Evening in the Yellow Wood

by Laura Kemp

“What ya want with him?”

  I considered his question. What did I want with a man who had ditched me in the way I’d dreamed of ditching Mom—and couldn’t think of an answer. So I lied.

  “He owes me some money. We thought he’d skipped the state but—”

  “Come to think of it,” the owner interrupted. “I can’t remember anyone being in the store when that picture was taken. They all went outside, ya know. Wanted to be in the paper.”

  “The store was empty?” I asked, a chill as wet and heavy as the snow that had buried Lantern Creek sweeping my arms.

  “Best of my knowledge.”

  “Who took the picture?”

  He laughed, a bit of his Northern Michigan accent coming out. “One of those big newspaper people from Alpena. He was in and out lickety-split. Didn’t even buy a roll of duct tape—”

  “Thanks for your time,” I said quickly before he got started again.

  He stopped, cleared his throat. “Hope you find the SOB.”

  I paused, profanity never seeming so ambiguous. “Me, too.”

  And so I hung up, feeling full of the nothing that always seemed to follow my father. And yet the sensible side of me pulled back when I felt the uncontrollable urge to call every person in Lantern Creek and demand they tell me where Robert Cook lived.

  Something like that would spook Dad, a man who had always seemed half-ghost to me anyway.

  I returned to the article, looked at the picture and saw my father, plain as day, staring back at me from inside the store. I checked other copies, rummaging through our dispenser outside like a crazy woman, feeling half-crazy myself when an idea began to materialize.

  The first thing I needed to do was move up north and find a cheap apartment. The next step would be to locate a reasonably sane roommate to help share expenses with. If things went well, I’d be able to track Dad down in a matter of weeks and ask him a few questions.

  Like why he left the awful kitten birthday card or thought that painting would come anywhere close to covering my college expenses.

  And so I set my plan in motion. I gave my editor notice, started letting my friends know I was leaving town for the summer. I even let the guy I’d gone to Starbucks on a coffee date know, hoping it would be enough to get a rise out of him. But it didn’t, and the fact that I didn’t care told me all I needed to know.

  When the big day finally came, I was terrified—but not enough to change course.

  I got up early, ate oatmeal sprinkled with raisins for breakfast, and stared at my packed suitcases all lined up neatly by the front door before searching for Joey, an orange cat that looked suspiciously like the birthday card kitten. He usually greeted me with a figure eight swish around the legs, but today seemed to have gone AWOL. Instead of enjoying a pre-trip cuddle, I spent the morning trying to coax him out from under my bed with a can of tuna.

  I looked at the clock beside my bed.

  10:15 a.m.

  No call from Mom yet, and she usually checked in at 10:00 a.m. to make sure I was fighting the good fight.

  Instead of dwelling on what her silence meant, I tried to enjoy my last few minutes in Webber. Mom’s stance on my sudden move up north was no surprise. I’d known since tenth grade that if I ever wanted to go looking for Dad, I’d have to do it on my own.

  Despite the stark reality of my situation, I still wanted her to call and do the Mom Thing and say everything was going to be okay—that I would find him and he would explain why he’d chosen to leave the day I’d gone with Sherry to the community pool.

  By 11:00 a.m. I’d dressed in my comfy black yoga pants and a white t-shirt. Slipping on my favorite pair of ballet flats, I wiggled my toes in search of the hollows I’d earned from months of use.

  The Prodigal Daughter was leaving home for good.

  Or the summer.

  I hadn’t decided which.

  Luckily, I’d found a co-worker to sub lease the apartment. She was getting a great deal and didn’t care how long I stayed in Lantern Creek as long as I left my furniture.

  Donna the Editor had even promised to hold my old position if I decided to move back home. She thought I should write a story about my search, buttering me up with the assurance that it would be featured prominently in the Saturday edition beside the supermarket sales fliers. Everything had fallen into place.

  It wasn’t like I was leaving Webber for good.

  I could always come home to more of the same.

  I held that thought, wondering why it made me sad. A passing glance in the hallway mirror and I knew I was as ready as I was ever going to be. The reflection showed a petite girl with an early summer tan, wavy blonde hair that just reached the middle of her back, and large, hazel eyes.

  I was short, like my Mom—and had always felt like a child compared to my taller, more voluptuous friends.

  Your eyes are your best feature. And don’t ever cut your hair.

