A Far Gone Night (21 page)

“How’s the play coming along?”

“Oh, just dandy, Thomas!
We have some
talented
kids. ‘Our Town’ is going to be a
hit
. It always is, every four years at your
Rockbluff
High School Drama Club presentation. Get your tickets early. A hit, I say.”

I could see that the conversation was shifting all over the place. Every time there was an opportunity for either of us to get serious, the subject shifted, with Liv the obvious
perp
, but me accommodating the dialogue and adding to it.
Or taking from it.

We finished the meal at about the same time, polished off the big coffees. I took the check over Liv’s mild protestations, left a nice tip for Beth, and we walked out together, going a different way to avoid Octopus Arms
Altemier
. I offered to give Liv a ride, but she said she’d rather walk.

“May I walk you home, then, Miss Olson?” I asked. Her house is just a couple of blocks east of Bloom’s Bistro.

“Suit
yourself
,” she said, and strode off. I caught up right away and fell into step with her, heartily encouraged by her passionate desire to have me attend her. We didn’t say anything over the two blocks, and the silence pushed down on us.

When we got to her house, she swung open the gate in her front yard and we ducked under the rose arbor. I walked with her up to her door.

“Thank you, Thomas, for lunch and the walk.
Nice of you to escort an old maid to her home.”

I decided to ignore the tone of her remarks, so I just said, “May I come in?”

Liv opened her unlocked front door just a crack. “I don’t think so. Not today.”

“I remember the last time I came by your home,” I said, harkening back to an evening months before which had led to her bed. And bliss.

“Me, too,” she said, “and that’s why I’m saying no this time.”

I touched her chin and lifted her face to mine. She was blushing, and I thought, what a great thing that there are still women with enough modesty to blush over such things instead of putting it on Facebook.

“Look, I apologized for being insensitive, and I’m not going to do it again,” I said, beginning to resent the cold shoulder

“I don’t expect you to. Now, really, I must… “

“Liv, I was wrong to apologize,” I went on. “What I should have done was asked you to
forgive
me. So now it’s totally up to you what happens next with us. The ball is in your court.”

She pulled her face away from my hand, opened wide the door, and stepped inside, closing the door behind her and leaving me on her front porch, feeling better than I expected. Short of sacrificing a burnt offering of fatlings on her front steps, there was nothing left for me to do to return to her good graces, and all that went with it. But I had a hunch Moon could tell me where I could purchase a fatling or two.

I
did not sleep well Sunday night, haunted by images of Liv Olson’s face, her body, our strong affection for each other manifested in various scenarios that were both beautiful and baffling. I found myself dreaming how remarkable her bare flesh had felt under my hands months ago, the exquisite sounds she made, and the deep peace when she slept beside me. And then the sweet dreams would be dashed by images of her turning away from me forever, with nothing to build on.

Glad to wake up after a particularly unpleasant dream, I went ahead and got up early in order to avoid falling back to sleep and dreaming more. It was Monday morning. It had been a couple of days since I had gone for a run, and I was antsy to get back to that part of my conditioning. So I took off, even before first light. The road was clear and empty, almost as if it, too, had been sleeping but was now awake as I got into an easy rhythm. I pushed myself, continuing past the twisted crabapple tree that marked the two and a half miles down the blacktop from my house.

I ran until I was thinking about being tired but enjoying a new tableau of woods and rocks and a gentle curve in the road I had not run before. Splashes of snow were scattered around the woods, survivors of the post-snowstorm melt,
dark
patches of ground testament to the reality of heat.

I turned when I came to a big, mossy boulder that had slid down a hill, maybe centuries before, and had come to rest in a gully near the road.
My new farthest point.
I started back, forcing myself to maintain my pace, ignoring the burning in my lungs and legs as I approached the house. I sprinted the last fifty yards and stopped at the front door, waving my arms and walking circles around the front of the house, blowing plumes of breath into the cold air. Then I went in.

After my morning ablutions and Gotcha’s routine with meds and going out and coming in, I fixed myself a leisurely breakfast with twelve sausage links and six of the whole wheat pancakes Jan had made, two slabs of hash browns, and a big mug of Baileys coffee. I took my time, enjoying every bite and sip. I cleaned up and put my dishes in the dishwasher, which was nearly full. I poured in detergent and turned it on, enjoying the soothing shush-shush sound of the machine at work.

