What did you ask, Andy Bissette? Do I âunderstand these rights as youâve explained em to meâ?
Gorry! What makes some men so numb?
No, you never mindâstill your jawin and listen to me for awhile. I got an idear youâre gonna be listenin to me most of the night, so you might as well get used to it. Coss I understand what you read to me! Do I look like I lost all mâbrains since I seen you down to the market? That was just Monday afternoon, in case you lost track. I told you your wife would give you merry hell about buying that day-old breadâpenny wise and pound foolish, the old saying isâand I bet I was right, wasnât I?
I understand my rights just fine, Andy; my mother never raised no fools. I understand my responsibilities too, God help me.
Anything I say might be used against me in a court of law, you say? Well will wonders never cease! And you can just get that smirk off your face, Frank Proulx. You may be a hot-shot town cop these days, but it hasnât been too long since I seen you runnin around in a saggy diaper with that same foolish grin on your face. Iâll give you a little piece of adviceâwhen you get around an old biddy like me, you just want to save that grin. I cân read you easierân an underwear ad in the Sears catalogue.
All right, weâve had our fun; might as well get down to it. Iâm gonna tell you three a hell of a lot startin right about now, and a hell of a lot of it probâly could be used against me in a court of law, if anyone wanted to at this late date. The joke of it is, folks on the island know most of it already, and Iâm just about half-past give-a-shit, as old Neely Robichaud used to say when he was in his cups. Which was most of the time, as anyone who knew him will tell you.
I do give a shit about one thing, though, and thatâs why I come down here on my own hook. I didnât kill that bitch Vera Donovan, and no matter what you think now, I intend to make you believe that. I didnât push her down that frigging staircase. Itâs fine if you want to lock me up for the other, but I donât have none of that bitchâs blood on my hands. And I think you will believe that by the time Iâm finished, Andy. You was always a good enough boy, as boys goâfair-minded, is what I meanâand youâve turned into a decent man. Donât let it go to your head, though; you grew up same as any other man, with some woman to warsh your clothes and wipe your nose and turn you around when you got yâself pointed in the wrong direction.
One other thing before we get startedâI know you, Andy, and Frank, accourse, but whoâs this woman with the tape-recorder?
Oh Christ, Andy, I know sheâs a stenographer! Didnât I just tell you my Mamma didnât raise any fools? I may be sixty-six come this November, but I still got all my marbles. I know a woman with a tape-recorder and a shorthand padâs a stenographer. I watch all those courtroom shows, even that L.A. Law where nobody can seem to keep their clothes on for fifteen minutes at a time.
Whatâs your name, honey?
Uh-huh . . . and whereabouts do you hail from?
Oh, quit it, Andy! What else you got to do tonight? Was you plannin to go over to the shingle and see if you could catch a few fellas diggin quahogs without a license? Thatâd probâly be more excitement than your heart could take, wouldnât it? Ha!
There. Thatâs better. Youâre Nancy Bannister from Kennebunk, and Iâm Dolores Claiborne from right here on Little Tall Island. Now I already said Iâm going to do a country-fair job of talking before weâre done in here, and youâre going to find I wasnât lyin a bit. So if you need me to speak up or to slow down, just say so. You neednât be shy with me. I want you to get every goddam word, startin with this: twenty-nine years ago, when Police Chief Bissette here was in the first grade and still eatin the paste off the back of his pitchers, I killed my husband, Joe St. George.
I feel a draft in here, Andy. Might go away if you shutcha goddam trap. I donât know what youâre lookin so surprised about, anyway. You know I killed Joe. Everybody on Little Tall knows it, and probably half the people across the reach in Jonesport know it, too. Itâs just that nobody could prove it. And I wouldnât be here now, admittin it in front of Frank Proulx and Nancy Bannister from Kennebunk if it hadnât been for that stupid bitch Vera, gettin up to more of her nasty old tricks.
Well, sheâll never get up to any more of em, will she? Thereâs that for consolation, at least.
Shift that recorder a little closer to me, Nancy, dearâif this is going to get done, itâll get done right, Iâll be bound. Donât those Japanese just make the most cunning little things? Yes indeed . . . but I guess we both know that whatâs going on the tape inside that little cutie-pie could put me in the Womenâs Correctional for the rest of my life. Still, I donât have no choice. I swear before heaven I always knew that Vera Donovanâd just about be the death of meâI knew it from the first time I saw her. And look what sheâs doneâjust look what that goddamned old bitch has done to me. This time sheâs really stuck her gum in my gears. But thatâs rich people for you; if they canât kick you to death, theyâre apt to kiss you to death with kindness.
What?
Oh, gorry! Iâm gettin to it, Andy, if youâll just give me a little peace! Iâm just tryin to decide if I should tell it back to front or front to back. I donât sâpose I could have a little drink, could I?
