Signs of Struggle (18 page)

“You are kind to say that,” I said, turning away.

At her screen door she said, “Thomas, have you traveled? You look like a man of the world.”

“I’ve been in thirty-seven countries, all of Canada’s provinces, and all of the states except South Dakota, which I plan to drive to this summer to see Mount Rushmore, just to say I’ve visited all fifty,” I said, forcing a smile.

“I would love to be able to say that someday. I guess, now,” she said wistfully, “I will be able to go anyplace I want, any time I want. As Dr. Seuss would say, ‘Oh, the possibilities!’ And which place did you think was the most beautiful of all the places you’ve been?”

Wendy Soderstrom’s wistful, artificial interest in my travels were quickly rubbing me the wrong way, despite her kinds words, so I said, “Oh, I’d have to say either Sale City, Georgia, or Calcutta, India.”

“I shall go to those places then,” she said theatrically.

“Have a good time,” I said, moving toward the porch steps. She followed me. “And as I said, let me know if I can be a help to you in any way.”

She stepped very close to me. Her breasts brushed against me. Wendy looked up and said in a low, husky voice, “You have already helped more than you know, Thomas. I will never forget you."

I said nothing. Too much drama for me. She was, after all, a new widow, and had spent a lot of time by herself. Of course, I was a widower, which complicated things. Widow and widower. Sounded like a spider convention. With Wendy weaving her web.

I know, of course, that I’m irresistible to women, but I am also roughly a quarter of a century her senior.

While I was wondering what was so unforgettable about my vague, abstract offer of assistance, Wendy reached up with both of her hands and placed one on each side of my throat and stood on her toes and pulled my face down to hers and kissed me, her minty little tongue running lightly along my lips, teasing and hot. Releasing me, Wendy Soderstrom, grieving widow, brushed her hand against my zipper, turned and disappeared into the old farmhouse, screen door slamming shut like an exclamation point.

I stood for a moment on the porch, surprised by a new hunger, and then grabbed the paper bag and hurried to my truck, slid in behind the wheel, and started the engine. I headed home, her scent on my face, her taste on my lips, her caress teasing my id. And also with the sudden and clear revelation that Wendy Soderstrom was suffering from morning sickness.

I was glad I’d left the two Diet Cokes behind. She was going to need the carbonation more than I.

T
he heat of the day backed off a “tad bit” as they would say in Georgia, when I stepped out of my car in The Grain's packed parking lot. The first evening in July, and the long shadows were cooling things down. But not much. In other words, 95 and humid.

Two weeks had slipped into eternity since I’d dropped in on Wendy, two weeks gone quickly and quietly, but finding me no closer to proving who ordered the Dubuque dipsticks onto me at the bridge. My face healed and my teeth tightened. I stayed home most of the time, worked out regularly at Mulehoff’s, running every day now, even inviting Liv Olson for a casual stroll one moonlit night, capped off by a long talk down by the river at Rockbluff High School.

“I love summer nights like this,” she had said, “moonlight on the Whitetail River, occasional breeze to pull the heat off my skin, peace and quiet and the sound of those frogs in the shallows downriver.” She sat on a bench near the water.

“From my perspective, the company’s not so bad, either,” I said, sitting next to her.

“I was going to say the same thing. Thanks for asking me to go for a walk. I just finished a book and hadn’t picked up another, and it’s not so warm outside that I’ll miss the air conditioning.”

“What book did you just finish?” I asked, stretching my legs out in front of me, grateful that my hamstring had pretty much healed. Just an occasional twinge when I leaped over tall buildings in a single bound. I wore hiking shorts, and I must admit, my quads looked hard and defined. Good workouts at Mulehoff’s.

Liv sat Indian-style on the bench. She studied my legs for a moment, then said, “I just put down Cormac McCarthy’s
The Road
. I’ve been putting it off.”

“Grim book, but it does end on a bit of an upswing.”

“Such loss, such devastation. I don’t know how I’d cope with all that death.” She turned quickly, facing me, twisting in her sitting position. “I mean, Thomas, in the book. I didn’t mean to remind you of…your losses.”

“It’s okay. I remind myself every day.”