I checked my emails.
Nothing.
I checked on the Hawks, who were playing in a tournament in the Bahamas and had won their first game against Syracuse. Good sign. Nothing happened with the Red Sox, but there were plenty of trade rumors.
Pitching needs, always pitching.
I avoided the news sites. I looked at the clock. It was past nine and time to launch.

I showered and shaved, dressed in jeans and a heavy cotton t-shirt and a black sweatshirt with a hood and put on two pair of heavy socks and hiking boots. I pulled a pair of fleece-line gloves from a bottom drawer of my armoire, stepped to my hall closet and brought out my Navy pea coat and my
Mossburg
pistol grip, pump shotgun (Elsie) and two boxes of shells. I stuffed a black wool watchman’s cap in the pocket of the coat and set the coat and the shotgun on a sofa near the front door. Back in my bedroom, I took out my sheathed black
Ka
-bar knife from post-Navy days, with the eight inch blade, and strapped it to the calf of my left leg. Gotcha watched the entire process.

I fished out a New York Public Library tote bag from under the bed,
then
tossed in a few items that I have learned, over time, can be useful in friendly interrogations. Two rolls of duct tape, a pair of pliers, an awl, a butane lighter, and a couple of other items I hoped I wouldn’t need. I set the bag by the front door.

I read my Bible for a few moments and said a prayer for effectiveness, efficiency and protection for my trip north.

The day was clear and cold as I took on the drive to Minnesota. There was little traffic and no snow or ice on the road, but I drove slowly, the fifty-five speed limit. I wanted to take my time with the day, learn what I could, do what I could after I learned what I could, and enjoy the pace. And I didn’t want to do anything to be noticed, like picking up a speeding ticket. My word for the day was control.
Also patience.
Not my strong point.

As the road stretched out before me, through bleak farmland and frozen fields of harvested corn, bare stalks bent and broken, I thought about Liv Olson. She no doubt knew by now that I had taken a drunken Suzanne
Highsmith
back to her motel. And did it matter that I had been a gentleman and rejected Suzanne’s obvious attempt to seduce me? What I had done by taking her back to her suite was what the theologians would call “making provision for sin.”

But I couldn’t call her a cab.
Rockbluff
does not have cabs. She had admitted scraping a couple of other cars in the parking lot, so I couldn’t let her drive. Maybe I should have asked Moon if Rachel could take her home. Better yet, I should have had Moon call Liv to come get Suzanne. That would have been worth seeing.

Now Suzanne had disappeared. She did not leave town because I would occasionally see her scraped blue 4Runner in the parking lot at the
Rockbluff
Motel. Was she ashamed?
Probably.
Was she writing all this time?
Maybe.
Would I see her again? I guess it didn’t matter at that point. My thoughts left Suzanne and returned to Liv.

Liv had not invited me in after I walked her home from Bloom’s. She did not even indicate she wanted to kiss me at her front door. She was not interested. I wondered if I should have just taken her into my arms, but there was not even a hint of her willing to give in. It had been over a year since we had slept together, and it saddened me to think we’d never share a bed again. But I decided not to give up. I would adopt a siege mentality and try to wear down her resistance. It would give me something to do, I thought, and then I turned my attention to the tasks before me.

I passed into Minnesota around mid-day and continued
,
ignoring the gravel road Moon had driven when we went to find Fire Bear. I drove on and on as the land shifted from fields to forest. I passed through a couple of small farming villages, and then, mid-afternoon, I came to a four-way stop. One of the signs pointed east and read “
Chalaka
31 miles.” I turned right and drove on, wondering why there was no sign announcing the reservation in that direction. Twenty miles later, I drove right by a big, solid wood sign with indented yellow letters that read, “
Chalaka
Reservation of the Ojibwa-
Anishinabe
People.” A few miles farther on, I came to the outskirts of the town of
Chalaka
.

My plan was to scout out the area in daylight, snoop around,
see
what I could see. My training years ago and my experience after that training had taught me, whenever possible, to look things over carefully before initiating trouble. In
Chalaka
, I figured I’d get around to maybe asking a few questions that might lead me to Martin Rodman,
then
politely ask him about Cindy’s murder. If he were reluctant to provide information, I knew he would eventually respond to the incentives I had for him. I truly enjoy gathering information. Knowledge is power, President Bush said.

