by Dean H Wild
But now, at last, it was jay-time. He closed up the F&F ten minutes early. Shitkickers deferred until tomorrow, he thought as he trotted down the outside stairs and rolled the big bay door facing The Plank to a closed position. The late afternoon sun threw longish shadows that were like a memory of summers past, or a promise of the season to come. During the warm months, the shadow thrown by the huge corn bin next to the mill building resembled, to him at least, a brontosaurus, like straight out of that Durasstic Park movie. Or Jurratic, or whatever. He’d thought it for years, some kind of childhood bullshit.
“Stupid,” he said and then turned on his heel to walk around back.
His car was parked on a gravel plot at the back of the property, which left plenty of room for the shitkickers’ big trucks to swing around and fill up from the long neck feeder attached to the side of the corn bin. A person was always making room, because the world revolved around the shitkickers and the cop lovers and the rule-making dickheads of the planet. Too bad, he thought as he slumped in behind the wheel, his hair masking his face like a black and oily curtain. He took the pre-rolled jay out of the glove box and lit up, thinking the afternoon shadows might indeed indicate spring, but sweet Mary Jane at quitting time tasted like high July summer, golden and warm and heady.
He tipped his head back as he exhaled, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw the man standing next to the corn bin. He acknowledged the heavy, buttoned-up black clothes with a blurt of laughter. As if drawn by the sound, the man began to walk over, his hands folded.
“Shit,” Axel said and thought about smashing out the joint or maybe tossing it out the window.
He was still on mill property and if this was one of Unky Cy’s fuckstick cronies, he might end up with his ass in a jam after all. But his hand stopped partway to the ashtray as if his wrist has been snatched by an intervening hand.
If there was one thing Axel Vandergalien was good at, besides shooting pool and giving the bar girls in Drury and Baylor multiple orgasms, it was being able to spot a judgmental prick from ten paces. More to his credit, he could spot an all-out authoritative asshole from a mile. This guy was neither of those things, despite his long but conservatively straight gray hair (thinks he’s fucking Ichabod Crane or something). This guy was searching, but for what?
Before he could stop himself, he got out of the car, the joint smoldering into the cup of his hand and he leaned against the door. “Mill’s closed, Mister.”
“Very good.” The man’s near-smile made him seem imperative and fascinated. He stopped a few paces away. “Then you have time to speak with me.”
“Look man, I barely have the patience to talk to the townies around here. And you ain’t no townie, so I really don’t have time for you. You looking for directions or something, go to the gas station and ask ’cause I’m not a fucking GPS.”
“Directions, no. But I may need a confidant while I’m visiting. Someone I can call upon in the next few days. Someone of a less than authoritative position, shall we say?”
“Good luck with that.” Axel took a pull from his jay. He felt in his bones the stranger would make no judgments about it, and he was right. “Some days there’s enough authority in this town to make me want to puke. Between that Borth bitch calling the shots like a goddamned queen mother and Unky—uh—my uncle who thinks every time he takes a shit God eats it, and a bunch of tight asses who think they’re so much better than certain people, yeah, there’s authority here all right. Knoll’s crawling with it.”
“But you’re not on that same level.”
He grunted. The sun was westering and bright, but a residual coldness seemed to be leaking out of the shadows. “They look at me like something the dog pissed on most of the time. Unless they need me to lug out their goddamn feed bags or work the truck scale when they’re cashing out for the day. Then they go home and talk about my jail record and my tattoos and how I keep this job only because my uncle is letting me skate.”
“So wrapped up in judgement,” the man said with a dip of his shoulder. It was a gesture of confidence. “As if none of them have ever crept under the law.”
Axel blew a plume of smoke skyward and put out his fist because he wanted a knuckle bump from this man. “You know it, Ichabod.”
The man smiled, placed a cool finger on Axel’s extended fist and coaxed it down. “The name is Thekan.”
He said this with excessive care, as if not to have it confused with deacon, or beacon. Axel’s hand seemed to descend down and down, as if his arm was loose elastic. The sunset world and the cool shadows leaned in to eavesdrop on him and this man who was so glad—
“I’m so glad we understand one another,” the man said, and blinked his suddenly startling green eyes.
Axel wanted to look away. Couldn’t. More than startling, they were frightening eyes, their centers white-green points of light. But for all the fear coiled inside of him, he also felt a desire to vent a while longer about the people of Knoll. Even old Unky Cy with his big mouth and his Mellar’s Out posters and his gigantic mother-trucking fuck.
He laughed at this, a high giddy sound, and staggered uncertainly on his thick-lugged boots. He squinted at the man as he spoke. “Are you putting stuff in my head?”
“I am more of a sculptor just lately.” The light was gone from his eyes. The shadows were back to normal, too. The brontosaurus stretched out in grand form thirty yards away.
“Right,” Axel said.
“And I have a task for you. Do you understand it, should I need you to perform?”
He did understand. Without the exchange of a single word on the matter. Weird as fuck, this Thekan. This Ichabod. “I do,” he said. “But when? How?”
