by Pete Hautman
And I had no idea what it was.
• • •
Highway 61 takes us past Alexandria, across the Des Moines River, and into Iowa. I’m not seeing dead possums anymore, just raccoons. It’s getting late. By the time we pass Keokuk, the sun has set. We don’t talk much. Knob stares vacantly out the side window. I watch the road.
“You planning to drive all night?” Knob asks after a long silence.
I shrug. I really don’t know. I’m not tired.
“Don’t suppose you’re going anywhere near Rhinelander,” he says.
“I don’t know where that is.”
“A good bit north.”
“I’m going to Prairie du Chien,” I hear myself say. When did I decide that?
“Prairie, huh? I been there a bunch a times. What’s in Prairie?”
“My girlfriend,” I say.
“The one dumped you?”
“You said I should find out why.”
“I did?” He snorts. “I say all kinds of stuff.” He puts his seat back and wriggles down until his knees press against the glove box. “We got about a four-hour drive. Mind I catch a little shuteye?”
“Knock yourself out,” I say.
• • •
Knob snores. Not a steady, soothing snore, but a series of wheezy stops and snorting starts. I think maybe he has sleep apnea. My dad had sleep apnea. Mom was always complaining about it and trying to get him to see a doctor, but he never did. Maybe he figured he was going to kill himself anyway, so what did it matter?
Knob is nothing like my dad. For one thing, my dad smelled a lot better.
I stop at a gas station in Dubuque. Knob doesn’t wake up. I fill the tank, buy a couple of Red Bulls, and continue on Highway 61 through Dubuque, across the river, and into Wisconsin. We’re going through a small town called Dickeyville when Knob snorts, spasms, and sits up.
“Where are we?” he asks in a sleep-guttered croak.
“Dickeyville,” I tell him.
“I been there. Don’t stop.”
I hand him one of the Red Bulls. He pops the top and guzzles it.
“Hoo-ee!” he says. “Rhinelander, here I come!”
“I’m only going to Prairie du Chien,” I remind him.
“No matter.” He finishes off his Red Bull and crumples the can. “Can’t get there from here anyways.”
“Why not?”
“You ever hear of Zeno?”
“What’s that?”
“This dead Greek dude. Philosopher. He proved you can’t get anywhere, ’cause first you got to get halfways.”
“Is this like that nexus thing?” I ask.
“What? No, man. This is, like, quantum. You want to get from A to B, first you’ve got to get halfway. And to get halfway, you have to get halfway to halfway. And to get to halfway to halfway, you got to get halfway to halfway to halfway.”
“So?”
“So it keeps going to infinity, so to get anywhere at all it takes eternity. Can’t be done.”
“You’re saying we’re basically immobile?”
“Yeah. Except we move. But that’s all perception. We just think we’re moving.”
“Where do you get this stuff?”
“I read books.”
“If we just think we’re moving, what’s the point?”
“Good question. Maybe Zeno knew.”
“Too bad he’s dead.”
“It’s a goddamn Greek tragedy, is what it is.”
Knob starts talking about a bunch of other philosophers. I’m pretty sure he’s making most of it up. For example, I’m pretty sure Zorba the Greek was never a real person. I tune him out because I’m too tired to sort out which parts of what he’s saying are true and which parts are BS. I figure it’s mostly the latter.
I tune back in when Knob starts talking about his ex-wife. It surprises me because he doesn’t seem like a guy who would ever have been married.
“Married five years before she up and dumped me,” he says.
“What was her name?” I ask.
“I called her Booboo. Booboo and Knob.” He laughs. “We had us some times, me and Booboo. She finally got sick of me being mostly between jobs and took up with a fella from Milwaukee. Maybe that’s what happened with your girl.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, but I don’t know.
• • •
By the time we reach Prairie du Chien, it’s two in the morning and Knob is snoring again. The gas tank is low, so I pull into a BP. I’m not sure what to do with Knob. I’d like to find a place to park and catch a few hours of sleep, but not with him sitting next to me snoring.