“How do you cope?”

“I don’t, not really,” I said, surprising myself that I would talk to such a new acquaintance. I mean, if I’d thought about it, and then talked about it, that would be redundant. Inefficient. But I felt comfortable with Liv and, besides, it wouldn’t hurt to answer a simple question.

“I drank quite a bit. Still do. I prayed a lot, but not so much anymore. I overate. I watched every movie available from NetFlix and Blockbuster, lifted weights, and ran until I nearly blacked out. I drove at high speeds down country roads day and night. I worked eighteen hour days. I fended off well-meaning widows bearing casseroles.”

A little chuckle from Liv. “What about friends, people you trusted?”

“The only people I trusted were Karen, Michelle, and Annie. That’s it. I know lots of fine people, including my pastor and my former business partner, but when you talk about trust, you’re talking about keeping a secret, knowing you can rely on that person to be true to their word. People who would uphold the DNR statement on my medical records; people who would not give in to emotion and guilt. Those people all died south of Atlanta when that truck driver crushed their car.”

We listened to the river for a while. I was not angry, not upset. I was just providing information. Data. Observations and interpretations. I looked away from Liv. I could see she was edging toward “Emotion World,” the favorite pub of the X chromosome. Moonlight shimmered on the soft water of the Whitetail River, light and lambent and lovely. We had picked a good spot.

Liv put her legs down, turned and put her arm on the back of the bench behind me. Her sleeveless blouse afforded a good look at a well-toned upper arm and shoulder. She smelled nice.
Nice lady overall
, I thought.

“And how do you cope now?”

“I don’t cope now. I just bumble forward day to day. Beer buttressed with a bit of prayer helps. And don’t forget Gotcha, crazy as it sounds. Great dog. Empathetic. Loves me unconditionally.”

“Then thank God for Gotcha.”

I looked at her to see if she was messing with me. She wasn’t. “Indeed.”

Time now to shift the questions from me. She knows too much already. “So, how did you get into teaching, Miss Olson?”

She looked at me and smiled as if she had figured out my conversational defense mechanism already. “Well,” she said, scooching closer to me, but not touching, yet quickly patting my leg above my left knee, “let me tell you.”

And so she did.

Her love for her work and her students was obvious, and I found myself not only liking her, but respecting her, too. It really mattered to her how her kids turned out, and I was confident she not only presented herself as a great role model for them, but also an excellent teacher. She spoke of new strategies to engage her students, and her fervor came through. I noticed that I liked the sound of her voice up close.

I walked her home. She said she enjoyed walking, hiking even. Then, halfway to her house, she said, “Maybe we could go hiking someday, if you’re interested.”

“It’s been a while,” I said.

“We could take a five-miler up at Busted Druggie State Park.”

I stopped and looked at her. She stopped, too. “Busted Druggie State Park?”

She laughed, a short burst of joy, and I liked the sound of her laugh, too. “Actually, it’s Backbone State Park and not all that far from here. Rockbluffians call it ‘Busted Druggie State Park’ because there was a big drug bust up there a few years back.”

“I like your name for it better.”

“Me, too,” she said, and she casually took my hand as we started walking again. I had liked that even better than the sound of her voice, or the tan on her legs.

I had that evening with Liv on my mind as I pushed through the doors of The Grain into the cool darkness, and the soft rhythms of Marvin Gaye, asking the ecologically-naive, yet musical, question, “What’s Going On?”

I recognized a few faces, nodded, received a couple of head nods in return and a raised hand or two. Arvid Pendergast and Harvey Goodell, proprietor of the motel where I stayed my first few days in town, waved. The Grain was not exactly a place where everyone knew my name, but a place where I liked the people who made it their neighborhood pub. Those looking for a drunken evening, a fight, big-stakes pool games, or a random sexual encounter frequented Shlop’s, or smaller, private joints scattered here and there; some across the Mississippi River in Wisconsin.

But The Grain remained my favorite, although I had every intention of becoming a regular at Blossom’s Bistro, especially if I might bump into Liv again. I eased up to the bar and plopped down on a barstool. Rachel glided over and said, “Hello, Thomas. What can I get you?”

