thing. The only jobs he could get were ones any idiot could hold. They always bored him so he quit.

Eugene was heading out of town, not in the direction of the big brick home or the gem pits but in the opposite direction, the one that was familiar to Cutter. "Where are we goin'?"

"Your place." He peered through the windshield. "Is this the turn?"

Instantly Cutter was wary. Folks from town came to his place only when something was wrong, like when his daddy ran the old truck into a tree or when his mama died. "Why are we goin' to my place?"

"So you can change your clothes. Is this the turn?"

The reason was fair enough. "Yeah."

As soon as Eugene made the turn, the Lincoln began to bounce on the rutted road, and the deeper into the woods they went, the worse the bouncing became. Momentary relief came with the occasional spin of a wheel, but the tires were new, regaining their traction every time. So the jolting went on. "Jesus," Eugene breathed at one point, "and you do this on a cycle?"

"I got a hard b.u.t.t."

"Must have a hard head. Why in the devil don't you live in town like everyone else?"

"'Cause this place is mine. It's all I got."

"It's isolated."

"I like it like that."

"You ought to be with people."

"I don't like people."

Eugene snickered. "You picked the wrong planet, boy."

"I didn't pick a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing," Cutter blurted. "It was picked for me. I didn't have no say at all. Even this house"-which was coming into sight, looking pathetically ramshackle in the rain-"was forced on me, but it's the only one I got."

The car came to a stop. Yanking at the door handle, Cutter was quickly out and tramping through the sludge toward his front door. With a single push it was open. He went through without looking back and kicked it shut with a heel, just like he always did. In the next instant, Eugene threw it open again.

"Don't you have any manners?" he growled.

Cutter hadn't expected him to come in. He didn't need help changing his clothes. "What do you want in here?"

"I want to look around." He was scanning the room with a disapproving look on his face. "You live here?"

"Something wrong with that?" Cutter asked. He didn't love the place either, but it was the only home he had.

"Sure is. It's a mess," Eugene decided. From a battered table covered with dirty cardboard containers and plastic plates, he moved past an upholstered chair whose shabbiness was barely hidden beneath a pile of worn clothes. "It's filthy, and it smells. Don't you have any pride?"

"I wasn't expecting guests."

"What I'm talking about's got nothing to do with guests." He glanced into the shadows, of which there were many, and frowned. "Where do you sleep?"

"What's it to you?"

"Where do you sleep?"

Cutter hitched his head toward the darkest end of the room, where a narrow ladder led to a loft. In the barely discernible light, the loft didn't look large enough to hold much. Eugene apparently thought the same thing. "You fit?"

"I manage." He watched Eugene stare at the loft for another minute before dropping his eyes. They fell on the old, grimy-topped potbelly stove that stood out from one wall.

"Is that for heat?"

"When I got wood."

"And when you don't?"

"I make do."

"You freeze."

"Hey, man, I'm not the only one. Lots of people around here don't have heat."

"Not if I can help it," Eugene muttered. He tugged at a lamp chain. Nothing happened. "And you didn't pay your bill."

"I couldn't pay my bill. Besides, what do I need lights for? When it gets dark, I go to sleep."

"So how do you read?" To Cutter's chagrin, Eugene had spotted the books that were sticking out from under the clothes on the chair. "Did you steal them?"

"They're from the library."

"Did you steal them?"

"No."

Eugene lifted one. "Catcher in the Rye. Any good?"

"It's okay."

"What's it about?"

"Some kids." He prayed Eugene wouldn't ask more. He liked the book, felt a kind of affinity for the rebelliousness of Holden Caulfield, but he had a feeling he'd missed a lot of what the author was trying to say. That was what his teachers had always told him, that he was missing things. Personally, he didn't care. He liked to read, but he didn't want to be forever taking apart every line. So he missed some hidden meaning. So what?

When Eugene tossed the book back to the chair, he was relieved, but his relief was short-lived. Folding his arms over his chest, Eugene leaned back against the door. "Got anything clean and dry in this mess?"

Cutter knew he could find dry. Clean was another story. Sifting through a pile of clothes on the floor behind the ladder to the loft, he came up with the best of the lot, jeans and a shirt that would have to do. He looked up to find Eugene watching him. "I got some."

"Put them on."

"You just gonna stand there and watch?"

"Yup."

"Look who's talkin' about manners."

"The way I see it," Eugene said, "if you were in jail, you'd be doing this and more in front of a dozen guys. Now speed it up. I'm not getting any warmer standing around this s.h.i.tbox."

Neither was Cutter. Peeling off his sodden jacket, then his shirt, he mopped mud spatters from his face and neck as best he could with the inside of the wet shirt, then put on the dry one. Without looking at Eugene, he went at his pants. When he had the dry jeans on, he found a pair of socks. But the wet work boots had to go back on. They were the only shoes he had. Grabbing a jacket that he'd snitched the month before from a hook in a soda shop two towns over, he approached Eugene.

"My place isn't so bad, y'know. Some are worse."

"Only if the people who live there are feeble-minded or infirm. So what's your excuse? That your folks are gone? That you're just a kid? That you don't know what a laundromat is? That you don't have time to go? Well, I say bulls.h.i.t. You're a lazy b.u.m without a st.i.tch of pride." He pulled open the door and stomped out.

"I'm not lazy!" Cutter called after him. "And I got pride!"