Knob solves that by waking up while I’m filling the tank. He gets out of the car, stretches, and looks around.
“We in Prairie?”
“Yeah.”
He grabs his pack from the backseat.
“Thanks for the ride, man.”
“How are you going to get to Rhinelander?” I ask.
“Same way I got here, I guess. Might hang out in Prairie for a bit, though. Use to know some folk here.”
“You take care.”
“You too, man. Find that gal.” He slings the pack over his shoulder and walks off down the road as if he knows exactly where he’s going, even if you can’t get there from here.
“Slack”
NNB
4:04
I wake up and smell Knob. I open my eyes. It’s light out. I turn my head. The passenger seat is empty; all that’s left of Knob is his odor. Or maybe it’s me. It’s probably me.
I’m parked behind a warehouse. I remember pulling in last night, barely able to stay awake. Mine is the only car in the lot. I check my iPod. Six a.m. Saturday. I start the car and roll down the window. It’s chilly, but the fresh air is welcome. I’m glad I didn’t give Bran back his hoodie. I drive down main street, Marquette Road, until I see a McDonald’s. I buy an Egg McMuffin and a Coke and eat in one of the booths so I can use their Wi-Fi to search for Maeve Samms.
I find her on Facebook right away. But we’re not Facebook friends, so there is no contact information and I can’t see her posts. I can see her photos, though. There are a lot of them. Mostly animal pictures: cats, cows, horses, dogs, chickens. Some of the shots are from school back in Saint Andrew Valley. Selfies with her friends. I scroll through until I find one with Gaia in it, looking right at me. I spread the image until her face fills the screen, and I draw a shaky breath. It’s an old picture, probably taken back when I first met her.
I keep scrolling and find a couple of recent pictures of Gaia. In one she is standing in front of an enormous hairy bull, grinning. No makeup. Her hair is shorter, barely brushing the shoulders of her flannel shirt. The other picture is with Maeve, their cheeks pressed together, sticking out their tongues. At me, I imagine.
I go through the photos one by one, looking for clues as to where they might be. I know it’s a farm near Prairie du Chien, but that’s all. Finally I find something. A picture of a wrought iron arch, a gate decorated with metal leaves and shocks of wheat. At the top of the arch, fashioned from welded metal, are the words “Prairie Haven.”
I Google “Prairie Haven” and find several places by that name: an antiques store, a town in Kansas, a motel, and a nudist resort. Nothing near Prairie du Chien. I go back to Maeve’s Facebook page and look at the pictures of Gaia again. It’s like looking through a window into another world, a different reality. For a moment I think maybe she can feel me looking at her, but the moment passes. I go to the restroom and wash my face and clean my teeth with my finger and a piece of paper towel. I have a toothbrush, but it’s in my bag; I’ll have to do a better job later.
I stop at the counter on the way out. The girl who sold me the Egg McMuffin looks about my age. I order an apple pie and ask her if she knows Maeve Samms. She doesn’t. I ask her if she’s ever heard of a farm called Prairie Haven. She hasn’t. I ask her where the high school is. She points and says, “It’s just a couple blocks that wa
y.”
I drive over to the school—Prairie du Chien High School, “Home of the Blackhawks.” It’s a big brick building surrounded by athletic fields. No one is around. Of course not. Duh. It’s Saturday.
Not sure what to do next, I drive around looking for ideas. Just outside town I see a place called Tractor Supply Company. I pull in and ask the guy behind the counter if he knows Prairie Haven, or a farmer named Samms. He doesn’t. I go back downtown. Where would Gaia and Maeve hang out? They couldn’t stay on the farm all the time. I park in an area with a bunch of businesses—sporting goods, barber shop, insurance company, boutiques, and a funny little square building, not much bigger than a garden shed, plunked down in the middle of a parking lot full of boats. The name PETE’S is painted on the awning. Pete’s what? No clue. Whatever it is, it’s not open.
I continue down the sidewalk and come to a coffee shop. I go inside. It’s perfect. Coffee, tea, smoothies, soup, and sandwiches. It smells great. If Gaia was within fifty miles of this place, she’d come here. I wish I hadn’t eaten at McDonald’s.
