Signs of Struggle (4 page)

Gunther Schmidt showed up at eight-thirty. Early 30's, powerfully built with a little paunch, red-blonde hair long and curly in the back, and a beard, darker than his hair. Schmidt wore stained, faded Levi's; worn work boots; and a navy blue t-shirt with a chest pocket torn loose and floppy at one corner. He looked like "The Spirit of October," albeit anxious and defeated, looks that did not suit him. I glanced over at Lunatic, who nodded.

I waited until Schmidt sat down at the bar and ordered his first Miller's draft, then edged over and sat next to him. He did not look up. He studied his beer, perhaps wondering when the grain of truth would appear in the amber liquid.

"My name is Thomas O'Shea, and I need to buy a good house. I understand you build them."

Schmidt turned his head and looked at me for a long time, as if he were searching for a clue that this was some kind of joke set up by a cruel drunk. We shook hands. His were thick and hard. "Gunther Schmidt," he said, his voice soft and reedy, a surprise.

"The houses I have seen for sale around here are overpriced, poorly constructed, or unimaginative. The others are already occupied. Would you be willing to show me one you have built?"

Schmidt smiled ruefully. "I show only to discriminating clientele. Just ask Moon here."

The big Ojibwa stood before us, polishing a shot glass, biceps bulging in his shirtsleeves with the rotation of his forearms. Mooning watched Gunther finish his Miller's and handed up another, fresh from the tap in a clean glass.

He took away the first glass, wiped away a condensation ring on the bar.

Gunther went on. "Trouble is, there's only been one discriminating buyer, and there are three more houses." Lunatic smiled at their shared joke. I offered to buy dinner, and Gunther accepted.

We ordered cheese nachos and a large meat lovers’ pizza with extra cheese, picked up our drinks and found a booth. An hour and a half later Gunther agreed to show me the house Lunatic Mooning spoke of.

We looked at the house the next morning, Thursday. That afternoon we agreed on a price for the house, and all fifty-three acres of the land, that was more than I ever paid for personal property in my life. The next afternoon over a late lunch at The Grain o' Truth Bar & Grill, with Lunatic Mooning and Horace Norris looking on from a distance, I wrote a check on my new First Bank of Rockbluff account. I slid it across the table.

Gunther studied the check as if it were written in Farsi, looked up and said, "This is less than our agreed-upon price, Thomas."

I withdrew my billfold and splayed it open on the table while Gunther analyzed the check. I said, "One thousand less, but I thought I could make up the difference in cash. Thought you might want to take your wife out to dinner and a movie tonight."

Gunther said, "Thank you. I appreciate that."

"The check is good, of course, but it's late in the day and the bank doesn't always recognize transactions immediately, especially one of this size, even though I let them know ahead of time it was coming."

"I'll bet my father-in-law is happy to have you as a customer," Gunther said, smiling.

"He did not object to my opening accounts."

And so we finished, meeting with a real estate attorney three days later to attend to all the legal details. I owned a house and Gunther Schmidt recorded his second sale. He left the bar with money and reason enough to forget about the packing plant in Dubuque and begin vigorously marketing his other two houses. Lunatic Mooning seemed to bask in the satisfaction of being behind it all.

I am pleased with my house, deep in the woods seven miles from town. A private place. A retreat. An authentic Craftsman, with room upstairs for guests if I ever have company, God forbid. Bedroom and master bath plus a powder room downstairs, along with a study with built-in bookshelves, and a well-designed kitchen with an island. Plenty of room, but not so big that I'd feel like “a marble in a shoebox”—one of Karen's sayings.

The same afternoon, after I wrote Gunther's check, I bought linens and beginner groceries. Then I bought all my furniture in one store. I call it “eclectic.” Karen would have gagged. To the satisfaction of all, the people at Feinberg’s Furniture accepted my cash bonus for immediate delivery. Kitchen appliances came with the house. Nice ones. Stainless steel with black trim.

