The Mysteries of Soldiers Grove (14 page)

When he’d pulled the truck from around the corner of the convenience store the cop was standing outside, watching him drive away. Balaclava was glad he’d hammered the license plate up under the bumper. He watched in his rear view mirror, but the bull didn’t turn on his flashers and come after him.

Why do these sons of bitches have to dog him? He cut off the highway onto a side road and drove until he came to another larger road, turned onto this and drove until he came to a huge shopping mall parking lot. He pulled into a back row, selected a big red Ford hombre truck, checking to make sure it didn’t have an alarm system, then cross-wired it, and quickly switched license plates with the other vehicle.

Now he is sitting in the filthy men’s room stall. He tosses the outdated Terre Haute newspaper on the floor. Fucking podunk Indiana! He is reaching for the toilet paper dispenser when a small headline in the paper catches his eye: WISCONSIN SENIOR CITIZEN RECEIVES NATIONAL AWARD FOR BRAVERY. He takes up the paper again. The story is a very brief wire service clip:

“NEW YORK (AP)—An elderly man from Soldiers Grove, Wisconsin, Cyril Solverson, has been named the winner of the Award for Courage from The American Valor Society. The $50,000 award, presented at a black tie ceremony at the Waldorf Astoria in New York on December 17, is only the third such annual award given by the distinguished society.

“Mr. Solverson, still recovering from injuries suffered when he was assaulted and abandoned for dead in a blizzard by a robber, was unable to attend the ceremonies in person. The award was accepted in his name from the society by Mayor Bloomberg
,
who, in his remarks, marveled at how an older man could struggle four miles after being assaulted, through a raging snowstorm to almost reach his destination.

“ ‘Thank God he was found,’ the mayor commented. ‘We have a tendency in our great city to think that the only real stories come from New York, but they come from Soldiers Grove, Wisconsin, too, and I am proud to accept in Mr. Solverson’s honor, this award for his amazing tale of courage which took place in a remote region of the heartland of our country.’

“The $50,000 prize award money has been forwarded to Mr. Solverson, who is still being treated in a hospital in Wisconsin.”

The toilet paper dispenser is empty. Balaclava curses broadly; suddenly roaring with fury, he batters the side of the metal partition with both his heavy fists. He hears the guy who had been using the urinal next to his stall hustle out of the restroom in midstream without washing his hands.

Balaclava rages and hammers some more, making tremendous thunder, feeling as if he is about to explode: “I never assaulted that mangy fucker!” he shakes his hairy head back and forth. “I let him go!” he is snarling. “Now they make him a hero and give him the whole bank!”

He smashes on the partition some more, shouting, “Fifty thousand bucks! For bravery! Is there an award for mercy? I gave him mercy! That old fucker was peeing his pants and I let him go. Now I’m sleeping in my truck, stealing beef jerky and Twinkies, and that fossil is high on the hog!”

Balaclava booms his fury still more, quivering and groaning with rage, hammering the graffiti in the stall. Eventually he manages to use a crumpled piece of the
Terre Haute Clarion
to wipe himself.

He roars out of the parking lot, laying dark rubber out onto the highway, but then he clamps down on his temper
,
sets the cruise control to sixty-five, and drives with steady purpose through the night. Sitting on his rage, but keeping his speed legal, he presses steadily out of Indiana into Illinois, past Peoria, on his way to Soldiers Grove.

C
HAPTER
14

Louise

C
yril and I are having many exciting escapades away from the home now, and are becoming almost careless. I sometimes feel that the staff people are purposely ignoring us, just looking the other way as we make our furtive exits. Sometimes we slip back into the home well after the dinner hour and no one questions us. The people at the desk seem almost bemused when they see us, as if they know that something is going on. Oh those
two
!

I have taken to leaving an occasional nice tip under my plate after I’ve dined in the hall, and sometimes I leave an envelope out for the people who do the cleaning.

I’ve heard that someone is always paying in America. It is the way things work, the way things get done—or not done. Little envelopes or massive secret electronic transfers buying favors or silence or service or protection. The whole nation is on the take. I don’t tell Cyril about my tipping because it would only make him fret.