Oh, frig ya coffee! Take the whole pot and shove it up your kazoo. Just gimme a glass of water if youâre too cheap to part with a swallow of the Beam you keep in your desk drawer. I ainâtâ
What do you mean, how do I know that? Why, Andy Bissette, someone who didnât know betterâd think you just toddled out of a Saltines box yesterday. Do you think me killin my husband is the only thing the folks on this island have got to talk about? Hell, thatâs old news. You, nowâyou still got some juice left in you.
Thank you, Frank. You was always a pretty good boy, too, although you was kinda hard to look at in church until your mother got you cured of the booger-hookin habit. Gorry, there were times when you had that finger so far up yânose it was a wonder you didnât poke your brains out. And what the hell are you blushin for? Was never a kid alive who didnât mine a little green gold outta their old pump every now and again. At least you knew enough to keep your hands outta your pants and off your nuts, at least in church, and thereâs a lot of boys who neverâ
Yes, Andy, yesâI am gonna tell it. Jeezly-crow, you ainât never shook the ants out of your pants, have you?
Tell you what: Iâm gonna compromise. Instead of telling her front to back or back to front, Iâm gonna start in the middle and just kinda work both ways. And if you donât like it, Andy Bissette, you can write it up on your T.S. list and mail it to the chaplain.
Me and Joe had three kids, and when he died in the summer of â63, Selena was fifteen, Joe Junior was thirteen, and Little Pete was just nine. Well, Joe didnât leave me a pot to piss in and hardly a window to throw it out ofâ
I guess youâll have to fix this up some, Nancy, wonât you? Iâm just an old woman with a foul temper and a fouler mouth, but thatâs what happens, more often than not, when youâve had a foul life.
Now, where was I? I ainât lost my place already, have I?
Ohâyes. Thank you, honeybunch.
What Joe left me with was that shacky little place out by the East Head and six acres of land, most of it blackberry tangles and the kind of trashwood that grows back after a clear-cut operation. What else? Lemme see. Three trucks that didnât runâtwo pickups and a pulp-haulerâfour cord of wood, a bill at the grocery, a bill at the hardware, a bill with the oil company, a bill with the funeral home . . . and do you want the icing on the goddam cake? He waâant a week in the ground before that rumpot Harry Doucette come over with a friggin IOU that said Joe owed him twenty dollars on a baseball bet!
He left me all that, but do you think he left me any goddam insurance money? Nossir! Although that might have been a blessin in disguise, the way things turned out. I guess Iâll get to that part before Iâm done, but all Iâm trying to say now is that Joe St. George really waâant a man at all; he was a goddam millstone I wore around my neck. Worse, really, because a millstone donât get drunk and then come home smellin of beer and wantin to throw a fuck into you at one in the morning. Wasnât none of that the reason why I killed the sonofawhore, but I guess itâs as good a place as any to start.
An islandâs not a good place to kill anybody, I can tell you that. Seems like thereâs always someone around, itching to get his nose into your business just when you can least afford it. Thatâs why I did it when I did, and Iâll get to that, too. For now suffice it to say that I did it just about three years after Vera Donovanâs husband died in a motor accident outside of Baltimore, which was where they lived when they wasnât summerin on Little Tall. Back in those days, most of Veraâs screws were still nice and tight.
With Joe out of the pitcher and no money coming in, I was in a fix, I can tell youâI got an idear thereâs no one in the whole world feels as desperate as a woman on her own with kids dependin on her. Iâd âbout decided Iâd better cross the reach and see if I couldnât get a job in Jonesport, checkin out groceries at the Shop n Save or waitressin in a restaurant, when that numb pussy all of a sudden decided she was gonna live on the island all year round. Most everyone thought sheâd blown a fuse, but I wasnât all that surprisedâby then she was spendin a lot of time up here, anyway.
The fella who worked for her in those daysâI donât remember his name, but you know who I mean, Andy, that dumb hunky that always wore his pants tight enough to show the world he had balls as big as Mason jarsâcalled me up and said The Missus (thatâs what he always called her, The Missus; my, wasnât he dumb) wanted to know if Iâd come to work for her full-time as her housekeeper. Well, Iâd done it summers for the family since 1950, and I sâpose it was natural enough for her to call me before she called anyone else, but at the time it seemed like the answer to all my prayers. I said yes right on the spot, and I worked for her right up until yestây forenoon, when she went down the front stairs on her stupid empty head.
What was it her husband did, Andy? Made airplanes, didnât he?
Oh. Ayuh, I guess I did hear that, but you know how people on the island talk. All I know for sure is that they was well-fixed, mighty well-fixed, and she got it all when he died. Except for what the government took, accourse, and I doubt if it got anywhere near as much as it was probably owed. Michael Donovan was sharp as a tack. Sly, too. And although nobody would believe it from the way she was over the last ten years, Vera was as sly as he was . . . and she had her sly days right up until she died. I wonder if she knew what kind of a jam sheâd be leavin me in if she did anything besides die in bed of a nice quiet heart-attack? I been down by East Head most of the day, sittin on those rickety stairs and thinkin about that . . . that and a few hundred other things. First Iâd think no, a bowl of oatmeal has more brains than Vera Donovan had at the end, and then Iâd remember how she was about the vacuum cleaner and Iâd think maybe . . . yes, maybe . . .