I called my ex-partner and asked him to go ahead and ship my books and a few other boxes to me, stuff I didn’t want to let go of. Pictures, mainly. And some crafts things my girls had made for me: a black t-shirt with “Dad’s A Stitch” appliquéd on it, a Three Stooges poster, a sampler showing a morbidly-obese man preparing to eat a huge piece of pie and “A Waist Is A Terrible Thing To Mind” written in flamboyant cursive along his protruding belly.

Gunther thought of everything. The property includes an artesian well and modern windmill, so I will never want for water that is sweet and clear, filtered over time through earth and limestone and shale. The windmill generates electricity, and the home is heated by a fuel oil furnace more efficient, Gunther said, than the Ebola Zaire virus.

A deck juts out from the back of the house providing a splendid view of the Mississippi River valley in the distance, the Whitetail River valley closer. That first evening, while thickset young men moved furniture in, I took my evening meal of fast food and Heineken’s out on the deck and ate, standing, enjoying the vista falling away far below me to the distant river. I now had a beautiful place where I could live alone, reinforcing my bedrock selfishness.

And then I saw an eagle, diving and plunging as it played on a rising thermal, exultation in the air. For several minutes it played, then, gloriously, another, smaller eagle appeared, approaching the first. Together, they swirled around each other, darting and swooping in a
pas de deux
that had me holding my breath, my attention riveted on the display before me.

Then, to my amazement, the two enormous raptors joined talons and fell away to the ground, locked together, breaking loose at the last moment before striking the earth, then gliding away together into the distance. Transfixed, I stared at the sky long after they left. I knew I would have to talk to the Ojibwa about this.

I also knew that, at some point, God would show me what to do with the rest of my life. Or not. But for now, with this place, I am self-sufficient and determined to live a very private life. I have solitude, a beautiful hardwood forest that creeps up to the very edge of my new home, and plenty of good beer.

"This is enough for now," I said to myself, wondering what was waiting for me after "for now.” A cold beer, then another, provided the immediate answer.

M
y first night in my new home, I dreamed about a filleted farmer and his hysterical wife and eagles and a big Indian, and I woke up in the dark just before dawn, wide awake and not as disoriented as I should have been. I knew where I was. And why.

I pulled on Levi's and a light sweatshirt, set Mr. Coffee to work on a twelve-cup pot, and padded out on the deck. Gotcha rose with a groan from her tuffet and followed me, sniffing the cool morning air.

Far below I saw a scattering of yard lights from small farms that peppered the area. A faint glow came from the north, where Rockbluff, the city that never wakes, was sleeping. I wondered if Liv Olson was sleeping in the nude. I shoved that thought aside, wondering where the hell it came from. Then I brought it back. Gave it life and breath. I surprise myself. After months with no carnal interest in females, and months more of recovery, I was wondering if Liv Olson slept in the nude.

I also wondered about something deeply theological. Did Karen in Heaven know that I just thought about slipping into bed with another woman? A whole new category of guilt was available to shoulder its way into my life. Damned if I think about a naked lady not Karen, damned if I act on it. But a saint if I ban the thought completely from my mind and think about kittens and butterflies. So much for sainthood.

There is, however, that beacon of hope beckoning from deep within my psyche. For the first time in a long, long time, I am definitely noticing a woman. A specific woman. Maybe I’m not dying after all. If that’s not recovery, what is?

Gotcha stood at one corner of the deck, staring at the little side gate that led out to the property.

Bulldogs do not typically whine or cry or bark when they want something. They usually just stand and stare at what they want until their owners respond to vibes so powerful they cannot be ignored. I let her out. She chunked herself down the four steps and lumbered off. With no neighbors closer than five miles, and Gotcha's limited range, I did not worry about her wandering far. Not a particularly active breed, Bulldogs nevertheless keep track of their source of primo dog food, pricey treats, and tuffets. They are not stupid.

I went inside and poured coffee into my jumbo Harley-Davidson mug, added a couple of glugs of cream, tossed in three tablespoons of sugar and stirred. I let it set while I reached for the pain meds, tossed four Advils down, grabbed my Bible, and hobbled back out on the deck rubbing my leg and watching the sky lighten up enough to read by.

