Signs of Struggle (33 page)

“Yes, I did.” That stopped her. “Won’t you have a seat?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You might persuade me to stay.”

“No, I won’t, but you are welcome to stay as long as you want. As long as you want,” I repeated. She looked at me. She came in. She looked around. First time inside my house.

“Very nice,” she said.

“Gunther is an artist,” I said, stabilizing my uprightness by placing a hand on a door frame.

She said nothing. She stopped walking. Liv Olson was frozen in front of the bookshelf with my family pictures.
Oh.
Time for
me
to say nothing. Tough to do when one is half in the bag and Irish.

Liv was slowly shaking her head. She stood there a while, just looking at photos of Karen, Annie, and Michelle. When she turned to look at me her face was tear-streaked, her mascara melted.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Your family was so beautiful, your wife, your daughters. Oh, God, I am so sorry you lost them, Thomas. It never really struck me before. How in the name of God are you able to keep from losing your mind?”

“Sex and alcohol. But lately, mostly alcohol, regretfully.”

“That doesn’t even begin to be funny, Thomas. I can’t do this. I can’t compete with them,” she said, gesturing back toward the bookcase. “I need to go right now.”

“I want you to stay. Overnight, beyond. I want to kiss your face in the morning.”

Liv shook her head. “Can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

Olivia looked at me. “Your family, for openers, and because you’re starting to spook me a bit, Thomas. Are you the kind, funny, considerate man I welcomed into my bed? Or maybe something else, someone with a past you can’t leave behind, that bumps up into your life from time to time? You don’t think any of us are buying your ‘I read a lot’ line, do you? That’s insulting.” She walked away from me, toward the front door, put her hand on the doorknob. “Harmon says you’ve got background, training, experience he can’t get to. What is that? Tell me the truth about those things, Thomas.”

“I could tell you, Liv, but then I’d…”

“Don’t go there, Thomas! That is not funny. What’s wrong with you? Why do you have to make a joke about everything? Why can’t you just tell me the truth?”

“You want certainties.”

“I want you,” Olivia said, and my heart soared like the hawk, “but I don’t know who you are. But I do know you are a liar, and there’s nothing to build on there.”

“Oh.”

“See what I mean? You are an enigma wrapped in a conundrum. Who is Thomas O’Shea?”

“That’s easy. I’m just a guy who reached the midpoint of his life and got derailed, and now I have to make some adjustments at the half, as they say on
Monday Night Football
. I’m just trying to get to tomorrow a little stronger. As for tonight? I want you to stay. Who am I? How ‘bout someone who needs you, Liv.”

“It’s not possible,” she said. “I have to go. Thanks for going to Horace’s funeral today. I heard what Carl said, and I accept it. You have done nothing wrong other than lie to me over and over again, but I must say, to be honest, if you had never come here, life would be easier. And quieter.”

“So you would ignore the truth in favor of peace and quiet? That’s what my pastor asked me.”

“Oh, Thomas, I don’t know! Give me a little room, won’t you?”

“You’re the one who came out here.”

“Good night, Thomas, and thanks again for coming to Horace’s funeral.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“To tell the truth,” Olivia said, “I don’t think there’s any ‘us’ anymore, Thomas. I’m afraid of you, I’m afraid
for
you, and I’m afraid to be with you,” she said, her hand drifting to the mark on her body near her neck. “And you lied to me. Besides that, which is not easily overcome, violence, dead bodies, broken people are attracted to you like shadflies to streetlights.”

“Nice simile, but all of that’s behind us now, Liv.”

“I don’t think it’ll ever go away. Good night, Thomas, and have a good life.”

“That doesn’t sound very encouraging for tomorrow.”

“It isn’t,” she said. And she left, reneging on her order for me to kiss her butt.

I closed the door once the car’s taillights disappeared around the curve of my drive. I returned to my bedroom and looked around. My Bulldog was on her tuffet on the floor at the foot of the bed.

“And there is no joy in Mudville, Mighty Thomas has struck out,” I said. Gotcha wiggled her root, I went into the kitchen and opened the freezer. I transferred one bottle of wine to the refrigerator. I opened the other one and took it with me outside.

H
arlan Clontz, Jr. quietly withdrew his bid on the Soderstrom Farms property. He provided no information about his decision except that it was irrevocable. He insisted no one know except members of the Board of The Soderstrom Trust, and received their solemn assurance that his condition would be honored. Forty-seven minutes later, it was common knowledge in Rockbluff.

On a chilly September 25th evening, in a public meeting (as called for by the provisions of The Soderstrom Trust) in the Fellowship Hall at Christ the King Church (as called for by the provisions of The Soderstrom Trust), an agricultural conglomerate out of Minneapolis bought the land for $44,500,000. Everyone felt joy, I guess, except Clontz, who was not in attendance.

