Mrs. Million (5 page)

The youngest Grabo girl, Toagie, inspired a different sort of fear. Toagie had been a coltish beauty in high school, but the past decade had not been kind to her. A few years riding the punk rock street scene in Minneapolis had given her a sort of tattered, exotic maturity, but one day she had abruptly returned to Cold Rock, dead broke and on probation for a minor drug offense. Before the year was out she’d married local boy Bill Carlson, produced one child, and replaced the gutter-punk language she had adopted with a lexicon of idiosyncratic euphemisms.

When Toagie and her surly husband had walked into the S&L two years ago to refinance their oversize foursquare, Art had known in his heart that such a transaction could only end in sorrow. Bill and Toagie Carlson had long since resigned themselves to a life of bouncing from calamity to disaster with small chunks of weird joy sprinkled throughout the mix. Still, most everyone agreed that Toagie was a lot of fun—even those who had been injured, embarrassed, or arrested while in her company. Despite his misgivings, Art had approved the loan. After all, Toagie was Barbaraannette’s sister.

It was Barbaraannette, the middle sister, who stirred within Art the richest emotional soup. He’d fallen hard in the tenth grade and had been in love with her ever since. With age and passing years, his adoration for Barbaraannette had matured and hardened and found its own place inside of him, but it had not abated. He had loved her at close range during her awkward teens, loved her from afar during her college years, loved her still more when she returned to Cold Rock, and loved her with bitter sorrow after she married Bobby Quinn. He had loaned the newlywed couple the money for their house, this very house, despite the fact that Bobby Quinn was a clear and present credit risk. He had done it out of love for Barbaraannette.

Most of Art’s friends were married. Most of them had children. At times, Art envied them their coupled, fecund existence. More often, he fantasized about Barbaraannette.

They had gone out on a date once, the memory of which made Art squirm. It had happened shortly before her engagement and subsequent marriage to Bobby Quinn, and before his own ill-fated marriage to Maria Vedeen. Barbaraannette had returned to Cold Rock, moved back in with her mother, and was working part time as a substitute schoolteacher. Art, after several shots of vodka and a great deal of prodding from his friend Steve Lawson, had called her on the phone and invited her to dinner.

He’d had to remind her who he was. “I sat behind you in Mrs. Borson’s class. Twelfth-grade English,” he’d said, his voice slurred with alcohol.

“Oh!” she’d said. “Of course! How have you been, Art?” Her tone seemed to imply that she did not remember him at all. Ten years he’d been carrying her torch and she didn’t know him.

The next night, still slightly hung over, he had appeared at her front door feeling overdressed and underprepared, his armpits caked with antiperspirant, clutching a half-dozen yellow roses.

That date had not gone well. Everything that came out of his mouth sounded stupid and inappropriate. Barbaraannette laughed politely at his jokes, and at several things that were not jokes. The service in the restaurant was insulting, the food abysmal, the lighting bright and harsh. Art heard himself babbling on and on about the Twin Cities Marathon, like she would give a damn. He had finished with a very respectable time of 2:42:27, a fact he had somehow managed to blurt three times. He’d been so nervous, so worried about how he looked to her that he hadn’t done a single thing right. He had spilled water in his lap, stepped on her foot while attempting to hold the car door open for her, and, when he got home, discovered that he had a massive chunk of black pepper stuck between his front teeth. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to kiss him good night. Not that he’d asked. The last part of the date was a blur in his memory. All he remembered was the awful feeling that he’d blown his big chance with the love of his life and that he wanted to kill himself. But he hadn’t killed himself, nor had he asked her out again. A few weeks later Barbaraannette announced her engagement to the irresponsible, handsome, and dexterous Bobby Quinn. Shortly after their wedding, Art himself became engaged to Maria Vedeen and married her, but in the end it had not worked out and, even worse, his marriage had done nothing to temper his obsession with Barbaraannette.

A cloud passed in front of the sun. Art pulled up the collar of his overcoat, drew up his knees and rested his chin on his crossed wrists, trying to understand the forces that had brought him to this place. He drifted through a random string of memories until he arrived, as he often did, at his mental catalogue of long runs. Two months to Grandma’s Marathon in Duluth. He began to lope through the remembered course, stride by stride, at a leisurely 7:30 pace.

He had arrived at the twenty-mile mark when he noticed that someone was standing in front of him. He looked up, felt his heart deliver a huge thump.

Barbaraannette said, “Good lord, Art, do you have any idea how pitiful you look?”