The glory of a rich red and purple sunrise kept interrupting my Bible reading, so I set it aside and simply enjoyed my coffee and the dawning of the day.

Sometimes I wish I would just die peacefully in my sleep and wake up in what Dietrich Bonhoeffer called “the true country.” I could avoid the stabs of pain that I know in my heart are going to pierce me for the rest of my days. Every time I have a sharp memory of Karen or the girls, there it will be. I don’t like to think about that truth, so I try to avoid it. Beer helps, of course.

When friends and acquaintances asked me if I was going to be all right, I had to just smile and say, “I don’t think so.” Not the answer well-meaning people wanted, but the truth. The last seventeen months have borne out my diagnosis. However, I now live where people won’t ask the question.

Bonhoeffer said, exactly, “Christians are ambassadors of the true country.” For some reason, that gives me comfort; it shifts my focus to the fact that life is a mist and quickly leaves us, and then the adventure really begins. In heaven or in hell. Yes, the real estate people are right: it’s all about location. Likewise, I realize I’m a lousy ambassador for that “true country.”

Friday morning was in full bloom. Time to turn on ESPN and check out the baseball scores. My team for decades, the Red Sox, won, giving them two of three from the Yankees. In the Bronx. Good way to start any day with the Forces of Light and Goodness prevailing over The Evil Empire. Tonight it’s the lightning-fast Rays.

Hungry now, the package of burritos, lonely in the freezer, did not appeal to me, nor did anything else in the house. Loony Burgers for brunch did, so I headed for the door, called Gotcha, gave her a Big Dog Milk-Bone, and left as she shuffled over to her tuffet at the foot of my bed to enjoy her treat. I locked the door and left.

Walking out to my truck, a sense of guilt washed over me, guilt driven by my lack of activity the day before. After all, there had been a period of several hours spent napping when all that I had done was stumble on a scene from hell, meet a collection of escapees from a parallel universe, and bought a house. I didn’t count the purchase of furniture as productive time. Anyone can do that. Not much to show for my seventy-two hours in Rockbluff.
Sluggard.
I shrugged it off, vowing, as I drove into town, to do better in the future.

Entering Rockbluff, I slowed and found myself admiring the older homes, mostly Victorian with gingerbread trim, some with widow's walks. Ostentation abounds. Other homes were stolid frame or brick Colonial mansions. No brick ranch homes in sight like in the south, where bricks were cheap and ranch homes proliferated like lies at a political convention. The street reminded me of Summit Street in Iowa City, where upper middle class families had lived for generations in subdued elegance.

I did not expect to see the man lying face down in his front yard, motionless.

What is it about this town? And why am I the one who keeps stumbling onto stuff? And why do I never learn to give in to my natural disinclination to help?

I stood on the brakes and screeched to a dead stop, shifted the truck into park, set the emergency brake, and left the engine running in case I had to rush the collapsed man to the hospital.

In for a penny, in for a pound
, I thought, as I pounded across the street and, forgetting myself, hurdled the low, ornate wrought iron fence hemming in the big yard. My right hamstring yakked back and I gasped, but landed solidly on the lawn. I limped up to the man's side, fighting off nausea once again. Before I could kneel down, the man in the grass spoke.

"Keep movin', pilgrim," he said, remaining motionless.

What?
I started to bend over, stopped again when the man spoke once more.

"Go
on
, pal, I'm okay, I'm just fine. Tourist," he muttered under his breath.

"But…"

"I'm not kidding. Bug out. You're going to tell me I'm face down in the lawn, right? Like this had occurred without my knowledge? Jeepers. Leave me alone."

"I've never seen anyone in your position before who didn't need help," I said, straightening up halfway and moving a couple of steps to the right to better see the man's face, which was mostly in fresh green grass that did not yet need mowing. I put my hands on my knees and leaned a little toward the man and peered.

"Leave me alone!"

"Well, if you're sure you're okay…" I said, fully standing up, knowing I sounded stupid. I do that a lot. Just ask Wendy Soderstrom. The man in the grass pounced on my words.