At the announcement of the winning bid, the crowd in the Fellowship Hall burst into cheers and whistles. No surprise. I was sitting by myself in the back when the good news broke forth. After the bid was certified and accepted by Mike Mulehoff, Senior Deacon of Christ the King Church, the burly schoolteacher asked for the attention of the noisy gathering.

His announcement that the Ruling Church Body offered the position of Senior Pastor to Carl Heisler, and he accepted, brought forth a burst of spontaneous applause. Ruth VanderKellen, seated with deacons and elders and the Heislers at a long table facing the crowd, dabbed at her eyes and kissed Molly Heisler on the cheek.

Other than that, it was just another routine, boring night in Rockbluff, Iowa. I tried to slip out the back during the backslapping and male hugging, two activities I detest, but Arvid Pendergast came up behind me, grabbed my arm, and said, “A bunch of us are heading over to The Grain o’ Truth for a little celebration. Won’t you join us? Only the elite have been invited.”

“So, why are you inviting me?” I said, faking a smile and moving toward the door.

“Just slumming, I suppose,” said another voice. It was Gunther. “You need to come back into the community, Thomas. It isn’t good for you to stay out in the sticks all the time. I haven’t seen you in weeks and weeks.”

“I don’t stay out in the sticks. What do you think I’m doing now? Hey! I’m being sociable, dudes! I’m hangin’ in the ‘hood, groovin’ on the vibes of Rockbluff! This is, like, awesome, what just went on here. I’m happy for everybody, like, gleeful.”

Another voice, softer, behind me. A woman. “Thomas, we’d be more than happy if you’d just come along and bless us with your company,” Ruth VanderKellen said, putting her hand on my shoulder. Dirty pool. How could I resist the invitation of the woman my actions had turned into a widow?

“Okay, okay. Hard to resist that,” I said. I smiled at her. “I’ll drop the smart-ass persona and just, like, you know, go along with the crowd, or whatever.”

“You ooze wisdom,” Ruth said, “but I’m sure it’ll be tough not to be a smart-ass.”

We all laughed. Ruth saying “smart-ass” didn’t go with her subdued good looks and simple dignity.

A crowd lined up five deep around Carl and Molly Heisler, so we decided to congratulate them later, when they joined the party at The Grain, as they had promised. It’s hard enough to congratulate somebody, but I’m not into standing in line to do it, especially when it can be deferred to a place where multiple grains of truth are served. So the “elite” split.

Ruth started to leave, so I said to her, “Do you need a ride?” At first she didn’t hear me, drifting toward the double doors leading from the Fellowship Hall foyer back into the big meeting room. So I reached out and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and looked and smiled. I said, again, “Need a ride?”

“It’ll save me a walk over to the manse to get my car, and I’d like your company. Thank you.”

“Let’s go, then.” I offered her my arm and she took it. We started walking together.

“You know,” she said, “at first I was just going to ‘melt back into the night,’ as they say, but being with people tonight seemed like a good way to, you know, kind of come out of seclusion, if you can call it that.”

“I understand,” I said, but I didn’t agree. We walked out into the nippy night air and over to my truck. I opened the door for her and she smiled and said, “Thank you, Thomas” as if she really meant it. I helped her up and in, then hurried around and got in behind the wheel.

“This truck has an excellent heater,” I said. It should kick in just about the time we get to The Grain.”

“That’s almost a mile. Maybe a little more. I think I can withstand the chill, though,” she said. Then, as if she were unsure of what she was saying, she said, “I’m tough.”

“Yes, you are, Ruth.” I started the engine and turned to her. “You know, you did absolutely nothing wrong, no one blames you for what happened, and I don’t think anyone wants to see you withdraw. Besides, you’re good looking, and hiding out deprives us menfolk the opportunity to gaze upon you imaginatively.”

“You do have the Irish gift of flattery without foundation, but I do like it. It’s just hard. I have always loved it here, even though Ernst did not. But I think it might be better if I went away.”

“Where?”

“Oh, I don’t know, back to my roots maybe, just until I get my feet back under me.”

I flipped on the heater, directing the flow to the floor. I don’t know about women getting their feet under them, but I know about women’s feet in cold weather. “And your roots are where?”

“Southern California. Santa Ana, to be exact,” she said softly, putting her hands near the blast of warm air pouring onto her feet.

I began humming “I Wish They All Could Be California Girls” and pulled out of the Fellowship Hall parking lot. Ruth laughed. “What about you? Have you decided not to be a recluse? No one seems to have seen you much since you were shot. That’s a long time, Thomas.”

“Tonight’s a big step for me. I didn’t want to miss the opening of the bids, but I hoped to slip out and go home, but Arvid and Gunther nabbed me.”

“They are good guys. You told me I needed to understand nothing that happened here at the church was my fault, and I think I believe you. Now you need to understand that what you think was your fault was not your fault, either. God knows you did nothing wrong. ”

“Good to remember,” I said, glancing over at her as we approached the bridge. I must say, she looked particularly fetching in a cashmere sweater and slacks. Both clinging affectionately to her topography. And bottomography, too. I notice things like that. So sue me.
Ernst, you were so dumb
, I thought.

