Swimming with the Angels

by Colin Kersey

  I sat down across from the other man.

  “I thought I told you to get off my property,” Virgil said.

  “Before I left, I wanted to apologize if I said something to upset you and to ask if you’d reconsider.”

  “Stu,” Virgil turned to the other man, “this is the guy I was telling you about. Calls himself Gray. Says he’s from California.”

  “Whereabouts?” Stu asked. “L.A.?”

  “Orange County.”

  Stu nodded. “I know the place.”

  Valerie set a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in front of me. “Coffee? Stu’s been just about everywhere. Haven’t you, Stu?”

  I thought I detected sarcasm to which Stu did not bother to reply. Valerie placed a cup of coffee carefully before me and sat down on my right. Patsy stuck her nose in Valerie’s lap and she offered the dog a strip of bacon which Patsy inhaled.

  I sipped the coffee. “Hazelnut?”

  Valerie smiled. “I had some stashed away for a special occasion. Like it?”

  Stu sniffed his coffee before shoving his mug aside. “Can I get some real coffee?”

  Valerie ignored him, and Vonda chose that moment to enter, wearing a charcoal suit, white silk blouse, and high heels. A strand of pearls draped her throat. It was the first time I had seen her wearing anything other than a smirk and a man’s shirt. Now she was wearing makeup and her blond hair was carefully brushed. If she did not look quite like she belonged on Santa Monica or Sunset Boulevard, where Armani and Burberry were the uniforms of choice among young career women, she also did not look like she belonged with the Walmart crowd wearing jeans and parkas on the outskirts of the decidedly un-metropolitan Sedro-Woolley.

  “Hi, Daddy.” She stooped to kiss Virgil’s forehead before sitting down next to Stu. “Morning, sweetie. Where is my coffee, Val?”

  “Coming right up,” Valerie said.

  “I can help,” I offered, but Valerie ignored me and everyone else gave me a look that said I had just committed a major faux pas.

  “Have a seat, darlin’” Virgil said to Vonda. “Ain’t you running a little late this morning?”

  “It sounded like we had a guest.” She studied me. “I swear whatever else you are, you are a much-needed intrusion in our morning gatherings. You can usually hear a pin drop.” She stole a strip of bacon and a slice of toast off Stu’s plate.

  “That’s rude,” he grumbled.

  “I thought it was impolite of you not to offer me some,” Vonda said. She winked at me. Valerie returned with a mug of coffee cradled in two hands which she delicately placed in front of her. “Thanks, Sis,” Vonda said over a mouthful of food.

  “Can I get some real coffee, Val?” Stu said.

  “It’s Val-er-ie and I didn’t hear you say ‘please.’”

  Stu laid his fork carefully on his plate. “I’ll get it myself.” His chair scraped the floor loudly as he stood.

  “Valerie,” Virgil said. “Get the man some decent coffee.”

  “He knows where it is.”

  Uncomfortable to be watching and listening to the bickering between Stu and Valerie, I remained silent.

  Vonda pecked Stu’s cheek. “How’s my man this morning?”

  “Same as every other damn morning,” Valerie said.

  “Strong and mean as a bear. That’s why I love him,” Vonda said.

  Stu smiled at his wife’s flattery.

  Vonda studied me for a moment while sipping her coffee. “I see you’re wearing a wedding ring. Where’s your wife?”

  In my hasty travel and preparations for the job interview, I had forgotten about my ring and the questions it might raise. I managed to swallow. “My wife died.”

  Their chewing stopped, and three faces watched me with interest. Valerie’s half-closed eyes made it look as if she were looking at the table, yet her posture was one of intense alertness, as if she could hear not only the words that were spoken but those that were not.

  “Recent?” Virgil asked.

  I wiped my mouth with a napkin to buy a moment before nodding. Here it comes, I thought, the real test. Driving the tractor had just been the appetizer.

  “Looks like we got a handyman with a few skeletons in his closet,” Stu said.

  “Stu!” Vonda scolded. “I apologize for my husband’s bad manners. How did she die?”

