by Jake Aaron
He challenged himself to learn everything he could from the prison’s doctor. It made life more interesting. It passed the time. It made him feel alive. It did not give him hope. That was something he had lost.
“Doc, I wonder if you’d let me do the stitches.” he said. The inmate with the shiv wound cringed.
Doctor Graham smiled. “You’ve seen me suture a big cut like this before. Yeah, you go ahead.”
As Milt stitched the area he had just anesthetized, he said, “Big plans for New Year’s, Dr. Graham?”
“The wife and I are flying to Salt Lake to celebrate with family. How about …”
“It’s okay, doc. You know where I’ll be and what I’ll be doing. Thanks for not asking!” Milt spoke sparingly with a raspy sound that did not match his distinguished look. The voice resulted from a bad tracheotomy in his childhood.
The doctor assessed his lanky assistant with premature salt-and-pepper hair.
Both shared a laugh. With a small delay the patient also laughed.
Milt was a man at peace with being where he should not be. He did not blame his wife for leaving him. He did not blame himself. Nor did he blame Louise Templeton, his former secretary, who had quietly slipped away to Belize, three months after his conviction. His attorney said there wasn’t enough evidence yet to warrant a retrial. He only blamed one person.
No matter how hard Milt tried, he could not forgive Julia Hawkins, the young assistant district attorney who convicted him. She had been an impressive, unforgettable figure in the courtroom. She confidently built a stonewall of a case, rock by rock. She even perked up the three members of the jury who nearly fell asleep whenever his own attorney spoke. Her commanding presence spoke louder than her case. Many times he woke up in the middle of the night recalling her staring him straight in the eye and pointing directly at him: “Who did it? Who stole $400,000 of your hard-earned dollars. This man — Milton Kendrick!”
Milt really did want to forgive Julia Hawkins. She became more formidable every time he thought of her. He knew it was a scientific fact that this kind of hate kills — kills the hater. He was a rational man. He knew what he should do; he just couldn’t do it. After obsessing over her, he decided to put the hate to better use. He made it a long-term goal. If he could not have hope, he would have hate. He would exact a terrible revenge on that woman when he got out of prison.
In every outward way, he was a model prisoner — compliant, friendly, courteous, and helpful. Every correctional officer respected him. They could not read his vengeful mind.
December 30
Cody yelled at his band, “That was perfect. Let’s take ten. Then we’ll do one more for the Gipper!”
Last year the five-foot-nine country singer had been awarded “Top Male Vocalist” by the Country Music Association. His long jet-black hair and signature bleached beard and mustache became widely known with three platinum recordings and his ubiquitous concert tours. In public, he never took off his Stetson cowboy hat, except to greet a lady.
His band was preparing for their New Year’s Eve concert in Moscow, Idaho. Cody was a taskmaster. It was typical of him to demand more from his group than any other country western band leader, well, anywhere. He was also noted for adding on last-minute inspirations and expecting zero defects. As a result, he retained only loyal, disciplined musicians.
Sipping a Dr. Pepper during a break, his lead singer spoke quietly to the keyboardist, “With luck, we’ll finish by noon! Cody’s never satisfied by midmorning — ever! You know he went to school here at the University of Idaho. So besides gilding the lily, he’ll want whipped cream and a cherry on top of it. Want to bet on it?”
Slugging down a Mountain Dew, the keyboardist burped. “Excuse me! Cody has a way of making ten-minute breaks as short as three. Thought I’d get the pop down when I could. I’m betting $20 we’ll be here past 3 PM. I’m not complaining, though. We’re better paid than any other band in the industry. It pays to work for number one.”
Hours later and true to form, at 6 PM, Cody had a sudden unexplained inspiration to add “Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)”. With only short breaks in the afternoon, the band was still rehearsing at 7 PM.
His lead singer spoke up, “Hey, Cody, want me to order pizza?”
Cody checked the gold pocket watch in his plaid Filson vest. “Sorry, gang,” he shook his head. “Time to stop. Great work today! Tomorrow we’re gonna rock ‘em right out of their chairs! Cowboy up! Whoopee! Short practice at 9 AM. See you here.”