There are a dozen people at the tables. None of them are Gaia. I order a cappuccino. The guy at the counter is about forty. I ask him if he knows Maeve Samms or Gaia Nygren.
“Are they customers?” he asks.
“I think so.”
“What do they look like?”
“Um . . . they’re my age? Maeve is blond, sort of thin with long hair?”
He chuckles. “That could be half the girls in Prairie.”
“Gaia has dark hair.”
“That’d be the other half.” He laughs, then turns and calls to the barista, “Hey, Naomi, you know a couple of girls named Maeve and Gaia?”
“I think I’ve written ‘Maeve’ on a few cups,” she says. She has short hair, almost like you can see her scalp on the sides, and a ring in her right nostril. “But I don’t know her.”
While I’m waiting at the end of the counter for my coffee, I log on to Facebook and find Maeve’s photos. When the barista slides my cappuccino to me, I notice a tiny tattoo on her wrist, a plus sign with a circle around it. I show her the picture of Maeve and Gaia sticking out their tongues.
“I’ve seen them in here,” she says, and points at Gaia. “This one always orders a mango smoothie.”
Score!
“Are they here a lot?”
“Pretty often.” She gives me a doubtful look, as if she’s thinking she told me too much. “Are they friends of yours?”
“Yeah. From school.”
She nods, lips pressed tight together, and starts to fill another order.
I take my cappuccino to a table where I can watch the front door and wait. It is possible to make a cappuccino last for an hour. I make mine last two. People come and go. None of them are Maeve. None of them are Gaia. I use the time to rehearse what I’ll say to Gaia.
Starting with, Hello. No, wait. Hey! That’s more casual. Or, Oh! Hi! Like I just happened to be there and I’m surprised to see her. Or maybe just a cool look, lift one eyebrow and wait for her to come over to me. She’d have to, right? She couldn’t just ignore me. I don’t think. Could she?
What about the big romantic gesture? Rush into her open arms and lift her up and kiss her, like in the movies? I know she watches those movies, but I think in real life she might just clobber me. Maybe I should do nothing and wait to see what she does. I imagine her opening the door and stepping into the coffee shop. It’s a bright, sunny day, so she might stop inside the door to let her eyes adjust. Would she see me right away? I’m sitting toward the back, so she might not. Maybe she’ll be with Maeve, and Maeve will spot me and grab Gaia’s arm and point. Or she might be with someone else. What if she’s with a guy? If that happens, I’ll play it cool, like I don’t really care even though thinking about it now is like having a chain saw ripping my guts open from the inside out.
My thoughts are interrupted by the barista, Naomi, who is walking around with a rag wiping down the tabletops.
“So, are you a stalker?” she asks.
“Me? No! Why?” I’m confused.
“You’re looking for those two girls, showing their picture.”
“Oh. No. One of them is . . . I used to go out with her before she moved here, and I was just passing through and thought maybe I’d look her up.”
“The mango smoothie?”
“Yeah. With the long black hair. Except on Facebook it looks like she cut it.”
“I get that,” Naomi says. “I used to have long hair too, but I got sick of it, so”—she shrugs and gestures at her buzz cut—“c’est la vie.”
“It looks good,” I say, and on her it does.
“Thanks. Actually, the reason I cut it is because my boyfriend broke up with me.” She laughs. “Kind of a cliché, I know, but whatever.”
“Maybe I should get a haircut.”
“She dumped you, huh?”
“Well, she moved.”
“Are you sure you’re not stalking her?”
“Yes! I mean, no, I’m not.”
She gives me a long look, like she’s making a decision; then she nods and looks at my cup. Nothing left but a few flecks of drying foam. “You want me to take that for you?”
“Thanks.”
“You want another one?”
I don’t, but I say yes, because if I have a cup in front of me, I figure I can keep sitting there. A couple minutes later she brings me a fresh cappuccino. I reach for my wallet, but Naomi waves it away.
