She Talks to Angels

by James D F Hannah

I glanced at the bag at his feet. “What books did you get?”

  “Love in the Time of Cholera and One Hundred Years of Solitude. Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I’m behind on reading South American magical realists.”

  I nodded like I understood what he was talking about. I hooked us onto the interstate and headed north.

  Parker County Savings and Loan was in one of the newer buildings in Serenity that wasn’t a dollar store, a doctor’s office, or a component to a failing strip mall. Built in the 1990s, when the area seemed flush with coal money, so dropping funds for a six-story office building in an otherwise cash-strapped region seemed like a prudent financial choice, I’m sure. Like going all-in with Enron or trusting Bernie Madoff with your retirement.

  The directory in the foyer shows most of the building is used by savings and loan staff, with a few floors leased to attorneys or real estate.

  Woody sipped from his drum-sized cup of coffee and tapped the brass nameplate engraved with the name “GRP Development.” “That’s the one that wants the big golf course out in MacGuffin Valley. Looks like they have the entire top floor.”

  “I suppose they do their fair share of business with the bank to share the same building,” I said.

  Dagny’s offices were on the fourth floor. We took the elevator because my knee hurt and I was whinier than usual, which can be a high fucking bar to clear. The elevator let us out onto a narrow hallway with AstroTurf-like carpet and large expanses of glass that peeked into the offices and conference rooms, and we let ourselves into Dagny’s office. There was a small waiting area and then a real wall and a frosted glass door. A desk probably meant for a receptionist was empty.

  I knocked on the door. Dagny said, “Come on in.”

  The office was small and uncluttered, with windows that looked out onto Benson Street, which meant there wasn’t much to see since Benson was a dormant backstreet. The shelves had books about business and framed photos that looked like pictures from business functions and social gatherings meant to show that Parker County Savings and Loan truly cared about its community. The only sign of disarray was a scattering of paperwork across the top of the desk.

  She looked up from her computer. “Are you making friends, Henry? I’m so proud of you.”

  “This is Woody,” I said. “He kind of helps me out in these things.”

  Woody shot me a long, droll expression. “Kind of?”

  Woody and Dagny shook hands. “Pleasure to meet you, Woody. Please, have a seat. Does this mean Henry splits the fee with you fifty-fifty?”

  Woody settled into a visitor’s chair and laughed. I scowled at him.

  “This is unexpected,” Dagny said. “Is everything progressing as it should? I’m not sure how this works to be honest. We’ve hired investigative firms before, but those were for professional matters, never anything personal.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, we’re new to all of this ourselves,” I said.

  “Yes, that’s a huge relief,” she said in a way to imply it wasn’t a relief in the slightest.

  I scanned her desk. “What is all of this insanity?”

  Dagny made a face. “It’s a train wreck. It’s all the MacGuffin Valley land deal.”

  “Heard about that,” Woody said. “It’s quite the thing.”

  “Enormous. Fifteen hundred acres of land, plus surrounding acreage.”

  “Seems like an awful big chunk of property for a golf course.”

  “It is. You need somewhere between one hundred to two hundred acres of land to build a real championship golf course, all eighteen holes and everything.” She held her hands out over her desk as if struggling to convey the enormity of it all. “What GRPD wants to do—”

  “GRPD?” I said.

  “Gillespie Realty and Property Development. This plan is bigger than anyone’s tried in West Virginia. The goal is a luxury golf environment with a PGA-level course, so they can bring in a nationally-televised major tournament. The potential is massive.”

  “Massive risk, too,” Woody said. “Shouldn’t you start with some kind of an existing infrastructure? We’re more than a hundred miles from a major airport, and to be kind, we don’t have what I’d view as a ‘golf-friendly’ community.”

  “All I know is that everyone seems very enthused about it,” Dagny said. “It’s GRPD’s biggest project in years. Uncle Mitch—”

  “Who?” I said. I tried to sound off-handed and casual, but I knew I sucked at it.