But it donât matter now. The only thing that matters now is that I have flopped out of the frying pan and into the fire, and Iâd dearly love to drag myself clear before my ass gets burned any worse. If I still can.
I started off as Vera Donovanâs housekeeper, and I ended up bein something they call a âpaid companion.â It didnât take me too long to figure out the difference. As Veraâs housekeeper, I had to eat shit eight hours a day, five days a week. As her paid companion, I had to eat it around the clock.
She had her first stroke in the summer of 1968, while she was watchin the Democratic National Convention in Chicago on her television. That was just a little one, and she used to blame it on Hubert Humphrey. âI finally looked at that happy asshole one too many times,â she said, âand I popped a goddam blood-vessel. I should have known it was gonna happen, and it could just as easily have been Nixon.â
She had a bigger one in 1975, and that time she didnât have no politicians to blame it on. Dr. Freneau told her she better quit smokin and drinkin, but he could have saved his breathâno highsteppin kitty like Vera Kiss-My-Back-Cheeks Donovan was going to listen to a plain old country doctor like Chip Freneau. âIâll bury him,â she used to say, âand have a Scotch and soda sitting on his headstone.â
For awhile it seemed like maybe she would do just thatâhe kept scoldin her, and she kept sailin along like the Queen Mary. Then, in 1981, she had her first whopper, and the hunky got killed in a car-wreck over on the mainland the very next year. That was when I moved in with herâOctober of 1982.
Did I have to? I dunno. I guess not. I had my Sociable Security, as old Hattie McLeod used to call it. It wasnât much, but the kids were long gone by thenâLittle Pete right off the face of the earth, poor little lost lambâand I had managed to put a few dollars away, too. Living on the island has always been cheap, and while it ainât what it once was, itâs still a whale of a lot cheaper than livin on the mainland. So I guess I didnât have to go live with Vera, no.
But by then her and me was used to each other. Itâs hard to explain to a man. I âspect Nancy there with her pads n pens n tape-recorder understands, but I donât think sheâs sâposed to talk. We was used to each other in the way I sâpose two old bats can get used to hangin upside-down next to each other in the same cave, even though theyâre a long way from what youâd call the best of friends. And it wasnât really no big change. Hanging my Sunday clothes in the closet next to my housedresses was really the biggest part of it, because by the fall of â82 I was there all day every day and most nights as well. The money was a little better, but not so good Iâd made the downpayment on my first Cadillac, if you know what I mean. Ha!
I guess I did it mostly because there wasnât nobody else. She had a business manager down in New York, a man named Greenbush, but Greenbush waâant going to come up to Little Tall so she could scream down at him from her bedroom window to be sure and hang those sheets with six pins, not four, nor was he gonna move into the guestroom and change her diapers and wipe the shit off her fat old can while she accused him of stealin the dimes out of her goddam china pig and told him how she was gonna see him in jail for it. Greenbush cut the checks; I cleaned up her shit and listened to her rave on about the sheets and the dust bunnies and her goddam china pig.
And what of it? I donât expect no medal for it, not even a Purple Heart. Iâve wiped up a lot of shit in my time, listened to even more of it (I was married to Joe St. George for sixteen years, remember), and none of it ever gave me the rickets. I guess in the end I stuck with her because she didnât have nobody else; it was either me or the nursin home. Her kids never came to see her, and that was one thing I felt sorry for her about. I didnât expect them to pitch in, donât get that idear, but I didnât see why they couldnât mend their old quarrel, whatever it was, and come once in awhile to spend the day or maybe a weekend with her. She was a miserable bitch, no doubt about it, but she was their Ma. And by then she was old. Accourse I know a lot more now than I did then, butâ
What?
Yes, itâs true. If Iâm lyin, Iâm dyin, as my grandsons like to say. You just call that fella Greenbush if you donât believe me. I expect when the news gets outâand it will, it always doesâthereâll be one of those soppy articles in the Bangor Daily News about how wonderful it all is. Well, I got news for youâit ainât wonderful. A friggin nightmare is what it is. No matter what happens in here, folks are gonna say I brainwarshed her into doin what she done n then killed her. I know it, Andy, n so do you. There ainât no power in heaven or on earth that can stop people from thinkin the worst when they want to.
Well, not one goddam word of itâs true. I didnât force her to do nothing, and she sure didnât do what she did because she loved me, or even liked me. I suppose she might have done it because she thought she owed meâin her own peculiar way she could have thought she owed me plenty, and tâwouldnât have been her way to say anything. Could even be what she done was her way of thankin me . . . not for changin her shitty diapers but for bein there on all the nights when the wires came out of the corners or the dust bunnies came out fr...