As Good As Gone (9781616206000) by Larry Watson Page B

and Calvin Sidey’s alleged role. Finally, she asked May Swearingen, who not only knew most of the town’s gossip but much of Gladstone’s official history as well.
    â€œ ‘The French are a funny race’—what’s that supposed to mean?” Beverly asked. “And what could it possibly have to do with Calvin Sidey and Del Murdock’s death?”
    â€œYou never heard that saying?” May Swearingen was hugely overweight, and she paused to pinch two more of the gingersnaps Beverly set out. “I guess your hubby wants to spare you the vulgarities. ‘The French, they are a funny race—they fight with their feet and fuck with their face.’ The story going round had Del Murdock in the Pioneer Bar reciting this little ditty one night shortly after Mrs. Sidey died overseas. Del speculated out loud that maybe Mrs. Sidey had gone back over there to get some of that French fucking. Folks think news of this little incident found its way back to Calvin Sidey, and that’s why he was waiting for Del when he pulled up to his house that night.”
    â€œThat’s a ghastly explanation! Do you believe it?”
    â€œI don’t believe it,” said May. “But I don’t
not
believe it.”
    â€œAccording to that story, Calvin Sidey left Gladstone so he couldn’t be arrested . . .”
    May took two more cookies and put them both in her mouth. “Yep. Though it seems to me if they had any kind of case at all they could arrest him out on the prairie as easy as on Fourth Street. Of course, they’d have to catch him first and out there that might not be so easy. But gone he is, that’s sure, and I don’t think he plans to come back.”
    But now Calvin Sidey has returned to Fourth Street and with suitcase in hand. Beverly supposes she should wave and call out, Remember your old neighbor? Then she might ask him if he’s coming back for good. Or for ill . . . But the July sun supplies all the heat Beverly Lodge can handle. She doesn’t need the blue flame of that old man’s gaze turned on her as well.

SEVEN
    Bill Sidey slaps on the light that illuminates the basement stairs and calls out over his shoulder, “Dad? I’ll show you what I’ve set up for you down here.”
    Toting his father’s suitcase, Bill starts down the stairs, the hollow thump of his father’s boots following him. With each step the men take, the temperature drops a few degrees until, at bottom, they’ve escaped the day’s heat entirely.
    Nightfall is hours away, but the unfinished basement, with its gray concrete walls and floor, its untreated studs and joists, its encroaching clutter, is so dark Bill has to turn on another light, this one an old floor lamp he has placed next to the bed. The lamp shade has yellowed with age and gives the bulb a dim, autumnal cast. There’s enough illumination, however, for Bill to see again how dismal are the surroundings in which he’s housing his father.
    Bill sets the suitcase on the bed, and as he does, he notices how many tufts are missing from the old chenille bedspread. He points to a dresser he has positioned in the middle of the room in an attempt to partition off a sleeping area from the rest of the basement. “The top two drawers are empty, and if those aren’t enough, I’ll clear out others. And I know that’s not much of a closet,” he says, indicating the wire hangers hung on nails pounded into two-­by-­four studs, “but you can hang a few things over there.”
    Calvin looks around the basement. “Where did the bed come from? You bring it down from upstairs? I told you, I didn’t want to turn anyone out of their bed.”
    Bill shakes his head. “It came from a rental. A house we’re trying to rent furnished, but since no one has looked at the place since January, I don’t believe it’ll matter that the bed isn’t in