  “Uncle Mitch,” Dagny said. She handed me a photo from her shelf. It was from a Christmas party a few years prior—I could tell because Robert Charles was thinner, his hair more full. He was talking to a guy slightly younger, one of those guys who has his own tennis ball machine and spends time on his backhand. Trim, his blond hair combed back and a little longer than the style, so it gave him an easy, casual look. He looked like who Robert Charles wanted to be when he grew up.

  “That’s Robert and Uncle Mitch,” Dagny said. “Not my uncle, per se, but he and Robert have known one another since college. The bank has been the primary lienholder in almost all of GRPD’s business dealings for thirty years.”

  “Fair amount of business to do together.”

  Dagny nodded. “But it’s tough when no one’s looking to buy or sell. We’re going big on this one. It works out, it’s a lot of money for Uncle Mitch and for the bank.” Dagny set the photo back on the shelf and returned her gaze to us. “You never said what you came by for.”

  I took in a deep breath and tried to come up with a good lie. “I wanted to ask how Deacon’s doing.”

  “Better than in years. It’s stupid to say, and I could doom the whole enterprise saying this, but this might be the time it sticks. He’s thinking about getting a Serenity Prayer tattoo, like Meadow had. Except not quite like what she had.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dagny’s eyes went upward, and she did that dismissive way meant to brush away the perceived excesses of the young. “A week before—well, before everything—Meadow and I went to Morgantown, to this God-awful tattoo parlor. I was terrified she was going to get a tramp stamp, something like that.” She poked her leg out from around the desk and hiked up the cuff of her pants to offer a better show of the vines snaking up her calf. “I got this when I was her age, and I knew better but I did it anyway.” She drew her leg back. “But no, Meadow, wise beyond her years as she often was, wanted the Serenity Prayer. She got it on her hip and upper thigh, on the right. She said she didn’t want people to be able to see it, but she wanted to be able to touch it, even through her clothing, and know it was there for her own sake. And she made me swear to not tell anyone—even Robert or Deacon. That was Meadow in a nutshell, I suppose. She was always the keeper of secrets.”

  Dagny smiled. It was a hell of a smile, and it brushed away that brusqueness she used to hold everyone back. You could imagine young Dagny Charles, before she had to be the caretaker of the family and the family name, when life had been simpler and more fun. I wondered what Dagny had in the way of fun these days.

  Back in the Aztek, Woody said, “Why didn’t you ask her about Meadow hooking?”

  “We found out what we needed to about ‘Uncle Mitch,’” I said. “You heard how she talked about her sister. Why the fuck should I be the one to keep cracking open those boxes and dragging out the demons inside?”

  “How long you think you can dodge asking hard questions?”

  “Goddammit, Woody, if I was any good at that shit, do you think I’d have ended up an alcoholic to begin with?”

  For once, he had nothing smart to say back.

  24

  Woody made a pot of coffee and took care of the dogs once we were back at his place, and I sat at the kitchen table and combed the internet for information about Mitchell Gillespie and GRPD. Hard jazz beats—trumpet blasts, off-tempo drums, six-minute sax solos—poured from the stereo in the living room.

  Daisy, Woody’s new boxer, wandered into the kitchen and stared u
p at me. She head-butted my right arm. When I didn’t respond, she did it again. I looked at her and couldn’t help but smile and rub the top of her head and down her back. She moved in closer, stretching her two front legs out onto my lap. I twisted around to get both hands involved in the petting action. She closed her large brown eyes and rested her head on my leg and murmured dog sounds of joy.

  Woody came in and took the percolator off the stove and filled two cups and set one in front of me and took a seat at the table.

  “You should consider another dog,” he said. “I bet Izzy gets lonely.”

  “Izzy’s not awake long enough to get lonely.”

  “You don’t know what she’s like when you’re not there. She may have a full and rich inner life.”

  “Reading the romantic poets and posting to comment boards about philosophy. Or she’s asleep on my couch, snoring and farting. Because that’s what it’s like when I come home.”