Entering his custom RV behind the concert hall, Cody wondered what made him do the add-on song. This was a great time in his life, but the lyrics of that song gave him a chill:
Did you shout out in anger, in fear for your neighbor
Or did you just sit down and cry?
Powerless
December 31
The parking lot at the isolated, luxurious Denton Ranch, 750 feet above the Bitterroot Valley, was a potpourri of vehicles. Parked there were a Tesla SUV, a Subaru Outback, a Ford 250 pickup, a Ram 350 pickup, a Toyota Prius, and catering van. Five unfamiliar couples were gathered inside the spacious living room nervously making small talk. It was awkward with no visible host or hostess. Finally, Zeke Lindstrom decided to ask the two caterers in the kitchen what was going on.
“Sir,” the manager answered, “we were told to set up by 7 PM and leave. The instructions said, if any guest asked, we were to say, ‘Help yourselves to the wine and liquor. Make yourselves at home. Enjoy!’ I’d add, since my partner and I will not be here later, don’t worry about the sterno cans under the heating trays. They’ll just burn themselves out after a few hours. I hope you like the lobster and prime beef.”
Tall, athletic Zeke was not satisfied with the answer. He decided to be more direct about the elephant not in the room, “Pardon the interruption, but I had assumed Mr. Denton would be here when I got the invitation two weeks ago. Where is he?”
“To be honest, I had hoped to see him again myself. He’s kind of a legend in the Valley. We have not seen him today. His letter gave us the combination to the lock on the gate and the codes to the electronic lock on the front door in case he was not here, and he wasn’t.”
“I think there’s some other famous person who throws parties and doesn’t show,” square-jawed Zeke mused. “Can’t remember who it is, though. This is very much like the Great Gatsby.”
“Before we leave, would you like me to open any wine for you?” the lead caterer said. “I’ve iced several bottles of Dom Perignon for your midnight toasts.”
“Thanks so much for asking,” short-haired Zeke said. “Let me poll the group.”
When Zeke returned to the manager, he said, “Looks like two reds and one white, for starters. One question. How do we lock up this mansion when we leave?” He asked the question with a grandiose opening of his arms to the high vaulted, redwood ceiling.
The caterer answered, “You all are welcome to spend the night in any of the seven bedrooms upstairs. To lock the front door, the last one to leave should key in eight digits for tomorrow, January first: month, day, and year. That will also unlock it. I’ve written the gate combination on my card just in case. I don’t want anyone calling me at 3:00 AM because someone left a purse. Oh yes, you might warn everybody, there are security cameras all over the place. Anyway, I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to clean up.”
“Great. We’re happy with the wine and hard liquor,” Zeke said, “but several in our party were wondering about beer.”
“Oh, no! Thanks for reminding me. My assistant was supposed to have got that in by now. I’ll help her get the cooler from the van straightaway. Real good variety from local brewers!”
The words of a strong, slightly irritated voice echoed from the living room, “Mind if we change the music? I can’t take any more jazz!”
Without waiting for a reply, the Voice tweaked the state-of-the-art sound system. Percy Faith’s “Theme from a Summer Place” began to soothe t
raumatized ears. The timing could be said to be ironic, except that tonight's low was supposed to be a warm — for this time of the year — +33 degrees F. After all, the ranch was in the “banana belt” of Montana.
*****
Herb Alpert’s “Acapulco 1932” tickled the eardrums of guests.
You are what you drive, or so went the conversation among the loose group of five men.
“I’m guessing you’re the Ram 350,” Zeke said with confidence to the man beside him.
The thirty-eight-year-old laughed. He looked down at his rattlesnake cowboy boots, then into Zeke’s eyes. “I’m Jed Salois. Pleased to meet you. Guilty as charged,” he said. “How’d you guess?” The two shook hands. Jed swigged an IPA beer; Zeke sipped a Pinot Noir.
Pleased with himself — and on good behavior, Zeke grinned. “I’m Zeke, Zeke Lindstrom. I’m the Ford 250. I figured the Pendleton vest didn’t go with either the Tesla or the Prius. Then it was 50/50 on the Ram or the Outback. ”
Overhearing the conversation, dapper five-eleven Brock Bentley introduced himself. “So what do you think I drive?” Black-haired and artificially tanned, he drank premium tequila on the rocks with a lime wedge.