His joint fell into the gravel. He didn’t care.
“I will leave the fine details up to you, my friend.” Thekan said. “Free will. Understand?”
He did, although he was pretty sure they hadn’t discussed it. But then again maybe they had. His head was all fucked up. “Sure, I’ll do it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
With the workday shaved and showered away, Mick went downstairs to find Judy in the kitchen packing up cookies for their visit. The evening held a sort of big event feel, but the big event promised to be a grim one. A starting point, where the Logans and the Kroeners began a journey with a potentially morose end.
“Why don’t you wear the tan pants?” Judy said, stacking pecan sandies with capable ease. “Those black ones cut you at the waist, if I remember right.”
He rolled his shoulders a little. As usual she was exactly right. “The tan ones are missing a button. I forgot to tell you.”
She shot him a bright look over her shoulder and indicated the kitchen chair where her iced tea and her laptop sat, both glowing in their own way under the kitchen lights. There was also a spool of thread and a needle. Draped over the back of the chair were his tan pants, button intact and ready to go.
“You’re too good to me,” he said and emptied his pockets onto the table.
“And don’t you forget it. What do you think you’re doing?”
He grinned at her, his hands in the middle of undoing his belt buckle. “Just a quick change of clothes in the privacy of my own home. Besides, it’s not the first time I’ve had my pants around my ankles in this room, am I right? Care to join me, lady?”
“If we had the time, maybe. Or if I had the energy. We took on three new clients today, and none of them are light accounting. All big stuff. What’s that?”
He immediately knew what she meant. The velvet bag containing the chess pieces was on the table amid his other pocket cargo. Carrying them was automatic now, a response more than an effort. As he tucked and zipped, she took out the king and the knight and turned them over in the light.
“I came across them in the attic,” he said. “They’re from the school.”
“I know they are. Some pretty deep memories here. You okay?”
He kissed her cheek. “As calm as can be.”
Calm is not okay, it fired off in the depths of her gaze. Was he okay with it? The only counselor he’d gone to see—not after Robbie Vaughn’s death but after his funeral (it took a miserable brand of delusion for him to appreciate the internal wreckage he was carrying around)—had warned him of false serenity. But this didn’t feel forced or hastily constructed or false in any way. It felt right. Even necessary.
“It was a bad time,” she said as she popped the pieces back into the bag and held it out for him, watchful.
“It was a long time ago” He dropped it into the nearest kitchen drawer filled with orphaned tools, pens and pencils, and matchbooks. “And I have moved on.”
Judy touched his shoulder. He understood every meaning in it, appreciated every nuance. His Judy, diligent at his side. When something fell off, she was there to put it back, maybe not as good as new but still competently done.
“Now let’s go see our friends,” he said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Harley Kroener’s house, which sat on Backbank just a few doors down from The Chapel Bar, showed no signs its owner of thirty years might soon be a lingering supplicant instead of a master and caretaker. Its roofline remained as straight and stalwart as an unimpressed brow, caring nothing about needle biopsies and radiation therapy. Its long porch was a place where cedar scented memories lingered. Its front steps creaked in all the familiar places when Mick and Judy approached the door. Such was the indifference of the world, Mick thought.
“It has spread to his lungs,” Judy said at the last minute, tucking a length of brunette hair behind her ear. “Tumors. Just so you know.”
He was thankful she’d offered the information, because it seemed like a detail Harley might or might not share. A hopeless feeling of ah shit flared up in light of it, the same type of feeling that visited him weeks ago when Harley told him there might be cancer, and it might be bad. It made him ache in a way you ache only for those closest to you.
As he rang the bell, Judy slipped her hand into his and gave it a squeeze. A wooden sign dangled by lengths of chain from the porch ceiling. It was something Beth Ann picked up at one of the craft shows in Drury last autumn, a name plaque with The Kroeners burned into knotty pine in broad script. In the lower corner was a painting of a trout, mid-leap surrounded by drops of lake water, line and hook streaking from its mouth. The sign caught a breeze and the squeak of its rusted chain took on an almost conversational lilt—here we go, here we go, here we go. When Beth Ann opened up, Mick put on a soft and understanding smile. He had to stop biting his lower lip to do it.
Another element unchanged by the big event was the Kroener’s hospitality. Beth Ann had lit scented candles around the undersized, randomly furnished rooms and she took Judy’s light jacket with a smile. Harley stuck his head out of the kitchen doorway and sent a quick head dip of acknowledgement Mick’s way, along with a wink. “There he is.”
The women hugged. The men shook hands. It all felt natural yet odd and backward. No one needed to say it. When it was just him and Harley in the living room with a couple of beers and a plate of Judy’s cookies, Harley lowered himself into the worn chintz recliner in the corner to get down to business. It was a long trip down.
“I feel like a total shit about this, Mick. The whole thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You holding the bag at the garage while I come up sick.”
Mick swigged his Coors like it didn’t matter. “Take it easy on yourself. Things will get done.”