  Mom had given me implicit instructions on how to make myself more attractive to the opposite sex. I think she hoped I’d have better luck than her in that department, but so far that hadn’t been the case.

  I frowned into the mirror, wondering if my shirt was too tight and my pants were too short and how it would feel to be a semi-permanent resident of Lantern Creek. Instinctively I reached for my throat to touch my favorite silver necklace, a gift I’d given to myself by pilfering Mom’s jewelry box. She seemed angry that I had taken it, but also reticent—revealing later that Dad had given it to her shortly after their wedding. The delicate circle intersected with a cross meant something to my father and since he wasn’t around to yell at me for snooping, I was allowed to keep the necklace.

  I touched it again, then reached for the one thing I had yet to find a place for—the old purple birthday package tied with silver ribbon.

  It had faded with age, the old Scotch tape Dad had torn with his own fingers barely holding the thing together, and I still couldn’t bring myself to open it.

  Not after that kitten and the PUUURFECT birthday nonsense.

  That didn’t mean I hadn’t stared at the thing a million times over the past ten years. I’d even peeled the corner back at one particularly low point—but stopped short, knowing somewhere in my juvenile heart that a Care Bear or Easy Bake Oven wasn’t going to fix what Dad had broken.

  I hated to think what a therapist would say about my “no opening” stance, but that didn’t matter at the moment. I was packing up and heading north and maybe if I found Dad and things went good, we could open that damn thing together.

  “This is it, Joey,” I said once I saw him stick his nose out from under the bed. “We’re really gonna do it.”

  One glance at the black Honda Civic parked outside my apartment and I began to have second thoughts.

  We’d been in tight spots before, but never a trip of this magnitude and I offered a small prayer to the God of Automotives—a deity I imagined looked like Schneider from One Day at a Time reruns—before shoving Joey in his carrier and heading out the door. If the “Heap” failed me now, I’d have to fork over money for a car or bribe my new roommate to play chauffeur.

  Which made me think of Holly Marchand. I’d found her through an incredible stroke of luck otherwise known as my hairdresser’s boyfriend. He was originally from Cheboygan and had once dated a girl who worked at a sleepaway camp outside of Lantern Creek. He had no idea if she was still there but handed over her phone number with a strange smirk on his face that told me I was going to have an interesting summer.

  I didn’t ask why he still had her number.

  Lucky for me, Holly still lived in Lantern Creek and still thought fondly of her time with the gentleman in question. She was in a transitional phase of her life that included spinning her wheels at Camp Menominee while living in her parents’ basement. We seemed to be a match made in heaven.

  We had agreed to meet at five o’clock and check out an apartment for rent in a neighborhood close to downtown. I was mildly surprised to find
myself ten minutes early for our appointment after my five-and-a-half-hour drive, and so began searching the street for the blue Chevy Lumina she’d described on the phone.

  Instead, I found a red Ford pickup blocking my progress into the driveway. Moments later a large, jowly man dressed in a plaid shirt stepped out. With a quick hitch of his pants, he crossed the distance between our vehicles and gave me a curious look.

  This must be the landlord Holly had described as “a real ball-buster.” He was also my first introduction to the local townsfolk, and so I wanted to make a good impression.

  I rolled down my window, raised my hand to shade my face from the sun.

  “Mr. Stoddard?”

  He nodded, his face impassive. “You’da flatlander?”

  “Um…yeah.” I had forgotten how locals referred to anyone who lived south of Grand Rapids. Although I found the term presumptuous since nothing in Lantern Creek remotely resembled a mountain.

  Wiping the side of his mouth with a white hanky he’d pulled from the back pocket of his jeans, he took a step closer.

  “Got any pets?”

  “Um…yeah,” I admitted, feeling guilty. “One cat.”

  “One cat?” he repeated, wiping the other side.

  “Yes, sir. One cat.”

  “That the other girl?”

  I looked down the length of Ravine Drive—an ordinary road pockmarked with rutted acne and truant gravel—and spotted Holly’s car.

  We watched as she rolled to a stop, the radio blaring an old ABBA tune as Holly herself stepped out.

  “Holy crap,” I heard her mutter. “Someone needs to seal that friggin’ road!”

  Even when annoyed, Holly Marchand oozed sensuality. With long, dark hair that hung in curls I wished my own would emulate and a curvaceous figure she didn’t try to hide, I was reminded of Norma Jean before Marilyn took the stage.