Eying Brock’s crisp Navy blazer with school crest and perfectly coiffed hair, Zeke and Jed simultaneously belted out, “Tesla!” The two laughed at the same time.
Brock didn’t understand the humor. He didn’t ask how they knew what he drove. He thought it was a given. Expressionless, he shook hands, “I’m Doctor Brock Bentley — plastic surgeon.”
The five men became a huddle with more introductions.
“I’m John Fortis, nuclear engineer. I’m the hybrid, the Prius. Kind of a play on words. I’m also a Navy lieutenant due to go to sea in four days from Naval Base Kitsap in Bremerton, Washington.” Five-foot-seven, John wore a brand new white polo shirt and khaki chinos that matched his hair. His height would doubtless work to his advantage as a submariner — when and if he set to sea. His wiry frame showed no evidence of the stooping toll gravity takes with age.
Last to introduce himself was Lee Skelton, “I’m the Outback. I’m a computer scientist. I work at the university.” Five-ten, prematurely balding with a beer gut, he sported a classic red and black Buffalo check shirt and black denims. Lee went on, “Jed, what do you do? I didn’t catch that.”
“I have a small farm in Stevensville.” Six-foot-four, barrel-chested, 210-pound Jed wore new Kirkland blue jeans and a fluorescent orange Jerry Garcia tie under his vest. The flashy tie stood in stark contrast to everything else about Jed. He was a modest man. Small farm was his understated description of the third largest land holding in the Bitterroot Valley. His military-like crew cut was more evidence of the no-frills man.
Chiseled Zeke introduced himself, “I’m an industrial engineer, doing management consulting. Between jobs.” He wore an open collar, long-sleeved white dress shirt and black, pleated wool trousers. An interesting group, he thought.
While Zeke evaluated the four men, the female contingent cast many unsatisfied glimpses in Zeke's direction. His electric blond hair capped his attractive looks even in the firelight.
*****
The all-around sound system pumped out The Essex singing “Easier Said Than Done.”
Near the grand rock fireplace, the five women gathered in a semicircle, concave to the welcome warmth. Their young, unwrinkled foreheads reflected the yellow-orange light coming from the roaring fire. Fashion was the watchword for the women.
Karen Salois, a handsome brunette, wore her hair up and sported the perfect BMI for her five-foot-eight frame. She smiled at Meagan, Zeke’s blind date. “I love your necklace. Where did you get it?”
“Karen, thanks so much!” Meagan answered. “I made it. Kind of a hobby. It’s my passion. I’d make them for a living if I could, but I can’t compete with the Chinese imports. For the time being, I guess I’ll keep emptying bedpans.” She poked fun at her registered nurse duties.
Willowy, photogenic Meagan reached behind her head to pull on her highlighted ponytail. Used to having her hair in a surgical cap or hairnet at work, she was self-conscious about it in public. Her haunting, steely gray eyes caused many a stare.
Stunning Sondra Bentley was the only one wearing an evening dress. The black dress accentuated her strawberry blonde hair. Her bright green eyes sparkled in the fireplace light. “Karen, I admire your scarf. It matches your outfit perfectly and the decor here! How did you know?” she laughed. She exuded finishing school.
“Oh, this! My sister left this on her last visit from North Carolina. It was my fourth choice. I kept asking Jed how my scarf looked. He kept up with the lovely-dear routine. This was the one I didn’t ask him about.”
Anne Skelton chimed in. “He sounds like a keeper. My Lee is too literal. He thinks I’m really asking him for an honest opinion. It seldom turns out well,” she spoke with dismay. Very plain, she stood two inches taller than husband Lee. Her angular face and over-ears hairdo made her look slimmer than she was. Her thick lips went with her buxom figure.
Susan, John Fortis’s date, said, “Men, can’t live with them, can't live without them! Karen, life on a farm must be a challenging way of life — more challenging than an eight-to-five job in any case.” Susan was a fitting partner for John: 5-foot-four, petite, with auburn hair and brown eyes.
“It is never boring, I’ll say that!” Karen said. “I do like the variety. I was working for NASA, wait for it, as a rocket scientist. Met Jed on a cruise. The rest is history.”