  I had to think about this. Under their stares, I studied my plate, as if the answer might be hidden there among the scrambled eggs, toast, and hash browns. The coffee jiggled in my cup as my right leg quivered beneath the table.

  “Illness?” Virgil asked.

  “No, not an illness.”

  Flash. Boom.

  I heard a cough. It might have been Virgil. I did not think it was Stu.

  “Oh, my.” Vonda set down her coffee.

  I took a breath. “A car accident. She was killed by a drunk driver.”

  “Criminy,” Virgil said.

  “They catch him?” Stu asked.

  “He died, too,” I adlibbed. A famous president, or maybe it was a quarterback, once said that a lie was as good as the truth if you can get away with it. The number of people killed on Southern California highways—even in a single week—was high enough that I did not figure anyone would bother checking up on my story.

  “That’s Southern California for you,” Stu said.

  Vonda punched his arm. “Can’t you show a little sympathy for once?”

  “Are you sure you’re up to working?” Virgil asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  The silence that followed seemed to stretch for minutes but was probably only a few seconds.

  Finally, Valerie spoke softly. “I think you should hire him, Daddy.”

  Virgil sipped his coffee and made a face. “Opening day is less than two months away. With all this rain and the warmer temperatures, the grass is going to get too tall to mow if we don’t get control of it now. We better see how much we can mow today with the hammerknifer. If the weather clears later in the week, Gray can go over it again with the bull, then hit it with the sweeper to clean up the dead grass before it kills the lawn.”

  “No problem,” Stu said. “The John Deere is lubed, fueled, and ready to go. What about you?”

  He looked at me. “Ready to start earning your grub?”

  I nodded, too relieved to have a job to speak.

  Vonda stood and smoothed her skirt. “Sorry, Gray, but I’m going to be late for work if I don’t move my ass.”

  She pecked Stu on the cheek a second time. “Go easy on Gray his first day.”

  “I’m headed to town,” Virgil added, standing up. He drained his coffee. “Lordy, this is awful. Can we please go back to the regular stuff?”

  “Sure, Daddy,” Valerie said. She began clearing plates and silverware.

  Stu stood up and smiled good-naturedly. “I’ve got to hand it to you. You really know how to break up a party.” He picked up the newspaper lying near his plate. “Meet me in fifteen minutes down at the barn.”

  As the last one remaining at the table after Stu left, I finished my coffee and what remained of breakfast, then began clearing dishes from the table. The dog ambled over to an old mat near a heating vent, circled the wagons once, and plopped down.

  “You don’t need to do that,” Valerie said from the kitchen. “I’m in charge of the cooking and cleaning around here.”

  Ignoring her, I gathered up the dirty dishes and carried them to the kitchen where she was loading the dishwasher. Her organizational skills, I noted, were far different than Heide’s haphazard loading. All the cups were in one row, glasses in another, separated by a row of bowls. Plates were arranged by size while silverware was by type. Spoons and forks were pointed up, knives down.

  “My mom taught me to be polite,” I said. “When you eat with strangers, you offer to help clean up.”

  Valerie gathered another handful of dishes from the sink and continued loading the dishwasher.

  “I appreciate yo
ur politeness, but please don’t try to help. You will just confuse me. I know exactly how many plates and cups and utensils are on that table—or at least I did, until you started clearing them.” Valerie went on working as she spoke. “Vonda once pocketed a spoon. I spent half the day down on my knees, crawling around the house looking for it.”

  “Why on earth would she take a spoon?”

  “How the hell should I know?” She straightened up to face me, her pale face flushed. “Because she can be a jerk and enjoys making my life difficult, what else?”

  I recalled the hidden tampons. “I’m sorry. I thought I was helping.”

