West of Here (49 page)

Aided by a flabby-armed woman in a corduroy dress, Jared located no less than eleven volumes in the 979.79s — ranging from slim to elephantine, hardback to tapebound — devoted to various histories of Port Bonita and Clallam County. One by one, the librarian pulled them out and handed them to Jared, never failing to comment.

“The Gorseline accounts in this one are splendid,” she assured him. “This one has the most comprehensive coverage of the mills,” she informed him with a tap on the dust cover causing the flab of her arm to jiggle. “This one has the most dam and fishery coverage. This one here is about the Klallam tribe — both the Elwha and the Jamestown.
Lots of interesting stuff about Shakerism. This here is probably the most comprehensive coverage of the fire of October 1890. But this one also covers the fire. This little one here is the first enviromental impact study done on the dam from 1931. Dry but informative. We have a much more comprehensive environmental coverage in Dr. Phillip Fenner’s
Historical Assessment of the Elwha River,
which, if I recall, is still out to that short-haired gal from Fish and Wildlife, but if you’d like to put a hold on it …”

“I’m good,” said Jared. “Thanks.”

“You’ll probably want something on the Mather expedition,” she said.

“That’s cool,” he said. “I think I’m good with these.”

“Oh, no, you’ll definitely want something on the Mather expedition.”

“Uh, okay.”

“Come, come.” Trailing in her wax-scented wake, Jared followed the librarian down the aisle to the 917s, where, expertly scanning the chaos of spines, she soon degenerated into a mild state of agitation upon discovering
The Olympic Journals of Charles Haywood
to be absent from their designated post at 917.9794 — absent, in fact, from the entire vicinity of of the 917s.

“This is not good,” she intoned.

“Oh well, that’s cool,” said Jared. “I’ll just get started with these.”

“No, I insist. Let me look into this. Come, come.”

A wax-scented stroll past the computer cubbies to the information desk, followed by a cursory check of the database, yielded a status of lost or absconded, causing Flabby Arms to frown and knit her brow.

“Another one lost or stolen,” she said with a sigh. “And they’re actually cutting our budget next year, if you can believe that.”

WHEN JARED RETURNED
to High Tide, minus
The Olympic Journals of Charles Haywood,
he ducked past Krig’s cubicle, told Dee Dee to hold his calls, and locked himself in his wainscoted office for the remainder of the afternoon, poring over
Shadows of Our Ancestors: Readings in the History of Klallam–White Relations, Taming the Elwha: The Story of the Thornburgh Dam,
along with
Port Bonita:
From Steam to Electric and Beyond.
Far from putting things into focus, or providing any kind of context whatsoever in which to couch his presentation, the information made Jared’s head spin. Still, he soldiered on — through Quimper’s early reports of the Klallam villages, past the establishment of the Customs House and the National Reserve, to the platting of Port Bonita, to the erection of the dam, to the fire of 1890, through five decades of booming mills and the harvesting of the greatest stands of Douglas fir on the face of the earth. He finally left the office around five forty-five, stack of books in arms. After a brief stop at Siam Palace to pick up dinner upon Janis’s request, Jared resumed his studies at the dining room table between bites of pineapple curry, perusing George C. McGurdy’s
Port Bonita Days: Conquering the Last Frontier; A Photographic History,
which, as promised by Flabby Arms, provided excellent photo collateral.

“Man, what a dump,” Jared commented aloud in reference to a tin-type taken from the crest of Hogback in 1889, looking west down a muddy Front Street. “It looks like Dodge City after a tsunami. What were these people thinking?”

Below this, another photograph offered virtually the same vantage a year later, shortly after Front Street had been gutted by fire.

“That’s more like it,” Jared said.

On the page opposite, two tiny mustachioed figures in suspenders, clutching one giant whipsaw between them, stood upon a massive butt log at the base of a rubble-strewn hillside. Little plumes of smoke unfurled here and there behind them. The sky was a slate gray wash. “What a mess,” Jared said, flipping the page, where he was immediately confronted by the proud personage of his ancestor, Ethan Thornburgh. “There he is,” he announced, sliding the open book across the table for Janis’s inspection.