Barbaraannette immediately regretted her words. She’d meant it as a bit of playful banter—but had forgotten that Art did not know how to play those games and, in fact, she was pretty lousy at it herself.

“You want a cup of coffee?” she offered, softening her voice.

He nodded gratefully. He followed her into her kitchen and watched, saying little, as she made coffee.

Art took his coffee black. That surprised Barbaraannette. She had always thought of him as a cream and sugar guy. But why would she think that? Maybe it was his strong white teeth. Who knew where these ideas came from?

Art had asked her out only once, the year she’d returned to Cold Rock, shortly before she’d become engaged to Bobby. Dinner at the Four Coachmen—a clumsy and uncomfortable evening, especially for her since she had already decided to marry Bobby Quinn. She’d gone out with Art that night because nothing was official with Bobby yet, and she liked Art, and it was the polite thing to do. She could not remember whether they’d had coffee after dinner. She did remember that Art had dumped a glass of water on his lap, and that he’d been so nervous she could smell the sweat coming off him from across the table, but it hadn’t smelled bad. He’d seemed most comfortable when he talked about running. Art ran marathons, twenty-six miles. Twenty-six point two, he’d told her. Barbaraannette had been truly impressed, both by the feat and by his passion for running. How long had he told her it took? She thought for a moment. The number 2:42 came into her mind.

She said, pouring her own coffee, “How long did you say a marathon takes you?”

A visible tremor ran up Art’s body. “Me?”

Barbaraannette laughed. “Yes, you.”

“Um, my PR is two hours and thirty-six minutes.” He cleared his throat. “And twelve seconds. That was three years ago, at the Twin Cities.”

“You’ve gotten faster,” Barbaraannette said.

Art stared back at her.

“I mean,” Barbaraannette added, “since we talked about it at the Four Coachmen.”

“Oh.” Art looked at his lap, his cheeks coloring slightly.

“I’ve seen you running. You run over all six bridges, right?”

Art nodded. “I usually run the bridges, then head up Easton Creek.”

“I used to go for walks along there.”

“It’s a nice spot. I like to run it at night.”

“You don’t worry about running into wild beasts in the dark?”

Art blinked, unable to follow her through the turn. What did she mean? He fell back to the solid ground of the banking business. “Yes, well, the reason I’m here is that I really need to talk to you, Barbaraannette. I mean, what I mean is, you really need to talk to me.”

Barbaraannette laughed, then attempted to imitate Mary Beth’s arched eyebrow. “
I
need to talk to
you?”

Art cleared his throat. “Uh, as a matter of fact, yes. I think you do.” He took a deep breath. “What I mean to say is, I’ve three things to say to you. The first one is, this reward you’re offering? It’s not too late to call it off, and I think you should. I really think you should.”

Barbaraannette narrowed her gaze and pressed her lips together. “And?”

“I really think you should withdraw your offer. Buy yourself a nice car and put the rest of your money into some solid funds.”

“I heard you the first time. You said you had three things to say.”

“Yes. Are you aware of your sister’s situation with respect to her mortgage?”

Barbaraannette crossed her arms. “I know she owes you a pile of money. Why, is she behind in her payments?”

“Yes she is. It’s gotten rather serious.” He sat low in the chair, knees jutting, back bent forward, head tilted to one side. “Actually, we had planned to foreclose tomorrow.”

“And you’re wondering if I’m going to bail her out, is that it?”

Art squirmed. “All I’m saying is, if you’re thinking about it, I could hold off on the paperwork for a few days.”

Barbaraannette nodded. “I’ll think about it. What’s the third thing?”

Art took a breath and sat up straight. He lifted his briefcase onto the table and unsnapped the latches. “The third thing is, if you go ahead with the reward offer, and if someone claims it, you’ll need to borrow the money.” He extracted a loan application and placed it beside her coffee cup. “Cold Rock S&L would very much like to be your lender.”

Barbaraannette sighed. What ever had made her think he was a cream and sugar guy?

Dear Ms. Foster,

I recently saw your excellent movie NELL and it changed my life.

Previous to seeing NELL I was deep in a Clinical Depression. My doctor prescribed Prozac but it made me sick. Also it was expensive. But the fact that I still have the use of my arms after the motorcycle accident where I ran off the road to avoid hitting a bus filled with innocent schoolchildren is a good thing. Life was very hard for me after they amputated my legs, but all the innocent children survived!!!