  Valerie went back to loading dishes. I grabbed a pan and began to scrub. I have always admired the handicapped. Based on my admittedly limited experience, they often work harder at succeeding and feel less sorry for themselves than many of those people born far more fortunate. But this was the first time I had worked side-by-side with a young, blind woman. As I studied her, I saw that even without makeup, plucked eyebrows, or hair coloring, she was unnaturally beautiful. Ethereal. Add to this the fact that she had brought me a sandwich and blanket the night before and had spoken up for me at a critical moment at the breakfast table and I was ready to help clean dishes, wax the floor, or anything else she might require.

  “Are all men so stubborn?” she asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  There was a large dollop of dishwashing soap on her right breast that I resisted the impulse to brush off.

  She sighed. “If you insist on washing the pans, I’ll dry and put them away.”

  “That was the best breakfast I’ve had in a long time.”

  “Did you get enough to eat?”

  “More than enough.” I rinsed a heavy, cast iron frying pan.

  “Are you fat or skinny?” She pinched my side and I let out an involuntary, “Ouch.”

  “What in God’s name is that you’re wearing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “C’mon, Gray. I may be blind, but I’m not stupid.”

  “It’s a back brace for heaving lifting.”

  She felt around my shirt, eyes closed beneath her heavy brows, until I twisted away.

  “That’s no back brace. It is a bandage. Do not try to lie; I can smell the betadine. You’re dinged up, aren’t you? You can’t work like that.”

  “I’m fine,” I protested. My voice sounded too loud in the small kitchen.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, as if reading my mind. She picked up the frying pan and began drying it. “I won’t say anything. How’d you get hurt?”

  “The accident.”

  “The same one that killed your wife?”

  I nodded before realizing she could not see my response. “Yes.”

  Several seconds went by and I thought—hoped—Valerie would let the subject drop, but I was wrong.

  “I’m sorry about what happened to your wife,” she said. “How old was she?”

  “Would have been twenty-four in May.” I handed her another pan to dry.

  “Was she pretty?”

  I faced the window over the sink where condensation from the dishwater veiled the view of the outdoors. “Very.”

  “I bet she was smart, too.”

  I felt the familiar swelling in my heart from the bitter sting of betrayal. “Sorry, Dev. I fucked up.”

  This would not do. My eyes searched the room for something to anchor against the riptide of despair. “I noticed the piano. Do you or your sister play?”

  “My mother did. I play the viola.” She placed a soap pod in the dispenser, then closed the dishwasher door.

  “I bet you’re very good.

  She paused before turning on the dishwasher. “Why do you say that?”

  “Just watching the meticulous way you work.”

  A smile flirted with the corners of her lips and she shrugged. “I was the featured soloist with the state high school orchestra.”

  Can I hear you play sometime?”

  “Really?” Her violet eyes swept the ceiling. “You’d like to?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She frowned. “Stu will be waiting for you down at the barn. You better go.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was two minutes after I was supposed to meet Stu.

  After putting on my still-damp jacket and opening the door, I looked back to where she was wiping the stovetop. “Seriously. I’d love to hear you play sometime.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I found Stu viewing a spreadsheet displayed on a large computer monitor in an office tucked into a front corner of the barn.

  “Let me welcome you to the brains of our little operation.” He leaned back in the metal office chair. The padded armrest was missing from one of its arms. He sipped from a mug. “Mr. Coffee is hiding behind the door there. Just Folgers on tap, I am afraid. You want hazelnut, peppermint tea, or engraved napkins, you’ll have to round that up yourself.”

  “Folgers is fine.” I poured coffee into a mug that still contained the stain from the last time it had been used. Once you have been shot, as I had discovered, drinking from a less than pristine mug no longer generates the same misgivings.

  “That Valerie is a scrappy little bitch, isn’t she?” Stu said.

  I managed to scald my upper lip and spill a tablespoon or so of the hot liquid onto my leg. Stu chuckled.

  “In case you had not noticed, she tends to bring out the worst in me. Then again,” his face grew more serious, “her constant pecking wears thin day after day. I don’t remember the last time she had a kind word for me.” He shrugged. “Not that it really matters, I suppose.”

  “She’s just a kid,” I pointed out.

