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10
I got used to the planes coming in for a landing directly over my head. I arranged for newspaper and
milk delivery: thick glass bottles brought right to your doorstep. Like the root beer Frank Anicetti
had served me on my first jaunt into 1958, the milk tasted incredibly full and rich. The cream was
even better. I didn’t know if artificial creamers had been invented yet, and had no intention of finding
out. Not with this stuff around.
The days slipped by. I read Al Templeton’s notes on Oswald until I could have quoted long
passages by heart. I visited the library and read about the murders and the disappearances that had
plagued Derry in 1957 and 1958. I looked for stories about Frank Dunning and his famous bad
temper, but found none; if he had ever been arrested, the story hadn’t made it into the newspaper’s
Police Beat column, which was good-sized on most days and usually expanded to a full page on
Mondays, when it contained a full summary of the weekend’s didoes (most of which happened after
the bars closed). The only story I found about the janitor’s father concerned a 1955 charity drive. The
Center Street Market had contributed ten percent of their profits that fall to the Red Cross, to help
out after hurricanes Connie and Diane slammed into the East Coast, killing two hundred and causing
extensive flood damage in New England. There was a picture of Harry’s father handing an oversized
check to the regional head of the Red Cross. Dunning was flashing that movie-star smile.
I made no more shopping trips to the Center Street Market, but on two weekends—the last in
September and the first in October—I followed Derry’s favorite butcher after he finished his half-day
Saturday stint behind the meat counter. I rented nondescript Hertz Chevrolets from the airport for
this chore. The Sunliner, I felt, was a little too conspicuous for shadowing.
On the first Saturday afternoon, he went to a Brewer flea market in a Pontiac he kept in a
downtown pay-by-the-month garage and rarely used during the workweek. On the following Sunday,
he drove to his house on Kossuth Street, collected his kids, and took them to a Disney double feature
at the Aladdin. Even at a distance, Troy, the eldest, looked bored out of his mind both going into the
theater and coming out.
Dunning didn’t enter the house for either the pickup or the drop-off. He honked for the kids when
he arrived and let them off at the curb when they came back, watching until all four were inside. He
didn’t drive off immediately even then, only sat behind the wheel of the idling Bonneville, smoking a
cigarette. Maybe hoping the lovely Doris might want to come out and talk. When he was sure she
wouldn’t, he used a neighbor’s driveway to turn around in and sped off, squealing his tires hard
enough to send up little splurts of blue smoke.
I slumped in the seat of my rental, but I needn’t have bothered. He never looked in my direction as
he passed, and when he was a good distance down Witcham Street, I followed along after. He returned
his car to the garage where he kept it, went to The Lamplighter for a single beer at the nearly deserted
bar, then trudged back to Edna Price’s rooms on Charity Avenue with his head down.
The following Saturday, October fourth, he collected his kids and took them to the football game
at the University of Maine in Orono, some thirty miles away. I parked on Stillwater Avenue and
waited for the game to be over. On the way back they stopped at the Ninety-Fiver for dinner. I parked
at the far end of the parking lot and waited for them to come out, reflecting that the life of a private
eye must be a boring one, no matter what the movies would have us believe.
When Dunning delivered his children back home, dusk was creeping over Kossuth Street. Troy had
clearly enjoyed football more than the adventures of Cinderella; he exited his father’s Pontiac grinning
and waving a Black Bears pennant. Tugga and Harry also had pennants and also seemed energized.
Ellen, not so much. She was fast asleep. Dunning carried her to the door of the house in his arms. This
time Mrs. Dunning made a brief appearance—just long enough to take the little girl into her own