“On the house,” she says. “But you’ve got to promise me something. If your girlfriend comes in and says she wants you to leave her alone, you listen to her. Okay?”
• • •
When I think about stalking, I think about this creepy kid from Fairview, the town right next to Saint Andrew Valley, who was obsessed with this girl, and he got caught climbing up a tree at night so he could watch her through her bedroom window. I heard he was always staring at her in school, too. I never met the kid, but I guess everybody hated him. Anyway, he finally set his parents’ house on fire and ended up in some mental hospital.
That’s not me. I’m not climbing trees or skulking in the shadows. I just want to talk to her. Knob was kind of a knob head, but he was right about one thing: everything happens for a reason. I want to know why she moved, and why she blocked me from her phone. I need to know. I am not a stalker.
I make the second cappuccino last until I can’t stand to sit there any longer. Naomi watches me put my cup in the dish tray.
“You leaving?” she asks.
I nod.
“If your girlfriend shows up, do you want me to tell her you’re looking for her?”
“Sure.”
“What’s your name?”
“Steven? Steve. Stiggy.”
She laughs. “That’s a lot of names!”
“Stiggy,” I say.
“Okay, Stiggy. Got it.”
Outside, the weather has warmed up. It’s one of those bright October days in the midseventies. I’m planning to walk around the neighborhood and check back at the coffee shop every so often. I turn right and immediately see a line of a couple dozen people on the sidewalk. They’re lined up in front of Pete’s, the little shack I noticed before. I walk over to see what’s going on, and smell cooking. Hamburgers. I haven’t eaten since McDonald’s, and that was hours ago. My mouth starts watering. I get in line behind a family: mom, dad, and three boys, maybe five, six, and seven years old.
“What’s the deal here?” I ask the dad. He’s wearing a Minnesota Twins cap.
“Best burgers anywhere,” he says. The line isn’t moving. “We drive down from Winona just for a Pete’s burger. You’re lucky. This is their last weekend; then they close down until spring.”
“What makes them so good?” I ask.
“They’re just really special.” He shrugs. “Also, it’s a nice drive. Follow the river road all the way, and when we get here, we’re all starving for a Pete’s.”
S
everal more people have lined up behind me, and the line hasn’t moved an inch.
I say, “How long does it take to get to the window?”
“Not long. It comes in waves,” the dad says. A minute after he says that, the line starts moving. The people at the front are leaving clutching wax paper sacks. Some of them go to their cars; some just start chowing down right there on the sidewalk. They look happy. We shuffle forward, and the line stops again.
The five-year-old is working up to having a tantrum. “I’m huungreeee!” he whines.
The second-oldest kid punches him in the shoulder; the little kid lets out a howl. The mom grabs both of them, the middle one by the ear and the little one by the collar. “Mind yourselves, or we turn around and go straight home.”
“Not fair!” yells the oldest kid.
“Life isn’t fair,” the mom says. “Now behave!”
The dad chuckles and says to me, “Like I say, comes in waves. Just like life. See these kids? Popped ’em out one after another. Piece a cake.”
The mom narrows her eyes at him and says, “That how you see it, Herm?”
“I’m just talking, hon.”
She sniffs and turns her back to us, still hanging on to the one kid’s ear.
“What they do is cook a full griddle,” the dad says. “Forty, fifty burgers at a time. Takes about ten minutes or so. Then they serve ’em up quick like. Next wave, it’ll be our turn.”
I look back down the street toward the coffee shop. No Gaia, but I see a ragged figure coming up the other side of the street. It’s Knob. He slows and looks over at Pete’s.
The line lurches forward, and the next thing I know, I’m standing at the window and an older woman is asking me for my order. I look back at Knob. He’s still on the sidewalk, shuffling along.
“Two cheeseburgers,” I say.
“No cheese.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“With or without?” she asks.
“With or without what?”
“Onions.”
“Okay, two no-cheese burgers, one with and one without.”
“Ketchup or mustard?”
“Can I get both?”
“Sure, you can. Yellow or brown?”