“I’ve got Beth Ann to mollycoddle me, so you shut the hell up. We both know you’re going to be running your ass off and it’s not fair. I’ve got chemo scheduled for tomorrow, and they want to radiate my lung right off the bat, too. A real one-two punch. When I asked if I could come in to work right after, they laughed as if they were humoring an old man with old-timer’s disease or something. Jesus.”
Mick noticed how his friend appeared diminished for all of his size and height, and he realized he hated this big event even more than he’d first thought. “I’ve heard the treatments can take a lot out of you.”
“Yessir. So, I’m going to wait.”
“Wait? Is that smart?”
“Only for few days. Once this village voting nonsense is off our plates I’ll start the whole ride. But listen, don’t say anything to Beth Ann. I haven’t told her yet. I’ll do that tonight, before bed. Then I’ll make my excuses with that dopey-faced Dr. Lambert in the morning.”
“Fine, then here’s the plan. You take most of the regular village work over the next few days while I get the hall ready for the big vote. By most I mean only as much as you can handle. And you have to promise to get yourself in for treatment ASAP right after we learn whether we have a Mellar’s In or a Mellar’s Out. Deal?”
He leaned forward and extended the Coors bottle. Harley clinked it with his own. “Deal. What a bunch of garbage we put up with, right?”
“Right.”
“Speaking of garbage, did that gas sniffer from the state office collect what he needed at the landfill?”
“He didn’t get back to me,” Mick said. “I suppose if there was a real problem he would have tracked me down.”
Harley’s eyes grew hard as he eased back into his chair, as if to say yeah, they’ll track you down from now on, Mick Logan, because I’m no longer up to snuff. Never will be again, I suspect. You go on to the head of the class, and don’t feel bad. Not your fault I faltered and fell. Then he said, “I’m not going to let it lick me.”
Mick tipped his bottle in a toast. His smile felt wide and somehow painful at the same time. “I didn’t think you would.”
Judy’s voice came from the doorway. “Are girls allowed in this clubhouse?”
Beth Ann stood behind her with an air of composure despite her puffy red eyes. She held out freshly opened bottles of beer, enough for everyone. “I’m afraid we don’t have the secret password, if there is one.”
“Get on in here, honey pie,” Harley said, switching on a bright voice and pressing some of the slouch out of his shoulders. “All the password you need is right there in your hands.”
They all laughed, with hardly any strain at all.
They spoke as friends do, with seriousness and concern tempered with bouts of light laughter, never quite forgetful of the big event and the purpose of their company. Only once did the room become quiet, when Beth Ann professed how glad she was they could start Harley’s treatments right away. Mick and Harley traded a quick oh shit expression and Judy picked up on it. Then Harley made some joke about the hospital being more on the ball than the local mail delivery and everyone laughed again.
They parted with more hugs and handshakes. Harley’s grip on Mick was overlong, his countenance wide and heartfelt, and Mick supposed every parting would be on a similar order from now on. He wrapped it up by slapping his arm around Harley’s broad back and he whispered, “Hey. You’re still the boss. Always will be.”
Harley responded with a rubber-lipped nod. His eyes shone in the air so sweetly scented by apple cinnamon candles. “Talk to you tomorrow, Mick.”
Once he and Judy were outside he took her hand.
“Beth Ann is a mess,” Judy said as they walked to the car.
“It’s going to get worse once she finds out he’s not going in for treatments right away.”
She nodded, her suspicions confirmed. Clever Judy.
“Why in the world would he wait?”
“Because he’s married to this town just as consummately as he’s married to his wife.”
“Careful, Mr. Logan,” she said and stepped to her side of the car, “your poet’s soul is showing.”
“Just a little.” He climbed behind the wheel, stroked by a light breeze which was still out of the southeast, still a Crymost wind.
On the drive home, Judy looked at him with part concern and part cool sensibility. “Is it just me, or does it feel like we’ve turned some type of corner over
night?”
“Yes, and the turn wasn’t onto Easy Street, either. I hope you’re okay with late suppers for a while because I think I’ll be burning some midnight oil. Harley’s tough but I can see this is already wearing him down. I might be taking over a lot of the town’s work on my own.”
“I thought about that. You know, Britta Kemmel says there’s not a lot going on at the F&F right now. She ought to know since she lives across the street. Maybe Axel Vandergalien can help you out. I know Cy likes to keep him busy so he stays out of trouble.”
“One Vandergalien with his nose in our business is enough, thank you.”
“Just a thought.” She yawned as the car eased into the driveway.
He put his arm around her as they walked to the house and she spoke with a sleepy tone while he unlocked the door. “I still like it here. We picked a good place.”
“We did, didn’t we?”
He could not say what made him turn around to face into the southeast breeze, but when he did, what he saw made him freeze with the house key still poked out in front of him as if to unlock the very air. A greenish glow spread skyward behind the treetop barrier of Garden Street like a paintbrush swipe of alien dawn. He stepped off of the porch to get a better view but the light diminished, burned low, and then went out.