“Don’t you miss the thrill of a space launch?” Sondra Bentley asked. Without waiting for a reply, she went on, “I love selling real estate in the Valley. If nothing else, it lets me dress up. You don’t have many other occasions to do that in casual Missoula.”
“That must be why you look so at-home with your chic dress,” Susan complimented. “You look like a model. You could be on the cover of any fashion magazine. I mean it. I’m jealous!”
“Susan, what are you talking about? You look like a movie star trying to fit in. I’m the one who’s jealous.” The tone was catty.
The backhanded compliment was not lost on the other eight ears.
Susan fired back, “I try to fit in. Kind of goes with the territory. As a psychologist, I help people try to fit in every day.” She counseled herself against being too judgmental. She couldn’t stop her brain. She profiled Sondra as a narcissist. Shifting her gaze away from Susan, she went on, “Anne, I wish I had your hair. It must be nice to have naturally curly hair.”
“Thank you for noticing, Susan. I wish I could show it off more. I work out of my home as a computer programmer for a pharmaceutical company. Sometimes that curls my hair,” she jested. The two clanked their wine glasses spilling droplets of red wine onto each other’s fingers.
“Blood sisters!” Anne toasted.
*****
The Archies were singing “Sugar, Sugar” on the top-of-the-line sound system.
“Your canary is back from the coal mine,” Zeke said between munches on a jalapeño popper. “The appetizers are now warm enough to eat. Something must have happened between cooking in Missoula and getting the food here to require such a long warm-up. The poppers will go well with that tequila, Brock.”
“Zeke, you know that canary metaphor doesn’t really fit,” Brock corrected him smugly.
“Come on, Brock,” Lee said. “Overthinking small talk is like looking at a gnat up close with a telescope. You just don’t do it!”
Brock interrupted, “And that simile is wrong because …”
“Guy, guys,” Jed interjected, “let’s eat. I’m starved. “How about this warm spell in December, no less?”
“Welcome to Montana!” Zeke laughed.
The men moved en masse toward the serving table, like a ouija board planchette manipulated by some outside force.
“It’s global warming, no doubt about it,” Brock stated professorially.
“I don’t know, Brock. Last year
we had record low temperatures in the winter. This is the Bitterroot Valley, banana belt of Montana. If you don’t like the weather, well, you know the rest,” Jed said.
John: “That’s a good point. Some meteorologists even claim we’re entering a period of global cooling. My personal opinion is that … this is the best beef I have ever had!”
Jed: “Good one, John. Hey, ladies, get over here and enjoy this great food. Enough talk over there about styles and stuff. You all look fabulous and … too thin. You need to eat!”
*****
When the Beatles’ “I Want to Hold Your Hand” came on, Zeke grabbed Meagan’s left hand and led her back near the fireplace to dance. The other couples followed.
“Are you having a good time, Meagan?” he said.
She felt herself drowning in his Paul-Neuman blue eyes. Recovering on the shores of reality, she answered, “Yes! I can’t thank you enough for asking me. I have heard about the Denton Ranch for years. This place is fabulous. I love the people here.” She leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Sondra and Brock are a little much.” Back to her normal voice, “The food is fabulous. I’m enjoying getting to know you. Unless you surprise me later, this is the best blind date I’ve ever been on.”
“You’re very nice,” Zeke said. “Right back at you!” He whispered in her ear, “Can you believe I dated Sondra in college?”
“You didn’t!” Meagan laughed.
“I did!” Zeke smiled wryly.
“In that case, you really are lucky to be here with me tonight, all things considered.” Meagan was matter-of-fact and sure of herself.
Over the course of many dances and fewer snacks, Meagan and Zeke exchanged personal histories and tastes. Meagan had grown up and schooled in Minneapolis; Zack, around the world with his Army father’s postings until high school and junior college at New Mexico Military Institute, and Arizona State to complete college. Meagan was planning to go to medical school next year at the Uniformed Services University at Bethesda, Maryland. Zeke ran his own management consulting company. Both enjoyed hiking the many trails around the Bitterroot Valley in the summer and cross country skiing in the winter.