By now we’ve snuck out to most of the reasonable local escape possibilities: decent bars, the few acceptable restaurants, fishing spots, historic sites, antique stores, and often the bookstore in Viroqua to see the Brontë sisters.

Cyril seems to have become more comfortable with the idea of ranging out a bit farther. Perhaps now I can persuade him to dare an overnight somewhere.

Madison is a two-hour drive away. Years ago I went there several times with Heath for appointments at the Department of Natural Resources, but this was during the Vietnam time; the town seemed tense then, almost explosive. The war was horrible, and activists were on the streets daily making quiet statements that frequently turned into loud demonstrations. Heath was an army veteran, but we sometimes joined the protests when we were through with our appointments in Madison. Occasionally as a special treat we’d stay overnight.

I recall a pleasant hotel situated by one of the three lakes. I talk to Cyril about it and, after we have planned carefully, I take the plunge and call the hotel to make reservations for a double room. It is a big chance, but an exhilarating way to further test our capabilities. The drive to Madison takes a little longer than two hours, but to us aged, uncertain travelers it seems like a trip to Tierra del Fuego.

We stop a few times on the way to take bathroom breaks, and at a rest stop to eat our light lunch at a picnic table. When we arrive on the edge of Madison, Cyril uses an old street map to guide us in. He’d found it in the home lounge, unfolds it now and holds it high to give directions like a ship captain to his helmsman. We are both tremendously excited and a little nervous. Cyril gapes in rigid wonder at the large civic and university buildings and Wisconsin capitol dome. He’s never seen anything like this.

After we check into our room at the hotel, we take a much needed nap, each of us using one of the two double beds. The room is large and the staff has placed a lovely bouquet of flowers on the bureau for us and a complimentary bottle of fizzy wine with two glasses, apparently thinking when they took our reservation on the phone that we were young lovers on a weekend
tête-à-tête
.
C’est la vérité
. We shall see, we will.

Later we have tea in the hotel bar before tottering out onto the streets. Along State Street there is a long row of shops, bars, galleries, restaurants. Cyril is fascinated with these establishments. He has never seen such an accumulation of special commerce and is overwhelmed by the crowded sidewalks. Everyone is considerate, making way as we shamble along with our canes.

It is a warm day and eventually we stop at an outdoor café to share a draft beer and some pretzels. We watch the passing of young people, professors, politicians, students, even a few common citizens, some almost as old as we are.

We walk on, and as we turn one corner there is a large, secondhand bookshop. Cyril is enchanted, becoming lost in its caverns, the section of biographies and autobiographies almost sweeping him away.

As Cyril browses I chat with the owner, a pleasant man who seems more like a keeper of catacombs than a shopkeeper. He tells me that business is sharply down, that he has had to dismiss most of his staff. His only recourse is to mine the Internet for specialized customers, so he spends most of his days on the computer—instead of like the old days when he sat at his cash register, discussing books with customers, happily watching them roam his shelves and depart with armloads of venerable volumes. He is elated to witness our excitement as we plug through his stacks.

Finally I manage to draw Cyril out of the musty shadows of the biography section. I purchase a few rare British mysteries, and Cyril has found old books on Saint Thomas Aquinas, John Clare and—most precious of all—an antique leather-bound volume called
A Universal Biographical Dictionary
, published in New York in 1795, subtitled
The Lives of the Most Celebrated Characters of Every Age and Nation
, with a description under the title, “Embracing Warriors, Heroes, Poets, Philosophers, Statesmen, Lawyers, Physicians, Divines, Discoverers, Inventors, and Generally All Such Individuals, as From the Earliest Periods of History to the Present Time, Have Been Distinguished Among Mankind,” hand inscribed in now browned floral cursive by “Arnold Aldrich of Smith-field, R.I. 1795. $l.75.” Beneath this inscription Mr. Aldrich or someone has drawn in wide ink a swirling tornado figure with five diminishing curls descending halfway down the page; inside of each swirl are notches that look like quotation marks. The “storm” curls down to land between two prominent dots which are placed above what looks like a paved, striped highway—something that did not exist in those early days. The book was later presented—as noted in fading pencil—to “N. D. Aldrich by his mother,” probably Aldrich’s child or grandchild.