  “Turned twenty, I believe it was, in January,” Stu said, nodding. “But don’t worry too much about Miss Valerie or any of the Van de Zilvers for that matter. They are tough as a flock of leghorns. Pick on one and you have started a war with all three. Ol’ Virgil’s a pretty fair guy, but don’t get between him and his daughters or you’ll need a surgeon to remove his Rockport from your backside. Believe me, I found out the hard way. And more than once.” He smiled.

  “That your investment portfolio?” I pointed to the screen.

  “That’s one way to describe it. These are the hatches.” He ran a finger down a column. “I can tell you how many fry we bought and when, how much we paid for ‘em, what it cost to feed ‘em, and how many were caught and sold. The difference is how many we got left, with an allowance for predators like raccoons, the occasional blue heron or eagle, and the trout themselves.”

  I was impressed. Who would have guessed that a small trout farm in the foothills of the North Cascades would be so high-tech? “I guess you have to keep track of everything to know what your return on investment is.”

  Stu nodded. “ROI. That is what matters, all right. Look here.” Deftly using the mouse to close one document and open another, he selected an item from a pull-down menu. A moment later, a line chart materialized across the screen. “This program tracks weather conditions and fry growth. See this?” He pointed to a hill in the graph line. “This was a mild winter. A mild winter usually means bigger fish. Bigger fish means more money. Looks simple, but it’s more complicated than you might think.”

  Stu closed the spreadsheet and opened a new screen. “While I was waiting for you, I did a little research. This you?”

  Up popped a faded daguerreotype of a turban-wearing man with a full beard who was dressed in a cavalry uniform with a holstered pistol on one side, a saber dangling from his belt on the other while also holding a rifle.

  I stared in surprise at the distant relative whose name I had stolen.

  “My sword isn’t that long,” I managed to say.

  “No doubt your wife was disappointed,” Stu said. He tapped the screen. “Says he died fighting Germans.” He swiveled to face me. “I’m guessing with a name as uncommon as Grayson that you might be his descendent?”

  My left eye began to twitch as I considered how a genealo
gical trail might lead to my parents and eventually me. Damn Google anyway. The last thing I needed was for Stu to learn that the Sinaloa Cartel was looking for me.

  “Frankly,” Stu said, “I do not give a damn who you are related to, or where you are from. I just find it kind of odd that there is nothing about you online.” He stared at me. “Nothing on Facebook, Instagram, or LinkedIn. Nothing on Google except a guy who has been dead for over a hundred years. It’s like you are a fucking ghost.”

  “Never had the time or the inclination for social media,” I said. “I always thought those websites and apps were about as useful as playing computer games when you could be outside doing something productive or fun.” Like shooting photos for instance.

  Stu nodded but looked less than satisfied. “What happened when your wife died? Didn’t you have a job, friends, or family? Why did you leave there and whatever you were doing to come up here?”

  “Can I let you in on a secret?” I asked. “I started to drink. AA meetings were not doing it for me, and a counselor said I might need a change of scenery.”

  The problem with lies as everyone knows is that a little one leads to a bigger one and so on. Next, I would be saying I had joined the circus and had a falling out with the lion tamer.

  Stu stared at me for an uncomfortable ten seconds or so. “Enough of this.” He closed the computer down. “We’ve got lawns to mow and fertilize, fences to mend and the driveway needs some holes filled before we can open. It’s time for you to get to work.” He stood up and zipped up his jacket. I followed him outside.

  On the downhill side of the barn where they could not be seen from the road were two large fuel tanks.

  “The John Deere uses diesel, and the Bull and everything else takes gasoline. Make sure you don’t mix them up. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “There is a lot of money tied up in all of this,” Stu gestured to include the barn and the land. He studied me for a moment. “What would you guess this place is worth?”

  “No idea.”

  “Take a guess.”

  “A million? Maybe two?”

  “Not bad,” Stu said. “A tad on the light side. You probably passed a housing development or two on the way up here. Raw land’s going for one hundred thousand an acre. We got over forty acres here. That is four million just for the land. Throw in the view and the ponds and you got maybe another half a million.”