The Mysteries of Soldiers Grove (15 page)

The poor man. I have surprised him. He seems almost terrified. Surely this possibility had occurred to him; he had grown silent as we prepared for bed, and averted his gaze as I changed into my gown, but now his dear, battered face is even ruddier than usual. I realize again that everything in this new/old life is a first for Cyril. I want to comfort him and caress him, to make things comfortable for my friend, but he is old and cannot be too abruptly surprised.

“Come, sweet man. I want you here beside me. It is all right to be close to each other. I would like it.” He slips into bed beside me and pulls the covers up to his neck. I roll over and put my arm on him under the covers. He is trembling slightly. “It would be so fine to hold each other, Cyril. Let’s do it. Let’s be near each other. We are such good friends now; let us just warm each other with our bodies, too.” I unbutton his pajama top and press toward him. He is breathing so hard and seems so bewildered it worries me. I don’t want him to have a stroke or heart attack.

“Hush, hush, Cyril,” I say as I slowly stroke his ribs with my fingertips. “This is good. Isn’t it good? Relax and feel my touch. Now reach over and hug me; it is okay; we can embrace together and share our warmth. We’ve had a wonderful day. Let’s relax and enjoy our closeness.”

Lord knows what Cyril’s thought about such things so alone in his long life. I don’t want to think about it. But now he does take a light hold of me. “Why would anyone want to hold
me
?” he whispers and ducks his head against my chest.

“I want to hold you because you are my dearest, my only friend, Cyril. I have never known anyone like you. I want you to
know
that I trust myself to you. I like having your arms around me. It warms me and completes our friendship.”

I’m not sure he really yet believes in himself. But yes, he holds me more tightly and kisses my forehead and cheek with an eagerness that, I believe, surprises him. I try to calm his breathing by placing my hand on his bare chest, then slipping it over his shoulder. I finish unbuttoning his pajama top and take his arms out of his sleeves. I hold him close, his trembling, battered, frozen and defrosted body.

“Now you must kiss my lips,” I say, and he does this hesitantly but eagerly, and I am glad for his ardor, for his clumsy kiss, such late fulfillment for him.

I dare something more—perhaps I should not have—but I reach down through his pajama fly and grasp his limp penis. He exhales loudly and tosses his head, but I feel only a slight stirring in my hand.

I hasten to reassure him. “Oh, it is such a precious thing,” I say as I gently stroke it. “It is dear—I like holding it.” Again there is a slight rousing, but that is all. I wonder if I am being cruel—I don’t want that. This is what we can do, and I believe it is very nice for him and for me to have this intimacy. We have so many other things together.

“Cyril,” I say. “Now I want you to touch me.” I unbutton my gown and guide his gnarled, shaking hand slowly to my breasts, then my vagina. “Just touch. Put your fingers on it and into it. Hush, my sweet man. It is all right. It is
all
right.”

He does as I suggest, almost guiltily, but I whisper, “Thank you, Cyril. It makes me feel good to have you touch me. It is what I want, for us to be together like this, doing what we can do.”

“You are so perfect,” Cyril says. “So smooth.” He has not, I am quite certain, ever said such things before in his life.

For still a while more we embrace, just stroking and holding, until finally Cyril’s breathing eases and grows even. He is old and
nothing
can postpone his weariness any longer as he slips into unconsciousness. It has been a long, long adventuresome day. We have worn ourselves out being adrift in the world, and thus he slips into sleep, but does not take his arms away. I hold him in the darkness and we slumber together through the night.

How fine it is the next morning to wake in each other’s arms, achy from the wine and wonderful excitement of the previous night. We are even a bit surprised, as lovers are sometimes, both of us, dehydrated, still tired, but happy to pay a little for our sins. We sip water, and I misquote from
Romeo and Juliet
, “Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day/Stands tipoe on the misty driftless hills.”

After a brief interlude of caressing we finally stir ourselves and get dressed. I find the Madison classics station on the clock radio. As we wash and dress, we listen to some adventurous Corigliano; we take our many medicines, then go downstairs to the dining room.