After my accident I struggled hard to find a purpose in life to go on living. The Clinical Depression made me extremely suicidal so I decided to take an overdose of drugs. But then I read your excellent and profound movie, NELL. Once I read NELL I knew that life was worth living if only to read your other books. You are not merely Talented, you are a Great Actress!!! Maybe you know that already. I am inspired to read all of your books. Unfortunatly, I am on an extremely limited budget. No one will hire me as I am a cripple now and the amount of money I get from also getting wounded fighting Saddam in the Gulf War is very poor. I hardly have enough for food and rent and to support my mother who has Alshiemers.

Do you have any extra copies of any of your inspiring movies?

Preferably with your signature? I would be extremely grateful if you could spare some. Or if not, if you would send a donation in any amount, I could afford to buy them myself.

Admiringly,

Your biggest fan!!!

Jonathan James Morrow

“T
HIS IS QUITE GOOD,
Jayjay. Quite vivid. You write better than many of my students.” André Gideon smiled and set the letter on the table beside his coffee cup. Sadly, what he had said was true. He’d read papers from English majors that were less accomplished. “I am quite certain Ms. Foster will enjoy hearing from you.”

“You never know for sure,” said Jayjay Morrow.

“Did you actually see
Nell?”

“Nope. But she was in it. I send out a lot of letters. Mostly I never hear back, but last week I got a signed book and a picture from the guy that wrote that book about bridges.”

André said, “Bridges?”

“Yeah,
The Bridges of…
some country, I think.”

“My word! He sent you a book?”

“And a picture of him playing guitar. Only they weren’t worth much, but at least I got, like, five bucks down at the Book Exchange. And a couple months ago this lady sent me a check for a hundred dollars. But she was an actress. I send them a picture with the letter.” Jayjay reached into the tattered cardboard file folder on his lap and extracted a color snapshot of a crumpled, bespectacled, legless man in a wheelchair.

André Gideon looked from the photo to his young house guest. “My goodness,” he said. “You certainly have come around.”

Jayjay grinned. His even, white teeth were dazzling, as was the rest of his twenty-one-year-old body. Once again, André felt the breath leave his body. It had been two days since young Jonathan James had moved into his guest room, one week since their first fateful encounter at Rudolph’s Red Nose Bar and Grill, and the boy’s erotic impact remained undiminished. The child was drop-dead beautiful. Even the pimple erupting from the side of his nose only made the rest of him seem that much more perfect, as did the tiny blue tear tattooed near the corner of his right eye.

He wished he could tell Mother about Jayjay, but she wouldn’t understand. She was still waiting for grandchildren. André reached across the table and slipped his fingers into Jayjay’s blond curls, feeling the heat of his scalp. The boy tolerated it for a few seconds, then pulled his head back.

“It’s not me in the picture, a course. I took it of this guy I saw looked real pitiful.”

“He does look that,” said André.

“Anyways, this one actress sent me the hundred, so I thought I’d try sending to more actresses.”

“I think that is very intelligent, Jayjay,” said André. “I like the way you think.”

Jayjay beamed. “I sent out a bunch to writers, too. So you think this is okay? Everything is spelled right and stuff? The part about my mom is new.”

André looked again at the letter. “There are one or two minor errors here. Nothing terribly difficult to change. The spellings of “unfortunately” and “Alzheimer’s,” for instance, are incorrect. Also, you refer to Ms. Foster’s ‘books’ when I think you mean to say ‘movies.’”

“Oh.” Jayjay’s face fell.

“An easy mistake to make,” André said quickly.

“Uh-huh. So, you’re an author—if I sent you a letter would you give me anything?”

“Well, I’m not really an author—”

“You got a book out.”

André’s face warmed with pleasure. It was so seldom that anyone acknowledged him as a published author—any mention whatsoever gave him a sweet little buzz. It had been seven years since the now-defunct River Time Press had printed five hundred copies of
F
.
Scott and Papa: Homoeroticism in the Roaring Twenties—A Structuralist Perspective.
Aside from a handful of kindly mentions in a few obscure academic journals, André Gideon’s seven-hundred-and-forty-three-page masterwork had made about as much impact on the literary community as Harlequin romance No. 134, and had sold far fewer copies. These days, his book served only to impress his students and the occasional house guest, and to fill two bookcases in his study. He had a second work in progress, a study of the gay roots of late-period French existential literature, but he had made little progress of late. The first two hundred pages of the manuscript had been resting undisturbed in his study for several months now.