  “Maybe she needs someone to keep her company.”

  “I’m not taking this dog, Woody.”

  “I wasn’t implying at all you take this dog.” He jerked his chin toward Daisy. “Though I will say you and she have hit it off smashingly well.”

  “Are you watching old shows from the BBC again? That’s the only time you use phrases like ‘smashingly.’”

  “Perhaps I have a rich inner life myself.” Woody sipped from his cup.

  Woody set his cup down and tapped at his leg. Daisy raised her head and looked over at him. He said words in German. She pulled herself off me and trotted into the living room. I watched her walk out. I might have been slightly disappointed in her leaving. Only slightly, however.

  I added milk and sugar to my coffee. It was the color of a river following a rainstorm, and the liquid level was just below the rim. That was what it took to make Woody’s coffee palatable to the regular human.

  “Gillespie is, to no one’s surprise, a Parker County native, because no one comes here who doesn’t have to,” I said.

  Woody shrugged. “I did.”

  “A point of interest we’ll discuss one day. But about Gillespie. He’s sixty, so he’s a few years younger than Robert Charles.”

  “You mean your bestie, Bobby.”

  “We’re getting mani-pedis and highlights in our hair later. Gillespie went to WVU and graduated with a degree in business. Came back and opened GRPD around 1978.”

  “His family involved in real estate?”

  “No. Family of nothing but railroaders and miners. He came home and opened a real estate business. Bought and sold chunks of land. Became involved in the Chamber of Commerce, in civic improvement, in all the little things that businesses do to make themselves seem respectable. Never married, no kids.”

  “No scandals?”

  “Nothing. The dude probably squeaks when he walks across a tile floor.”

  “Then he’s definitely dirty.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “You have trust issues with the species, my dude.”

  “No one operates a business, starting with nothing, and stays above-board without something else going on. But anyway, please continue.”

  I nodded. “He swept in and bought chunks of land and turned them into housing developments, business parks, whatever. Then the ’80s hit him like a train, same way it did everyone else.”

  That had been the beginning of the end when the coal business started to drop off. Technology meant you didn’t need as many men underground, so mines laid off workers. Then the seams got harder to access, so you blew the tops off mountains, and you needed even fewer guys for that, so the mines laid off even more workers. Then the coal out west, in Wyoming and Montana, got cheaper to get to than the coal here, so you didn’t need miners at all.

  I’d be lying if I said environmental policy didn’t have an effect on it—coal-fired power plants didn’t mesh with global warming—but I’d seen too many Christmases in my shirtsleeves, and watched the thermometer climb summer after summer, to say that it wasn’t a bad idea to burn less coal. The news said the ice caps were melting, and that wasn’t good for penguins and polar bears, and I had a soft spot for both. Plus, I didn’t have a desire to see Tennessee become oceanfront property.

  But fewer mines meant more people not mining and less coal to run out on the railroads, and it equaled out to even fewer jobs. Then no one needed to buy property or upsize to a big house or do much of anything else. GRPD had stayed in business, however, plugging along in the wake of everything, though, a little paper boat bobbing above water.

  “Any mention of Gillespie with Bobby Charles?” Woody said.

  “Just that the bank is the primary lienholder on almost everything involving GRPD. Returns are marginal or break-even. The last five or six years, though, the bank has lost millions on bad GRPD deals.”

  “If I were a shareholder in Parker County Savings and Loan, I wouldn’t be at all happy about that.”

  “Neither would I. How do you suppose a board of directors lets this keep on happening?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  I closed the lid on the MacBook. “I could still just give Dagny back her check.”

  “Perish the thought. Things are just getting interesting.”

  25

  Billy’s cooking schedule matched up with me being hungry as I got home, so I walked into his house as he pulled a meat loaf from the oven. He saw Izzy and me, set the pan down on top of the stove, pointed to Izzy, and said, “She can stay, but you can drag yourself back down the hill. I’m not feeding your hopeless ass yet again.”