A good breakfast of eggs Benedict (Cyril’s first, he is wildly enthusiastic), huge glasses of orange juice, and pot of tea clears our heads. We chuckle with pleasure over memories of our wild capers of the night before, and agree that these newfound activities should continue, but be rationed and held for special occasions. We cannot play cozy in the home. That would be begging trouble. But we have impetus now to venture further.

In late morning we walk out and take a light lunch, pay our hotel bill, and stroll the streets of Madison awhile more before starting back. Things have gone well and we are quiet—two weary, happy old folks as we drive slowly back to Soldiers Grove. We become apprehensive as we near the home, hoping that no one has taken note of our overnight spree.

We decide to walk right back into the lobby as if nothing had happened and sneak our overnight bags in later. It is dinnertime when we arrive in the parking lot, and we know the staff is occupied; we walk in the front door, heading directly toward the dining area. An attendant is at the front desk, but she is speaking on the phone and barely notices us. We wave airily and hasten on.

In the dining room the meal is ham slices, corn niblets, and lumpy mashed potatoes. The singer is standing with her fingertips on the table, in the midst of a wavering but touchingly appropriate rendition of (yes, I risk credibility by claiming this as the solemn truth) “Last Night, When We Were Young.” We smile and poke the food around on our plates. Our entertainer sounds more in touch than usual with her song. No one seems to have missed us and no one comes to accuse us; we have a sense of accomplishment, and are already scheming about even more far-flung adventures.

Liberty. Travel. Over the many years these things had become large abstractions for me. Freedom. But these words have taken substance again—with sweet, damaged Cyril as my partner.

When we pass by the front desk again on the way back from dinner the attendant suddenly hails Cyril, and we both stop in our tracks. Have we been overconfident? Are we uncovered? Cyril approaches the desk warily. He is told there is a phone message for him.

“For
me
?” Cyril asks. He has never received a phone message in his life.

“Here it is,” the woman says. “It was taken down earlier by one of the afternoon volunteers. Maybe it’s a prank,” she says as she studies it.

The message reads: “Charlotte Brontë called. Please return her call.” A number is scrawled below the message. We take the note back to Cyril’s room; he dials and sets his phone volume high so I can hear what is being said.

“Oh, Cyril,” Charlotte says when she hears his voice. “A man came into the bookstore today looking for you. He said he was an old friend and had heard you were in the hospital. He came to our store because he said he knows you are a bookish sort, and he thought it possible that we would know your whereabouts. He said he was concerned when he’d checked at the hospital and found you’d been discharged. The hospital doesn’t give address information, so he’s been scouting around for you. He was polite, but was such a large, rough-looking man, he intimidated Anne. I’m not sure she did the right thing—he was so imposing and made her feel so disengaged, she revealed that you are back in the home.

“He seemed . . . very determined. Anne is still upset by the incident. Emily is furious with Anne for telling him your whereabouts. Emily is always suspicious of everyone. She tried to move the man along without giving him any information, and he suddenly became very gruff with her and it frightened her that he might become physical. He called her ‘sister’ when he addressed her—and Emily hates that sort of reference. It boils her blood.

“Cyril, I’m afraid this man might show up sooner or later looking for you at the home, and we didn’t want you to be surprised. I’m so sorry if we’ve done something wrong or caused difficulty for you,” said Charlotte. “I hope he really is an old friend stopping through for a visit.”

She waits for a moment for a response from Cyril. It does not come. “But I guess not,” she says at last. Cyril thanks her for taking the message, hangs up, and turns to hold my hand.

C
HAPTER
15

Cyril

I
t is Balaclava. The realization sends a shock down from my balls to my hobbled feet, then all the way back up my spine.

Lucifer himself! The monster. The one who left me to the eternal deep freeze. What in God’s name does he want? What do I do now? Call the sheriff? Buy a gun?

Louise is a quick study. She recognizes the problem. “It’s the man who put you out in the storm, isn’t it?” she asks in alarm. “Cyril, you’ve got to call the police. That man is a dangerous fugitive!”

I try to be mister tough guy for Louise, but she can see that I am knocked flat. I start lurching around the room, forgetting to use my canes, stumble and almost go down. Louise grabs me and guides me back to my chair. She wants me to call the sheriff
now
. She looks up the number and I dial.

