The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair: A Novel Page 13

  25

  ABOUT NOLA

  “HOW DOES ONE BECOME a writer, Harry?”

  “By never giving up. You know, Marcus, that freedom—the desire for freedom—is a war in itself. We live in a society of defeated office workers, and to get ourselves out of this fix, we must fight—against ourselves and against the whole world. Freedom is a constant battle of which we are barely even aware. I will never give up.”

  THE DRAWBACK TO SMALL, ISOLATED towns is that all they have are volunteer fire departments, which are slower to react than professional ones. On the evening of June 20, while I watched the flames roar from the Corvette and spread to the detached garage, quite a long time passed between the moment when I called 911 and the arrival of the fire trucks at Goose Cove. So it was something of a miracle that the house itself was not touched, although for the fire chief, the miracle consisted mainly in the fact that the garage was a separate building, because this enabled the firefighters to quickly contain the fire.

  While the policemen and firefighters did their jobs at Goose Cove, Travis Dawn arrived.

  “You’re not hurt, are you, Marcus?” he asked as he ran toward me.

  “No, I’m fine, except that the entire house almost burned down.”

  “What happened?”

  “I came back from Grand Beach, and as I turned in to the driveway, I saw someone running away into the forest. Then I saw the flames.”

  “Would you be able to identify the person you saw?”

  “No. It all happened too fast.”

  At that moment we were called over by a policeman who had arrived at the same time as the firefighters, and who was searching the house’s exterior. He had found a message, stuck in the doorway, which read:

  Go home, Goldman.

  “Jesus! I got another one of those yesterday,” I said.

  “Another?” Travis asked. “Where?”

  “On my car. I stopped for ten minutes at the general store on my way home, and found that same message under a windshield wiper.”

  “Seems like somebody isn’t happy about your presence in Somerset. Everyone knows you’ve been asking lots of questions.”

  “So you think it’s someone who’s afraid of what I might discover about Nola?”

  “Maybe. I don’t like it, in any case. This whole case is explosive. I’m going to leave a patrol car here for the night, just in case.”

  “There’s no need for that. If this guy is after me, let him come. He’ll find me.”

  “Calm down, Marcus. There’ll be a patrol car here tonight, whether you like it or not. If this is a warning, as I think it is, it means there’ll be more to come.”

  • • •

  I went to the state prison early the next day to report this incident to Harry.

  “‘Go home, Goldman’?” he repeated, after I told him about the message.

  “Yup. Typed on a computer.”

  “What are the police doing?”

  “Travis Dawn came. He took the letter and said he’d have it analyzed. He thinks it’s a warning. Maybe someone who doesn’t want me digging into this thing. Someone who sees you as the perfect guilty party and who doesn’t want me interfering.”

  “The person who murdered Nola and Deborah Cooper?”

  “Maybe.”

  Harry looked serious.

  “Roth told me I’m going in front of the grand jury next Tuesday. A handful of good citizens who are going to study my case and decide if the accusations have any merit. Apparently the grand jury always does what the prosecutor wants. It’s a nightmare, Marcus. With each passing day, I feel as if I’m sinking ever deeper, as if I’m losing control. First they arrest me, and I think it’s just a mistake, that I’ll be free in a few hours, and then I find myself locked up here until the trial, which will take place God knows when, and facing the death penalty. Capital punishment, Marcus! I think about it all the time.”

  I could clearly see that Harry was wasting away. He had been in prison barely a week, and it was obvious that he would not last a month.

  “We’re going to get you out of here, Harry. We’ll find out the truth. Roth is a very good lawyer—don’t lose faith in him. And you should keep telling me your story. Tell me about Nola. Take up where you left off. What happened afterward?”

  “After what?”

  “After the episode on the beach. When Nola came to see you that Saturday, after the high school show, and she told you that you shouldn’t feel lonely.”

  As I was speaking, I put my minidisc player on the table and pressed Record. Harry smiled faintly.