“I’m being truthful. Evil was here before you ever showed up in Rockbluff, Thomas. You had a purpose here. You got rid of the infection and corruption and stink so that this place could be whole again. I know it was a terrible price for you to pay, but it needed to happen. I am grateful for you, and I thank God for you.”

I said nothing as we crossed over the Whitetail River and continued up the slight hill to The Grain o’ Truth. I didn’t know what to say. If Ernie had inferred that God had used me, I probably would have popped him one. Wrap up all the world’s trials and tribulations in a “God Used You!” knapsack and then go out for the buffet at Pizza Inn, appetite sharpened on sanctimony.

I pulled into the parking lot and shut down the truck. And sat there. Ruth said, “Are you going to leave Rockbluff and go back to your roots? I heard you were from downriver. Clinton. Before you answer, let me tell you, Thomas, that I hope you’ll stay. It would be terrible if you left, if you let all that’s happened to you since you got here drive you away from so many people who really, truly, care about you. You have no idea. You won’t let yourself understand, and you should.”

“It would be terrible if you left, too, and headed for California,” I said. “Same thing.”

Ruth smiled an impish smile, leaned across the floor shift and looked me directly in the eyes, her face less than a foot from mine, and said, “I won’t if you won’t.”

“Okay,” I said, “but don’t expect me to become the bon vivant partymeister of Rockbluff. I’ll ease back into a regular life, slowly but surely.”

“I imagine Liv Olson will help with that easing. She’s a wonderful woman and a fantastic teacher. I understand you’ve been an item these days.”

“Not anymore. Nothing to build on once you’ve been called a liar and gutless. Nooo, I don’t think there’s anything left there.”

“I’m sorry.”

I got out and escorted Ruth to The Grain o’ Truth Bar & Grill. Inside, we were met with the competing fragrances of Loony Burgers on the grill, French fries in the bubbling vat of canola oil, and pizzas in the ovens. Harry Belafonte was singing “Banana Boat Song” and several young couples were dancing to the music that was recorded decades before they were born. I took Ruth’s hand and bulled our way up to the bar, edging by people who took the hint and made room.

“I’m sorry your bid for Soderstrom Farms came up short,” I said to Moon, now looming up before us.

“Life is a trail of tears,” he said. Then he noticed Ruth, edging her way to the bar from behind me. “Good evening, and welcome, Ruth. Good to see you.” Moon turned to me and said, “By the way, white eyes, where the hell have you been? I haven’t seen you in days, and my personal economy has suffered a recession. If you had been a regular like you were before, my bid might have won.”

“I’ve been pouting. I’ve been sucking my thumb. I’ve been feeling sorry for myself. I’ve been feeding a pity party. Okay?”

“That won’t hold up if you keep the present company,” Moon said, nodding at Ruth. “The woman’s a wonder. Now, what do you people want to eat? Remember, everything’s on the house this evening. Rachel’s paying.”

Hearing Moon’s remark, Rachel sidled by, holding a tray filled with pints. She beamed when she saw Ruth, and the two women performed a sidesaddle hug, Rachel balancing her tray. “He’s telling the truth about everything being on the house tonight,” Rachel said. “But he’s a lying dog about who’s paying. Truth is, he’s paying. He just doesn’t want to take credit, so order big, you guys, you’ll never see this happen again.” Before disappearing into the crowd, Rachel patted me on the butt and said, “Good to see you again, Thomas.” I love it when women pat me on the butt. Or give me a long hug. Or even a quick kiss on the cheek. And then there’s those winks.

We ordered Loony Burgers and a pint of Heineken’s each. As we turned away from the bar, Mike Mulehoff came up to us, put a big hand on each of our shoulders, and said, “We’ve pushed a couple of tables up next to a booth in the back corner. The usual suspects. Join us in our celebration?”

“On our way,” I said. When we arrived, there were cheers for Ruth and me both. Maybe there was something to what Ruth said about these people and their attitude toward me. I looked around.

Mike squeezed in next to his wife, Gabby, a diminutive, almost matronly woman with mischievous brown eyes; Arvid and his wife Clara, a stout woman I believe would have fit right in waiting tables during Munich’s Oktoberfest; Gunther and Julie, and Liv Olson and Harmon. A little shot to the heart for me, an averted glance from Olivia.

We drank and ate and told stories on each other and laughed a lot. I drank quite a bit, sitting just a few feet from a woman I’d slept with and never would again. Ah, flaming youth!

Then, as the noise died down and The Grain began to slowly empty, Moon joined us.

“I have a question,” I said, “and I know the answer is right here among us.”

“I am not gay,” Moon said, and everyone laughed.

“I’m serious. It’s painful to be serious, but I want to know how Horace and Arvid knew the shooter was a woman. Come on, guys, ‘fess up. You wouldn’t have looked at the shooter twice if you didn’t know to look for a female. I just want to know how you knew.”