With a spring roll in one hand, and her other hand just below the tabletop resting firmly upon the imperceptible bulge of her abdomen, Janis peered down at the picture until a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

The photo in question, an 1891 tintype studio portrait, was faded
ghostly around the edges. Ethan was snug in waistcoat, morning coat, wing-collar shirt, and Burberry necktie, his thin mouth hard and straight beneath his mustache, his silver-eyed gaze pointed like a challenge directly at the camera.

“I think he looks like you,” said Janis.

AUGUST
2006

Beverly was fifteen minutes late already, a fact that neither surprised nor perturbed Hillary. Nor was it any surprise that the Bushwhacker was dead on a Tuesday at three fifteen. The dining room wasn’t even open until five. The kitchen help was still tying their aprons and turning on the lights. Hillary sat alone nursing her flat Diet Pepsi, as the waitress circled the room with a tray, dispensing dimpled red candle holders. Quietly, Huey Lewis was “Workin’ for a Livin’,” and Hillary couldn’t help but think of Franklin Bell for an instant. It was a song he’d listen to.

Hillary fought the impulse to stand up and leave before Beverly arrived. Anxiously, she buttoned up her puffy jacket to hide the evidence, though at six weeks it was hardly visible at all. She looked for something else to do with her hands but, finding no purpose for them, began tearing little pieces off the edge of her napkin and rolling them into balls between her fingers and dropping them on the carpet by her feet.

Her mother finally showed up at three twenty, festooned from shoulder to wrist with shopping bags from the mall — Victoria’s Secret, T.J. Maxx, Alley Cat Boutique. She was sporting a pair of equestrian boots (though to Hillary’s knowledge she’d never been within thirty feet of a horse) and a freshly dyed Rachel cut that was way too young for her (not to mention ten years out of style). Tethered like a pair of water buoys beneath a tight brown sweater, her tits were riding high. Her lips looked puffier than ever. They were stuck open. Coupled with the tight skin around her cheeks and forehead (which lent her a saucer-eyed look), the overall effect was that of a blow-up doll.

“Congratulations,” said Bev.

Hillary blushed.

“I mean about the dam coming down. I heard on the radio last week.”

“Oh. Right. Why didn’t you leave that stuff in the car?” Hillary said.

Beverly snuck a glance over her shoulder at the empty bar. “Here?” she half whispered. “Are you kidding me?” Staging her bags around the foot of the chair, she smoothed her black pencil skirt over her bony butt and sat down. “Incidentally, why on earth are you wearing that jacket, Hill? You look like the Michelin Man.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Honey, I didn’t mean —”

“What
did
you mean? How am I supposed to take a comment like that?”

“Well, dear, I just meant that — well, it’s so warm in here and …”

“And what?”

“Well, it’s not the most flattering jacket in the world. There, I’ve said it. I’m sorry I care about these things, Hillary. I know you think I’m shallow. I just think a person ought to give a little thought to how they present themselves. You look pale. Are you getting enough iron?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look thin.”

“There’s one I never thought I’d hear from you.”

“I’m concerned, dear, that’s all. Now, what’s good here?” she said, flipping her menu open.

To Hillary’s surprise, her mother didn’t say anything when Hillary changed her order at the last minute from the chef salad to the Reuben. Beverly ordered the bacon bleu burger with home fries and a Manhattan. She could eat anything she damn well pleased and stay thin.

“Still dating the thirty-year-old?” she said.

“Twenty-eight, dear. No need to be bitter.” Beverly pushed her Manhattan aside. “Why can’t we just get past all this?” She reached over the table and set her hands atop Hillary’s. “I’ve always wanted the best for you, dear. I’m sorry things didn’t work out with your father.
I know you blame me for that, and I truly am sorry. But it’s time to forgive and forget.” She straightened up and hoisted her tits.