  “You’re a good guy, Marcus. Because you’re right—this is what matters: Nola coming to the beach and telling me not to feel lonely, that she was there for me . . . Deep down, I’ve always been a bit of a loner, and suddenly that changed. With Nola, I felt part of a whole, an entity that the two of us formed together. Whenever she wasn’t with me, there was an emptiness inside me, a feeling that something was missing, which I had never experienced before—as if, once she had entered my life, the world could no longer turn properly without her. But I also knew that the relationship between us was going to be complicated. That Saturday we stayed together for a moment on the beach, then I told her it was late, that she ought to go home before her parents started worrying. I watched her walk along the beach and disappear into the distance, hoping she would turn around, just once, to wave at me. I absolutely had to get her out of my head. So during the entire next week I forced myself to become closer to Jenny in order to forget Nola—that same Jenny who is now the manager of Clark’s.”

  “Hang on . . . Are you telling me that the Jenny you’re talking about, the waitress at Clark’s in 1975, is Jenny Dawn, Travis’s wife, who now runs Clark’s?”

  “The very same. Only thirty-three years older. Back then she was a very pretty woman. She still is a beautiful woman, in fact. You know, she could have tried her luck as an actress in Hollywood. She often talked about it. Leaving Somerset and going off to live the dream in California. But she never did anything about it. She stayed here, she took over the restaurant from her mother, and now she is going to spend the rest of her life selling burgers. That’s her fault. We live the life we choose, Marcus. And I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It doesn’t matter . . . I’m rambling, and now I’ve lost my place. Oh yes, about Jenny. So, at twenty-four years old, she was a very beautiful woman: a high school prom queen, the kind of voluptuous blonde who would turn any man’s head. Everyone had his eye on Jenny back then. I spent my days at Clark’s in her company. I had a tab at Clark’s, and I put everything on it. I hardly took any notice of what I was spending, even though I’d blown my savings on renting the house and my budget was very tight.”

  Wednesday, June 18, 1975

  Since Harry Quebert had arrived in Somerset, it was taking Jenny Quinn a good hour longer to get ready in the mornings. She had fallen in love with him the first day she saw him. She had never felt like this before; he was the man of her dreams, she was certain. Each time she saw him, she imagined their life together: their triumphant wedding and their New York home. Goose Cove would become their summer house, where he could read over his manuscripts in peace while she visited her parents. He would take her far away from Somerset; she would no longer have to wipe grease-covered tables or clean the toilets in this hick restaurant. She would have a career on Broadway, she would make movies in California. Magazines would run features about the two of them.

  She wasn’t making this up. It was obvious that something was happening between her and Harry. He loved her too—there was no doubt. Why else would he come to Clark’s every day? Every day! And the conversations they had at the counter! She loved it so much when he came to sit across from her so they could chat awhile. He was different from all the men she had met before, far more sophistic
ated. Her mother, Tamara, had given orders that the employees must not distract him or talk to him, and she sometimes argued with Jenny at home because she believed her daughter’s behavior with him was inappropriate. But her mother didn’t understand anything. She didn’t understand that Harry loved her so much, he was writing a book about her.

  It was several days ago now that she had wondered about the book, but that morning she felt certain. Harry arrived at Clark’s with the sun, about 6:30 a.m., just after it opened. It was rare that he turned up so early; normally the only customers at that time were truck drivers and traveling salesmen. He had hardly even sat at his usual table before he began frantically scribbling, almost bent over the page, as if afraid that someone would see what he was writing. Occasionally he stopped, and gave her long, lingering looks; she pretended not to notice, but she knew he was staring hungrily at her. At first she had not understood the reason for these insistent looks. It was just before noon when she realized he was writing a book about her. Yes, she—Jenny Quinn—was the main character in Harry Quebert’s new masterpiece. That was why he did not want anyone to see his words. As soon as she realized, she was overcome with excitement. She took the opportunity offered by the lunch hour to give him a menu and chat with him a little bit.