  I’ve been told there’s no love greater than what you receive from your father. I don’t have any firsthand experience in this, though, so what I’ve heard is anecdotal, and from greeting cards at Walmart. I like to believe that what Billy practices is a sort of tough love, and to tell you the truth, I’m not sure how much tougher he thought he needed me to be.

  Billy got a plate out for me, and the chipped one he reserved for Izzy, setting generous portions of meat loaf on each. I sized up the slab Izzy was getting. I might have gotten shortchanged.

  Billy took on my care and feeding after my mother’s death, and he’d kept me from starving for years. He had the touch. In the greatest form of a compliment I can give, Billy cooked like an old Appalachian woman.

  Mashed potatoes and green beans were already on the table. I poured myself a glass of ice tea and Billy a glass of whole milk.

  Izzy watched everything with eager eyes and a glob of drool suspended from her jowls. She had taken to Billy’s side once we came through the door and stayed with him as he carried her plate to the table.

  Billy bowed his head and said a brief prayer. I said nothing and listened as he asked for forgiveness and grace and recited the names of those sick or in need of some divine intervention. He finished and looked at Izzy, rubbed her on the head and smiled, and set her plate on the tile floor. And boom, Izzy’s own head was bowed, and she might have been thanking God for the blessing being bestowed upon her. It was impossible to tell for all the slurping and lip-smacking.

  Meat loaf was one of Billy’s standards. He sautéed the onions and peppers, threw in some extra spices, used crackers instead of bread crumbs, and didn’t drown it in ketchup. It was familiar and delicious, and I appreciated every bite as we ate in comfortable silence.

  I washed dishes afterward, my payment for mooching a meal, as Billy read the newspaper. Izzy snored at his feet, content as a clam, if you know anything about the contentedness of clams. Afterward, we walked out onto the front porch. Dusk spread itself out in all its violet-hazed glory, draping behind the mountains like a velvet tapestry. Billy lit a cigarette and held the pack out toward me. I shook it off.

  “Not this week,” I said. “Try me again next week.”

  He blew smoke. “You doing anything constructive with your time?”

  “Got this and that going on. Things.”

  “‘Things.’ It’s good to have that, I suppose. You still
seeing that teacher?”

  “She’s a high school principal.”

  “Well la-dee-fucking-dah. You must be the envy of the football team, then. Whatever keeps you off the streets.” He leaned back and rested his elbows on the back of the chair and stared into the distance. “A lady might keep you occupied. Might keep you out of trouble.”

  “Had a lady,” I said. I set my open hand out. “On second thought, I’ll take one of those cigarettes after all.”

  I put flame to a cigarette and handed everything back to him.

  “Maggie might not have been the right lady,” he said. “Just ’cause you don’t find the right lady don’t mean you stop looking.”

  That was the closest Billy had ever come to saying something negative about my ex-wife. Billy still liked Maggie—maybe more than he liked me. He knew she had left not for another man, or because she had stopped loving me. No, she left because I’d turned into an unbearable drunken asshole she couldn’t stand to live with anymore, and she deserved better than I could offer her.

  I scratched Izzy’s head. “Was Mom the right lady?”

  “She was. Your mother was a good woman. Better than I deserved. You never saw it, because I made sure you were protected from it, but I had ladies interested, and I gave it some tries and none of ’em ever felt right, so I stopped looking. What your mother and I had was lightning that wasn’t going to strike twice.”

  I nodded and smoked my cigarette.

  “When did you stop missing Mom?” I said.

  “Didn’t,” Billy said. “I miss her now. But I had a life to live, had your sorry ass to raise, bills to pay, and a job to go to every day, so there wasn’t room or time for sitting around doing nothing. I still had random mornings where I’d look to the other side of the bed and wish she was there. Wishing her to be there wasn’t going to bring her back. Missing her didn’t change nothing but doesn’t mean I didn’t miss her.”

  Izzy stirred, getting to her feet and walking to the edge of the porch, staring as headlights cut through the encroaching darkness and came up the narrow road toward my trailer.