“Mom, I’m pregnant.”

It was as though the air suddenly went out of the blow-up doll. Beverly’s mouth folded in on itself. For once, there seemed to be general alarm in those saucer eyes. “Hill, honey, I … what … when did this … with … ? I’m just, I’m … honey, congratu — this is a good thing, right? I mean, you’re keeping the … this is good, right?” Beverly gave her daughter’s hand a squeeze and smiled sadly. Hillary glimpsed something genuine beneath all that surgery. She forgave her mother in that instant. She thought she even saw a tear in Bev’s eye and no sooner did she feel her own eyes begin to burn. “Yeah, Mom, I guess it’s a good thing, yeah.”

“How far along are you, sweetie?”

“About six weeks.”

Bev got a glimmer in her eye. “We need to start shopping.”

“Mom, I think we should just wait until —”

“What we
need
to do is gut that second bedroom of yours and get to work on the nursery. Now, aren’t you glad you didn’t buy that dumpy trailer? Everything happens for a reason.”

“Mom, seriously, I just —”

“Think neutral colors for now. We can add the appropriate highlights later when we know. You are going to find out, right? Surprises are overrated, honey, trust me.”

“But Mom, don’t you even care who the — ?”

“Have you still got that white dresser that used to be in the bedroom? Because that would be perfect for —”

“The baby is mixed, Mom.”

“Mixed how? What are you talking about? Listen, what about the vanity that used to be in the downstairs bedroom at home … you know, the one with the —”

“The baby is half black.”

“… the polished brass fi —
half black
?”

Molly arrived just then with the bacon bleu and the Reuben. “Can I get you two anything else? Another Manhattan?”

“Yes, please.”

“Anything for you?”

“Nothing for me,” said Hillary.

Beverly looked pale and bewildered. She slumped perceptibly as the waitress took leave.

“The father’s name is Franklin Bell,” Hillary explained. “He’s a parole officer here in Port Bonita. He’s black, Mom, okay? Black as the ace of spades.”

“Hill, honey, I don’t … I’m just a little, well … a little shocked. You don’t see too many African Americans here in —”

“Mom, he’s not an African American, he’s just black.”

“Oh. Well, still, you don’t see a lot of —”

“I’m not even with him, Mom. I just slept with him. I was drunk.”

“He didn’t … did he rape you?”

“No, of course not. Look, the point is I’m not going to marry him.”

“Does he know?”

“No.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“No.”

“Why not? You’d be eligible for child support. You really need to think of the child, honey. Whether or not you plan on raising this —”

“I’m going to do it my way, okay, Mom. I’m going to wait and see.”

Beverly patted her daughter’s hand once more. “Of course you are, honey, I’m sorry. I won’t interfere, I promise. But there’s no reason we couldn’t strip that paint from the —”

“Mom, please,” Hillary pleaded, but really she was grateful for her mother’s attention.

Throughout Bev’s second Manhattan, and her third, they talked almost like friends. Bev was unnervingly candid after her second Manhattan, divulging at one point that she’d twice had sexual relations with black men back in the 1960s.

“Not at the same time, of course,” she said. “I was never that wild.” Leaning forward, Bev lowered her voice to a half whisper. “For the record, it’s not true what they say.”

“Can we change the subject?” said Hillary.

“Okay, dear. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want you to know that your old mom still has a few surprises up her sleeve.”

“Mom, I’m gay.”

Bev nearly choked on her Manhattan. She cleared her throat and blotted her lips with a napkin, and generally composed herself, smoothing out a sleeve, and straightening her posture.

“Did you hear what I just said, Mom?”

“Yes … yes, I heard, darling.”

How could she possibly be this calm? “And?”

“And … well, Hill, honey, it’s an awful lot to process. In light of everything else. As you might expect, I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea. But I’m proud of you.”