Cyril is consumed by this book, has never realized that such a venerable, mysterious thing might exist in this world. It astonishes him to hold this precious object in his hand. The dealer is asking fifty dollars for the volume. Cyril paces and looks stricken when he hears this. The dealer comes down to forty dollars. Cyril, who is able to look very troubled and alarmingly feeble, continues his slow pacing. The dealer takes pity, makes a “last adjustment”: thirty-eight dollars. I am astonished and delighted to watch Cyril go to his wallet and reluctantly peel out the cash.

Since Cyril uses his two canes and I use mine, toting these books will be a problem. The bookstore owner offers to have the books delivered to our hotel by a student helper. We toddle back to the hotel, making several rest stops along the way and by the time we arrive, the books have been delivered to the front desk. We retire exhausted to our room and ease ourselves down on the beds to look through our new treasures, Cyril reverently poring over his antique autobiographical book as if he is holding a copy of the
First Folio
.

He has the book right up against his nose as he reads and squints at the tiny eighteenth century text. Occasionally he flips back to the beginning of the book to look at the signature and strange swirling symbol drawn beneath it. Cyril decides it is a tornado with hail in it, coming down between two stones onto a path. “Maybe it is a sign of Aldrich’s power? Or is some terrible memory of weather? It’s a storm of good luck for me.”

Cyril studies some more. “I think it is more a symbol of his mentality whirling down onto the land. Maybe Aldrich was an old-time guy who collected lives in the eighteenth century. That’s more than 200 years ago. He was a pioneer life collector—a guy who came down like a tornado onto the earth to gather brief lives. My ancestor! Maybe my great, great, great, great grandfather? I
need
a relative!”

“Look!” Cyril points to one of the entries on page ninety-seven: “ ‘BURCKHARDT, John Lewis, native of Lausanne, celebrated as a traveler in Africa, under the patronage of the African Association of London.’ Look at this one on page 331: ‘PAOLI, Hyacinth, a native of Corsica, who, in 1735, possessed great influence amongst his countrymen as a chief magistrate.’

“What a treasure trove! It’s going to take me the rest of my life to get all this mini type into my head. Look at this! ‘SHENSTONE, William, an eminent English elegiac and pastoral poet, and a miscellaneous writer, died in 1763, aged 49.’”

It requires all of my bifocaled power to make out just a few words of the tiny eighteenth century printed text, but Cyril is seriously bearing down on this diminutive printing with his worn eyes. He will do anything to collect his lives!

“I’ll need my magnifying glass when we get home,” he says. Eventually his excitement and eye strain begin to fatigue him and the old book begins to slip from his fingers. I take it from his hands and cover him with a blanket; we nap on the two double beds until it is time to go out for dinner.

We’ve made an early reservation at a nearby restaurant—one that offers something beyond hamburgers, cheese curds, and fish sandwiches. We take a long time to determine our orders. The menu is French and the prices terrify Cyril. He is ready to walk out, but I persuade him that, because the menu is French and has sentiment for me, he must permit me to treat him. He agrees, but
only
if I permit him to pay for our next meal. Cyril the perfect American!

I finally decide on
reaux de veau,
which Americans call sweetbreads, and a starter of fresh oysters. I help Cyril with the menu and he decides on a starter of
vichyssoise
and an entrée of
tournedos Rossini
, which I explain to him is a fillet steak with Madeira sauce—and some other things. We order a bottle of the house red wine. Cyril is fascinated, relishing his food, and we almost finish the bottle. We conclude with a chocolate mousse and decline coffee. Cyril is a very happy, well-stuffed, slightly intoxicated old man by the time we finish. He has at last relaxed. He is so happy, “I wish I had been born in France, too,” he says wistfully as we shuffle slowly back down the street to the hotel, retire to our room, and prepare for bed.

I have brought along one of the pretty nightgowns that I used to wear occasionally on weekends when Heath was still alive. Cyril has put on worn wool pajamas, and is paging through his biographical dictionary again. He starts to slip into his bed.

I reach over and grasp his hand. “Cyril, come over into my bed with me. Please.”