fine.”
Carver decided to fish. “Guess I can’t blame you for feeling somewhat that way.” He glanced around the shabby room. “I mean, it’s for sure Adam doesn’t believe in spreading the wealth through the family.”
“I don’t want any of that shithead’s money.” The deep voice wasn’t very convincing. Carver suspected dollars might salve if not cure the wounds of the brothers’ relationship.
“You think Paul burned those people?” he asked.
Emmett crimped the beer can back and forth in his thick hand, clacking the metal. It was a sound that wouldn’t take long to get on Carver’s nerves. “My feeling is the boy’s not violent, despite a few adolescent fights he got into. Murder? Naw. Wouldn’t surprise me if he killed Adam, but then I’d say it wouldn’t surprise anybody who knew how Adam criticized the boy when he was young. The things Paul’s told me’d curl your ear hairs, Carver.”
“So curl a few,” Carver said.
Emmett ran his tongue around the insides of his cheeks, as if seeking words between his molars. Found them. “Goddamned Adam! Always assuming the boy’d come out the loser no matter what or how hard he tried. Self-fulfilling prophecy. Paul went out for the tennis team his junior year at high school. Adam used to play like a champ, and he offered to train Paul. His training consisted of whacking serves and returns the boy couldn’t touch with his racket. Finally slammed a ball off the side of Paul’s head. On purpose. Adam is what you might call competitive; he’s gotta show his superiority like that. Can’t let up till he humiliates people. Paul didn’t make the team. Never played tennis again. Adam said he wasn’t surprised Paul stunk up the place in sports. Said he spent too much time alone in his laboratory or reading, and it was no wonder he was a little loony.”
Rough treatment, Carver thought. But Paul Kave wasn’t the only kid who had to grow up in a house with a supercritical father. Carver’s own childhood had been similar to Paul’s in that respect.
“Paul’s gone haywire a few times in the past couple of years and broke up some things. Threw a stool through an ice cream shop window over in Cocoa Beach. Kicked in the side of a car when its driver stole his parking space. After times like that, I’d see his shiny old Lincoln drive up afore long, and he’d come in to see me and we’d talk over what happened. We’d have a few beers, and he’d say it was just this pressure that built up in him and needed release, but that folks really did pick on him sometimes. But he never hurt people, Carver, only things.”
Or maybe to Paul Kave people are things, Carver thought. And it was only a question of time before his outbursts of violence included flesh and blood. “Did he tell you he was a diagnosed schizophrenic and was seeing a psychiatrist?”
“Sure,” Emmett said. “Paul and I have the same opinion of shrinks: bunch of phonies getting rich off other people’s misery. Paul only went to that doctor because he had no choice. Hell, he’s smarter’n any shrink.”
“Then he didn’t think his therapy was helping him?”
“Course not. Didn’t think he needed it in the first place. Despite all his mental mix-up and occasional bouts of aggression,” Emmett Kave said firmly, “Paul’s a fine young man. Can’t say for certain he wouldn’t hurt somebody, but I sure don’t see him setting folks on fire.”
Carver glanced through a side window and noticed an orange tree not far from the house. It was brightly dotted with fruit, and darkened oranges littered the ground beneath it, rotting. “Does Paul talk much about Nadine?” he asked.
“No, sir. But from what little he has told me, she’s got pretty much the same problems he has. I get the idea she’s a rebel, though, and I wouldn’t describe Paul as that. I guess she’s gone on the offense, and Paul fights defensively.”
Up until a few weeks ago, Carver thought.
He said, “If
Carver decided to fish. “Guess I can’t blame you for feeling somewhat that way.” He glanced around the shabby room. “I mean, it’s for sure Adam doesn’t believe in spreading the wealth through the family.”
“I don’t want any of that shithead’s money.” The deep voice wasn’t very convincing. Carver suspected dollars might salve if not cure the wounds of the brothers’ relationship.
“You think Paul burned those people?” he asked.
Emmett crimped the beer can back and forth in his thick hand, clacking the metal. It was a sound that wouldn’t take long to get on Carver’s nerves. “My feeling is the boy’s not violent, despite a few adolescent fights he got into. Murder? Naw. Wouldn’t surprise me if he killed Adam, but then I’d say it wouldn’t surprise anybody who knew how Adam criticized the boy when he was young. The things Paul’s told me’d curl your ear hairs, Carver.”
“So curl a few,” Carver said.
Emmett ran his tongue around the insides of his cheeks, as if seeking words between his molars. Found them. “Goddamned Adam! Always assuming the boy’d come out the loser no matter what or how hard he tried. Self-fulfilling prophecy. Paul went out for the tennis team his junior year at high school. Adam used to play like a champ, and he offered to train Paul. His training consisted of whacking serves and returns the boy couldn’t touch with his racket. Finally slammed a ball off the side of Paul’s head. On purpose. Adam is what you might call competitive; he’s gotta show his superiority like that. Can’t let up till he humiliates people. Paul didn’t make the team. Never played tennis again. Adam said he wasn’t surprised Paul stunk up the place in sports. Said he spent too much time alone in his laboratory or reading, and it was no wonder he was a little loony.”
Rough treatment, Carver thought. But Paul Kave wasn’t the only kid who had to grow up in a house with a supercritical father. Carver’s own childhood had been similar to Paul’s in that respect.
“Paul’s gone haywire a few times in the past couple of years and broke up some things. Threw a stool through an ice cream shop window over in Cocoa Beach. Kicked in the side of a car when its driver stole his parking space. After times like that, I’d see his shiny old Lincoln drive up afore long, and he’d come in to see me and we’d talk over what happened. We’d have a few beers, and he’d say it was just this pressure that built up in him and needed release, but that folks really did pick on him sometimes. But he never hurt people, Carver, only things.”
Or maybe to Paul Kave people are things, Carver thought. And it was only a question of time before his outbursts of violence included flesh and blood. “Did he tell you he was a diagnosed schizophrenic and was seeing a psychiatrist?”
“Sure,” Emmett said. “Paul and I have the same opinion of shrinks: bunch of phonies getting rich off other people’s misery. Paul only went to that doctor because he had no choice. Hell, he’s smarter’n any shrink.”
“Then he didn’t think his therapy was helping him?”
“Course not. Didn’t think he needed it in the first place. Despite all his mental mix-up and occasional bouts of aggression,” Emmett Kave said firmly, “Paul’s a fine young man. Can’t say for certain he wouldn’t hurt somebody, but I sure don’t see him setting folks on fire.”
Carver glanced through a side window and noticed an orange tree not far from the house. It was brightly dotted with fruit, and darkened oranges littered the ground beneath it, rotting. “Does Paul talk much about Nadine?” he asked.
“No, sir. But from what little he has told me, she’s got pretty much the same problems he has. I get the idea she’s a rebel, though, and I wouldn’t describe Paul as that. I guess she’s gone on the offense, and Paul fights defensively.”
Up until a few weeks ago, Carver thought.
He said, “If
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