“A Corona, please, and keep ‘em coming, dear.”

“I always do. It’s getting into dinnertime. Anything from the grill?”

“No sushi bar tonight?”

Rachel laughed. “How ‘bout grilled chicken breast on whole wheat?”

“That’ll do.”

“Side order?”

“Fried cheese?”

“On its way,” she said, pouring my beer from the tap and setting the pint on a coaster.

“Moon around?”

“Sure is. He just stepped into the back for a minute to pull something out of the freezer. Here he is,” she said, nodding her head toward a back door.

“Thanks, Rachel.”

She nodded and left. Moon approached, reached over the bar, and offered his hand for the first time. Surprised, I took it, and we shook hands, strength into strength. The big Ojibwa said, “Good to see you, O’Shea. I understand you’ve been dating Liv Olson.”

“Nearly every night, but I thought it was surreptitious. I keep forgetting this is a small town. We were secretly wed in Lost Nation last weekend.” I took a deep drink from my beer. It was cold and crisp. God, I love beer.

“Just as I thought. You have done the right thing. She is a beauty.”

“She is that.”

“Actually, I did hear that a while back you had lunch with her downriver at my competitor’s. It does not hurt my feelings, since I have none. The only part that bothers me is that she no doubt told you about what she perceives as my act about being a stoic Indian and all, that in reality I crochet and write haiku in my spare time, when I’m not delivering meals on wheels to shut-ins and raising Chihuahuas.”

“She did say you’re not the person you present yourself to be during introductions.”

“I will make her pay,” Lunatic said. “Aren’t you curious, white eyes, as to why I shook your hand just now, given your understanding, now ruined, of my basic attitude toward humanity?”

“Sorta.”

Lunatic grinned. It was a huge grin, white teeth against dark skin, an encompassing grin that made me feel good just for having seen it. The first time is always special.

“I think you’re okay, possibly even a good guy, probably a good guy, and I just wanted you to know I’m glad you’re here, in Rockbluff, now. And I hope you stay. Especially if you continue as a regular here, strengthening my nest egg.”

“Does this mean we can forego the smoking tipi and the eagle claws in the chest?”

“Yes, but that’s not to say I won’t slip into my anachronistic mode from time to time as a form of respect and reverence for my roots. Also, I expect you to allow me full play of that particular Ojibwa persona from time to time with any new pilgrim who might wander into this den of dissipation.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“Too bad Liv could not keep it. I may have to put a big, fat diamondback in her mailbox tonight, just to remind her of the sacredness of our understanding.”

“That’ll work,” I said, finishing my beer just as Rachel came by to pour another and assure me my food was on the way.

“To what do we owe the honor of your presence?” Lunatic asked. “You look as if you are not here to spend the rest of the evening in convivial fellowship, replete with friendly pool games, stimulating conversation, and interaction with the beautiful people.”

Peggy Lee was singing “Fever” over the jukebox speakers. The comfortable, casual beat of the song and the velvet voice of Miss Lee fit my mood. “Actually, Moon, I did come here with an agenda.”

“Looking for a job? I could use a good barback this summer. Tourists, more and more locals wandering in, the ever-increasing clientele hoping to get a look at the new celebrity, the brawler from down Georgia way.”

“Actually, I was wondering if you could provide me with some information.”

Lunatic lowered his voice and leaned over the bar. “You mean what do I know that might help you figure out the death of Hugh Soderstrom? If I knew anything, I would have already told you.”

Rachel brought my order. “Thanks, Rachel,” I said. She winked and moved on to another customer. Man, it makes my day when good-looking women wink at me. The food smelled wonderful, the fragrance of the grilled chicken and the secret mustard Lunatic used, along with the rich aroma of fried cheese combined to jumpstart my appetite. I turned back to Lunatic.

“Here’s what I think, my Anishinabe bud,” I said, bringing him up to date with my observations, but without the Wendy pregnant - Hugh sterile twist. “Now, is there anyone else, other than Larry, who might gain from this whole stinking mess, anyone else I might need to be alert to, any details you can think of that might help me figure out what’s up? Historical stuff you know from living here that I wouldn’t know as a newby.”