I followed the signs to the casino. The casino/hotel complex was situated at the end of a mile drive with established trees, now leafless and barren, on both sides of the drive. The building was five stories of architectural beauty with extensive glass and lighting and landscaping. As I drove slowly around the circle drive in front of the entrance, I noticed uniformed staff parking cars and opening doors for people. I did not see a speck of litter. A neon sign announced a singer with a vaguely familiar name performing in The Torchlight Theatre. The sign changed as I drove by and the message announced complementary drinks in the casino from 7 – 9 PM. I drove away from the entrance and took a well-marked sign to the parking lot.
Again, an immaculate area with lights everywhere.

There were plenty of cars in the lot, and most of them were upper end. A few clunkers here and there attested to the lure of easy money. Sections closest to the casino/hotel were marked off for various levels of membership with Eagle Feather being the most prestigious designation. After my quick cruise through the parking lot, I drove back down the mile-long approach and took a look at the town. I knew where to find the Pony Club.

I saw several motels, a post office, two supermarkets, five gas stations, and a large city park with yellow and red playground equipment that tempted me to try it out. There were also a couple of bars, one lacking windows but making up for its lack of decor with a trashy front yard. Several skinned up pickup trucks were already in the parking lot, which was strewn with litter, just like out front. The place, Mike’s Asylum, according to the buzzing neon sign by the front door, intrigued me as a place where, with a few dollars wisely offered, I might learn things I couldn’t get any other way. Like how to find Martin Rodman.

I continued to drive around town, making a side trip down a street with a sign pointing the way to
Chalaka
High School. The buildings were beautiful and the student parking lot had a variety of nice cars. The athletic fields were kept up, and a big sign announced that this place was the “Home of the
Chalaka
Warriors!” I wondered if they could be a little more creative than “Warriors.” I think something like “Screaming Scalpers” would be more effective in striking fear into their opponents’ hearts. And what a cool mascot they could have, too!

By then I was hungry, so I decided to go back to Mike’s Asylum, sample the menu, and see what I could learn. I parked in the lot, tossed my pea coat over my shotgun on the passenger’s seat, got out, and locked my truck. In the raggedy parking lot, I sidestepped a few crushed beer cans, and moseyed on inside the Asylum, enjoying the music even before I opened the door.

Johnny Paycheck was declaring that someone could take his job and shove it, and I thought that was too bad, that I really enjoyed my work, and my job that day was to learn things and maybe even act on them. I slid onto a revolving barstool four seats down from a pair of rough-looking gentlemen in flannel shirts, insulated vests, dirty jeans and work boots half unlaced. Each had a bit of a beard going, and they were hunched over pint glasses of beer half gone. They looked at me and I was reminded of a tussle I’d had at
Shlop’s
Roadhouse a while back. But I wasn’t going to do anything or say anything that might lead to a tussle. I would be slow to anger if they decided to pick on me. I looked at them. They looked back. Then they dropped their eyes and studied the glasses of beer in front of them.

The bar smelled like stale beer, cigarette smoke, and fried everything. Half a dozen tables and chairs were scattered about, some occupied, mostly by men, and a few booths were situated against a wall opposite the bar, which itself was nondescript. Two pool tables were occupied. One was taken by a single young man, the other by couples playing eight-ball in pairs.

“What’ll it be?”
A man’s voice, deep and rumbly.
I turned my gaze from the bar’s layout to the man behind the bar. He was a medium guy—medium height, medium weight, medium length brown hair, three-day growth of a medium, patchy beard. His eyes, though, were not medium. He looked intelligent.

“What’s good? I’m hungry.”

“Everything’s good, bud. Need a menu?”

“No, I’ll go with a couple of cheeseburgers and an order of fries. And a pitcher of Miller’s,” I said. “You must be Mike.”

“The one and only.
Coming up,” he said, and turned to preparing my food. Mike was wearing jeans and a baggy brown sweater that had either a random pattern or a lot of splatters,
dribblings
, and spills. When the burgers and fries were going, he produced a pint glass and a pitcher. A new song, one about former wives living south of Oklahoma, made me smile. It was a clever song, concluding with “That’s why I reside in Tennessee.” I couldn’t remember the artist’s name.

“Saw you smiling at that song. You must be divorced,” Mike said as I poured my first pint.
“How many times?”

“Three,” I said. “There was
Margarite
from Milwaukee, Darla from Des Moines, and Sally from St. Paul.”
Off the top of my head.
A gift.