"Is there an arrow in my back? Is there a rattler on my ass? Do I have a sucking chest wound?" he asked. "If not," he went on with exaggerated patience, "buzz off."

He was wearing tan Bermudas with no belt, old Converse low-cuts without socks and a green golf shirt soaked with sweat down the middle of the back and under the arms. Calves like kegs rose from thick ankles. A high school football star twenty-five years ago. Maybe a letterman at Luther College.

"Why did you call me 'tourist' just now?" I asked, looking at the man, perhaps thirty pounds overweight and a little soft looking, tan, with male pattern baldness eating his hair. A pair of sunglasses lay in the grass nearby. He remained motionless.

"Because only a tourist would stop," he intoned. "Anybody local knows I'm perfectly fine when I'm face-down in the grass, or hanging over the fence, or collapsed on the front steps. Go."

I relaxed a little, rubbing at the fire in the back of my right leg. I said, "Who are you?"

"Arvid Pendergast. Lutheran Brotherhood. If you'll wait an hour or so, I'd be happy to review your insurance portfolio. What's your name?" he asked the earth.

"Thomas O' Shea."

"Doesn't sound Lutheran to me."

"Reformed Druid," I said. Pendergast snorted. I couldn't tell if it was derision or appreciation.

"I wouldn't be wasting my time with you if you hadn't stopped, O' Shea, much as I hate to admit it. Most tourists use their cell phones to call nine-one-one if they can remember the number. The rest just drive on into town and tell the Sheriff or Fire Department that there's a stiff in a yard back up the road."

"But why are you doing this?" I asked, shifting my weight to my left leg.

"It's none of your beeswax," Arvid said, "but since you had the courtesy to become involved with what looked like a possible tragedy, a singularly rare response these days by the way, I'll tell you."

"I appreciate your largesse."

Arvid chuckled, moving his head a little. Then he returned to relative immobility.

I felt a little peculiar carrying on a conversation with someone face down in his lawn, dead or catatonic, but it was an improvement over an afternoon with the Soderstroms. I looked around the sprawling yard. Ancient oaks, a few maples, and a singular birch provided patches of shade. If I were going to collapse on purpose, I'd do it in the shade.

Arvid said, "I was musing one day on the back porch," he began, "and it occurred to me it would be a horrible shock for Clara or one of the girls to find me dead someday, crumpled at the refrigerator, collapsed on our bed, or face down in the yard. So, being one in the helping profession, as it were, and also one to try to prevent undue grief befalling my family when I do pass on, I decided I would practice croaking, so that, when they do really find me dead, it won't be such a big deal."

"Impeccable reasoning.”

"That's right, worry-wart. And, for the last three years, I've been practicing dying so, when any of the ladies see me, they won't faint from the shock. I let them know ahead of time at first so when they found me practicing they wouldn't experience any psychological scarring, and I've been doing it ever since, whenever it strikes my fancy."

"So these collapses are spontaneous?"

"Since the first couple-three. Don't want to stifle the creative impulse."

I wiped my sweaty forehead and surveyed Arvid's abode, an immaculate three story white Victorian with lemon yellow trim, a wrap-around porch, and brick sidewalks leading up to the front porch and around toward the back.

In the front yard, maybe an acre, I saw two bird baths and several bird feeders. “How long do you plan to practice this time?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"Until I'm good and ready to quit. What I do is a kind of 'performance art' and I am the artiste. I am led by a macabre muse."

“But you’re not prepared to stifle that muse now?”

"No!
Now
," Arvid said impatiently, as if speaking to a small child, "I've afforded you a thorough explanation of my activity. Will you please go? If my wife comes home and sees you talking to me, the practice will have been futile, all for naught, and I will not be in a very good mood. I hate to waste an otherwise perfect fatality."

"May I ask you another question?"

Arvid muttered something into the root systems of the grass. "You just did ask another question. What you should have said is, 'May I ask you a question after this one?' But you didn't. I won't penalize you. Go ahead, shoot. And be glad I'm in such a condescending mood today."