He answers his phone himself after one ring. “Yeah,” he says, “sheriff.” Perhaps he’s out cruising and speaking to me on one of those little telephones that everyone carries now. Of course he remembers me from when he pulled me out of that pile of snow in the blizzard. The sheriff is the guy who saved my bacon when I was about to change into a block of ice. That whole episode has become one of the legends of these parts.

When I was in the hospital he came to ask me questions, but I was still loony, looking at the world through frosted glass, and I have no distinct memory of him.

When I tell him now that Balaclava might be back in town, he tells me he will come over immediately. We wait for him in the lobby of the rest home and he arrives in five minutes. “Mr. Solverson,” the sheriff says, putting out his big paw for a shake.

I dimly recollect him from my frozen time, a substantial guy with a surprisingly high, but husky voice like Aldo Ray. He has a slight beer belly and his uniform fits him snuggly. His big-brimmed sheriff’s hat is tilted forward almost to his eyebrows, and there’s just the faintest ribbon of moustache over his mouth.

He looks me up and down. “I can see those docs rolled you over pretty good, Mr. Solverson. You doing okay?”

“Fair to middling,” I say. “You know, I never did have a chance to thank you for what you did, but that blizzard got a piece of me. It took the docs a lot of time to finally get me put back together—it took all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. Now I’ve got this problem. That hood who snatched me and then put me out into the snow . . . I think he’s back in town looking for me. I wish I knew why.”

“That man is also wanted for armed robbery, stealing a truck, vehicular homicide, wounding a policeman, manslaughter, and a bunch of other things. I’d sure like to know if he’s back in these parts.”

Just the account of Balaclava’s record chills me again, but I struggle on to tell the sheriff, “The Brontë sisters in Viroqua saw him. He was in their shop asking about me.”

“Who are the Brontë sisters?”

“That’s what we call those three women who own the bookstore.”

The sheriff seems puzzled by this for a moment, but doesn’t pursue. He asks, “When did they see him?”

“Yesterday. He really scared the hell out of them.”

“Did he threaten them?”

“No. He was trying to act straight—but that guy can’t help looking nasty, no matter which angle he turns. The nature of the beast.”

“There’s a
lot
of badass guys out there these days. Are you sure this is the same one who abducted you? What’s he look like?”

“When he pushed me out into that whiteout he was wearing a fur hat over his whole head, but I saw he had gray eyes, and a mouth like a shark gill. He’s big, big and big, has a muscle voice like Tami Mauriello.”

“Who is Tami Mauriello?” the sheriff asks.

“Cyril!” Louise cautioned, sensing that my mechanism had been tripped.

But I had to tell the sheriff just a little about Mauriello. I can’t help myself. I am Cyril, the tender of lives. “He was a heavyweight boxer, and he staggered Joe Louis with a punch one time, before Louis took him out.”

“Not too many guys did that,” the sheriff observes.

“He played in
On the Waterfront
with Marlon Brando, too. Not many guys did
that
either.”

“Cyril, this is
serious
business!” Louise cautions.

The sheriff goes on with his questioning. “Why would this guy come back to Soldiers Grove looking for you? He must know there’s a watch out for him.”

“I don’t know why he’s here, but I am in no condition to be facing him down. Can you help me?”

“I’ll put out a general alert, and I’ll talk to those Brontë ladies and get a better description. Do you have any idea where he might be hiding?”

“I can’t say,” I reply, then, after a little reflection, “I suspect he’s pretty good at keeping himself scarce until he’s ready to pull one of his capers; he probably lives in vehicles, breaks into abandoned houses. He knows how to hang out in deep woods. I think I saw some camping gear behind the seat of his pickup, and we’ve got a lot of trees on these driftless hills. He knows how to disappear.”

“Do you carry a cell phone?”

“No, sir.”

“I don’t have enough guys to assign you twenty-four-hour protection, but I’ll get you a little alarm device that will signal us in case the guy comes around. Do you have a weapon?”

“No.”

The sheriff sees my hesitation. “You better think about getting something. Even a knife, a blackjack or something.”

“I couldn’t bruise a peach, even with a blackjack in my hand.”