"Get back in the car!" Eugene bellowed.

One part of Cutter was tempted to turn around and race into the woods. Given that he knew them like the back of his hand, he'd escape Eugene for sure. The other part, though, was thinking that Eugene had to be getting hungry.

He got back in the car.

Eugene started it up, and after some tricky maneuvering in the mud he had it turned around and bouncing back over the ruts toward the main road. Cutter stared out the windshield, wondering where they were going next, darting Eugene the occasional glance in hopes of finding out. But the man's face told him nothing, and since Cutter wasn't about to ask again, he stayed silent. He definitely had pride.

After hitting the main road, Eugene drove straight back through the center of town. He pulled up at the large brick house that stood several blocks beyond the town green. "Get out."

"You want me to go in there?"

"Why not?"

"I'm a thief. I might just steal your silver."

Eugene shot him a smug look. "You won't." Without another word, he climbed out of the car.

Cutter followed, trotting up the brick steps, pa.s.sing through the large oak door, taking in everything he could of the s.p.a.cious front hall before Eugene's lead took him down a narrow hall to the kitchen. Minutes later, he was looking at the loaf of bread, container of ham, and wedge of cheese that Eugene had set on the counter.

"Make yourself a sandwich," Eugene told him, setting a knife next to the food. "You look to be half-starved. I'll be back." And he was gone.

For a minute, Cutter didn't move. He listened to the footsteps that went up the front staircase and receded, but his eyes were on the counter. He tried to think of what possible hitch there would be if he ate Eugene St. George's food. No one ever offered him food for free. There had to be a price.

But he was too hungry just then to try to figure it. Wasting no more time, he made himself the thickest sandwich he could and, standing right there at the counter, wolfed it down.

"Want another one?"

He spun around. He hadn't heard Eugene come back down the stairs, but there he was, standing at the door wearing fresh clothes and a somber expression.

"You've been growing tall, boy, but you're thin as a rail. I can't remember the last time I seen so many ribs." He tossed his chin toward the counter. "Take another. Go on. It's free."

Cutter didn't care if it was or it wasn't. If anything, the sandwich he'd eaten had made him more hungry. So he turned his back and fixed another one. He ate more slowly this time. Halfway through, he faced Eugene. "Where is everyone?"

"Who?"

"Your family. I know you got a family."

"They're down in Boston."

"Why are they there when you're here?"

Eugene pondered that and finally said simply, "'Cause that's the way it works."

Cutter wasn't about to ask what he meant. There was something sad on his face, something at odds with the strength that was usually there. "You're here by yourself?"

"Is that so surprising?"

"Yeah. I thought Deenie Crocker was your cook."

"She is, but there ain't much cookin' needed for just me. Same with cleaning. A man doesn't have to be helpless."

Cutter went back to his sandwich. His father had been helpless. So were most of the men he'd known, at least when it came to home ch.o.r.es like cooking and cleaning. There were certain things men didn't do, certain things they had women for. He didn't understand why Eugene St. George's wife wasn't doing those things for him, or why, if she had to stay in Boston, Eugene didn't have someone else here in her place. Cutter would have thought it a matter of pride that a wealthy man like Eugene not have to take care of himself.

But the kitchen was neat and clean. It was nice, with its big round table to one side and the comfortable chairs with arms and the large windows that looked out to the backyard. It was the kind of kitchen that the other families in Timiny Cove would have filled with people and kids.

"Do you get lonely?" he heard himself ask. He wasn't sure where the question came from, since loneliness wasn't a recognized part of his vocabulary. He looked Eugene in the eye.

Eugene turned away. "Sure. Lots." As he left the room, he called over his shoulder, "Put that stuff back in the Frigidaire, and let's get moving."

Cutter did it, pausing only to take a long drink of milk straight from the quart bottle he found on the refrigerator shelf. By the time he returned to the front hall, Eugene was outside in the car. For a split second, Cutter hesitated. He wondered whether the next stop was the jail. He didn't want it to be. He really didn't want it to be. Being in Eugene's custody wasn't so bad because Eugene seemed to know what he was doing. It was like he was Cutter's protector, and if that meant driving through the rain in the big, warm car and getting enough food to keep his belly from growling, he didn't mind it. Life wasn't usually so good.

The next stop turned out to be Leroy Robichaud's store. Eugene pulled up to the curb; killed the engine, took out his wallet, and handed Cutter two large bills.

Cutter stared at the bills, then at Eugene. "What's this for?"

"Clothes. I want you to go in there and buy two pairs of jeans, two shirts, a jacket, and some boots."

"I can't buy that stuff."

"Well, I'm sure as h.e.l.l not goin' to buy it for you. You're big enough to-"

"I can't afford to buy so many clothes at one time. I ain't got the money for that."

"I do. So go buy the clothes."

"But I can't pay you back!"

He thought he saw the ghost of a smile on Eugene's face. "Call it a gift. But get a move on. We haven't got all day."

That ghost of a smile bothered him. He didn't like being made fun of. "I ain't no charity case."

"You sure as h.e.l.l are, since you haven't done much of a job looking out for yourself. But that's goin' to change. Now, get the clothes. And underwear, you need underwear."

"I know," Cutter snapped.

"I wasn't sure you did."

That irritated him all the more. "Maybe I'll just take the money and run."