  • • •

  He had spent the morning writing the four letters of her first name: N-O-L-A. Sometimes he would close his eyes so he could picture her, and then, in an attempt to cure himself, would force himself to look at Jenny. Jenny was a very beautiful woman; why couldn’t he love her?

  When, just before noon, he saw Jenny coming toward him with coffee and a menu, he covered up the page with a blank sheet, as he did every time someone approached.

  “It’s time to eat something, Harry,” she ordered in an overly maternal voice. “You haven’t swallowed a thing all day, apart from a half gallon of coffee. You’ll get heartburn if you try to get by on an empty stomach.”

  He made himself smile politely and partake in a brief conversation. He noticed that his forehead was sweating, and wiped it quickly with the back of his hand.

  “You’re hot, Harry. You work too hard!”

  “That’s possible.”

  “Are you inspired?”

  “Sure. Things are going pretty well at the moment.”

  “You haven’t lifted your head from the page all morning.”

  “That’s true.”

  Jenny gave him a smile of complicity.

  “Harry, . . . I know this is forward of me, but could I read it? Just a few pages? I’m curious to see what you’re writing. It must be wonderful.”

  “It’s not ready yet.”

  “I’m sure it’s already magnificent.”

  “We’ll see later.”

  She smiled again.

  “Let me bring you a lemonade to cool you down. Would you like something to eat?”

  “I’ll take bacon and eggs.”

  Jenny went straight into the kitchen and sang out: “Bacon and eggs for the grrrreat writer!”

  Her mother, who had seen her talking to him in the dining room, scolded her. “Jenny, I want you to stop bothering Mr. Quebert!”

  “Bothering him? Oh, Mom, you have no idea. I’m his inspiration.”

  Tamara Quinn gave her daughter a skeptical look. Jenny was a nice girl, but far too naive.

  “Who’s been filling your head with such nonsense?”

  “I know Harry has a crush on me, Mom. And I’m pretty sure I’m a big part of his new book. No, Mom, your daughter will not be serving bacon and coffee all her life. Your daughter is going to become someone.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Jenny exaggerated a little so that her mother would understand.

  “Harry and me—it will soon be official.”

  And, smirking triumphantly, she swanned out of the kitchen.

  Tamara Quinn could not suppress a smile: if her daughter succeeded in getting her hooks into Quebert, Clark’s would be famous all over the country. Who knows—maybe the wedding could even take place here; she would find a way to persuade Harry. A fenced-off area, large white tents on the street, a hand-picked guest list; half of New York’s crème de la crème, dozens of journalists to cover the event, and flashbulbs endlessly popping. Harry Quebert was heaven-sent.

  Harry left Clark’s in a rush at 4 p.m. that day, as if he’d lost track of the time. He dived into his car, which was parked in front of the restaurant, and sped off. He didn’t want to be late; he didn’t want to miss her. Soon after his departure, a Somerset police car parked in the space he had vacated. Nervously gripping his steering wheel, Officer Travis Dawn discreetly scanned the inside of the restaurant. Deciding that there were still too many people around, he did not dare enter. Instead he remained in his car and rehearsed the line he had prepared. Just one line—he could manage that. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror and recited: “Jello, Henny. I was thinking we could go to the movies together on Saturday . . .” He cursed himself: He had messed it up again! Just one simple line, not even twenty-five words long, and he couldn’t get it right! He unfolded the piece of paper and reread what he had written:

  Hello, Jenny. I was thinking, if you were free, that we could go to the movie theater in Montburry on Saturday night.

  That really wasn’t so difficult, was it? He had to walk into Clark’s, smile, sit at the counter, and ask for coffee. While she filled his cup, he had to say it. He checked his hair, then pretended to talk into the car’s radio microphone so that, if someone saw him, he would appear to be busy. He waited two minutes. Four customers left Clark’s together. The coast was clear. His heart was pounding; he could feel it reverberate inside his rib cage, in the veins of his hands, in his head . . . even his fingertips seemed to react to each heartbeat. He got out of his car, the piece of paper scrunched up in his fist. He loved her. He had loved her since high school. She was the reason he had stayed in Somerset. When he went to the police academy, they’d recognized his abilities and had suggested he might want to aim higher than his local police force. They had talked about the state police, even the feds. A guy from Washington, D.C., had told him: “Son, don’t waste your time in some hick town. The FBI is recruiting. The FBI, son!” Yes, they had suggested he apply to the FBI. He might even have asked to join the Secret Service. But there was this young woman who waitressed at Clark’s, in Somerset, this woman he had always hoped would finally notice him: Jenny Quinn. So he had asked to be assigned to the Somerset police. Without Jenny, his life had no meaning. Standing in front of the restaurant’s entrance, he took a deep breath and then went in.

  She thought about Harry while mechanically rubbing a towel over cups that were already dry. Recently he had been leaving every day at about 4 p.m.; she wondered where he went. Was he meeting someone? And, if so, who? A customer sat down at the counter, dragging her from her daydreams.

  “Hello, Jenny.”

  It was Travis, a nice guy she’d known in high school who had become a policeman.

  “Hi, Travis. Can I get you coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment in order to concentrate. She placed a cup in front of him and filled it. Now was the time to do it.

  “Jenny . . . I wanted to tell you . . .”

  “Yes?”

  She fixed her large bright eyes on his, and he was completely unnerved. What was the next part of the line?

  “The movie theater,” he said.

  “What about the movie theater?”

  “I . . . there’s been a robbery at the movie theater in Manchester.”

  “Oh, really? A robbery in a movie theater? How strange.”

  “I mean, at the post office in Manchester.”

  Why the hell was he talking about that robbery? The movies! He was supposed to be talking about the movies!

  �
��At the post office or the movie theater?”

  The movie theater. The movie theater. The movie theater. The movie theater. Talk about the movie theater! He felt as if his heart were about to burst. He said, “Jenny . . . I wanted to . . . I mean, I was wondering maybe if . . . I mean, if you wanted to . . .”

  At that moment Tamara called her daughter from the kitchen.

  “Excuse me, Travis, I have to go. Mom’s been in a foul mood recently.”

  She disappeared through the swinging doors without giving the young policeman a chance to finish. He sighed and muttered under his breath: “I was thinking, if you were free, that we could go to the movie theater in Montburry on Saturday night.” Then he left a five-dollar bill for a 50-cent coffee that he had not even drunk and walked out of Clark’s, sad and disappointed.

  “Where did you go at four o’clock every day, Harry?” I asked.

  He did not answer immediately. He looked through the nearest window, and I thought I saw a smile on his face. Finally he said, “I needed to see her . . .”

  “Nola?”

  “Yes. You know, Jenny was a great girl, but she wasn’t Nola. That laugh . . . I have heard it in my head every day for the last thirty-three years. That extraordinary look in her eyes . . . I can still see it, right in front of me. The way she put her hair back in place, the way she chewed her lips. Her voice still echoes inside me. When I walk down Main Street, to the marina, to the general store, I see her again, talking to me about life and books. In June 1975, she had been in my life less than a month, yet I had the impression she had always been part of it. And when she wasn’t there, nothing seemed to have any meaning: A day without Nola was a day wasted. I needed to see her so much that I couldn’t wait until the following Saturday. So I began going to the high school gates to wait for her. That’s what I did when I left Clark’s at four o’clock. I took my car and I went to the high school in Somerset. I parked in the teachers’ parking lot, just in front of the main entrance, and, hidden in my car, I waited until she left. As soon as she appeared, I felt so much more alive, so much stronger. All I needed was the joy of seeing her. I watched her until she got on the school bus, and I waited there until the bus drove off. Was I crazy, Marcus?”