  I wondered what Mr. Stoddard would think of the bombshell standing in his driveway but he didn’t speak or scold or introduce himself, he simply hitched his pants up again and made his way towards the back door.

  I looked at Holly, who shrugged while extending a manicured hand.

  “You must be Justine.”

  I nodded, hoping we would hit it off.

  “You’ve got that cute little cheerleader thing going on,” she said while emphasizing her appraisal with a clockwise swirl of her right hand.

  “Oh,” I started, not used to being labeled so quickly by someone I’d just met. “I guess so… I mean—”

  “And I’ve got the dark exotic beauty thing covered,” she counter-clockwised her left hand. “So we won’t have to worry about competing for guys.”

  I laughed, unsure if she was serious. “I’m not really looking for guys so to speak—”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Looking for girls?”

  “No!” I said. “I mean…no…I like guys. I’m just not looking for them…so to speak.”

  “Speak away but they’ll be looking for you.” She held her hand up and coaxed me into a high five. “Most of the eligible ladies up here have seen better days. Teeth have gotten to be a rare commodity, present company excluded.”

  “Of course,” I smiled, feeling my reserve melt away when Mr. Stoddard stuck his head out of what I hoped was our soon-to-be window, and shouted, “You girls coming up or what?”

  “Prince Charming he is not.” Holly jerked her thumb in his direction.

  “Guess not,” I agreed while turning and following her through the back door. We ascended a staircase resembling a spine wracked with scoliosis before entering a quaint kitchen with yellow walls and slanted ceilings.

  Mr. Stoddard was talking about the appliances before we even had a chance to swipe the countertops for dust. I nodded like I knew what he was talking about while moving toward the window for a glimpse of our backyard. It looked perfect for sunbathing and tossing a ball with the dog we didn’t have.

  I smiled, wondering if Joey would like a buddy when an elderly woman in a wide-brimmed hat ambled into view. She wore slacks of an indeterminable color and gardening gloves as she bent over a patch of orange flowers.

  Asclepias Tuberosa, I remembered Mom telling me as I helped her in the garden during our long summer days “Post Dad.” Otherwise known as Butterfly Weed. Good for the Monarchs as they migrated towards South America.

  Mom always wanted to make sure the butterflies got where they were going.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the woman, quite clearly our downstairs neighbor.

  “Her name’s Iris,” Mr. Stoddard came to stand beside me. “She came with the house.”

  I laughed before I could help myself.

  He smiled. “This place has been in her family for a long time. Only catch was she got to stay downstairs.”

  As if she heard us, the woman turned and looked up. Something in the way her eyes met mine made me unable to look away, a gesture that would have seemed rude a moment ago but now felt natural. Suddenly embarrassed, I stepped back from the window.

  She returned to her Butterfly Weed.

  I made a mental note to introduce myself later, wondering if she might have information on Dad if she really had lived here that long.

  Mr. Stoddard moved suddenly around the kitchen counter, barely missing a laminate bar and two wobbly stools.

  Holly seized her chance to finally run her finger over the counters, asking all sorts of questions that made her seem like the next big thing in house hunting when Mr. Stoddard turned and moved to the next room.

  The living area was paneled exclusively in glossy, faux-brown wood and sheathed in blue shag. Holly pivoted on her heel and made a gagging gesture. I knew exactly what she was thinking: ski lodge, circa 1975.

  Just off the slopes was a green bathroom with turtle-trimmed wallpaper. A short hallway led to two bedrooms and a tiny porch shaded by the branches of a perfectly formed sugar maple.

  Mr. Stoddard stopped mid-stride and cleared his throat. Shoving his hands in his pockets he proceeded to name his price. It was a very reasonable price—and Lord knew we needed “reasonable” with only one tenant gainfully employed.

  “We’ll take it,” Holly said quickly.

  I added my two cents with a smile while our landlord grunted out the rules, number one being the requisite speech about damages coming out of our deposit. Number two hit closer to home.

  “Keep that cat under control,” he looked at me and I saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. “No shitting in Iris’ flowerbed.”

  I frowned, feeling the need to defend what had, for all practical purposes, been the only dependable man in my life. “Joey’s a gentleman. He doesn’t scratch or bite or pee outside of his box.”

  “I’m sure he’s all that and a bag of chips.”

  I gave a half-hearted laugh, wondering if all northern men shared his charm before realizing I wasn’t actually looking for a guy…so to speak.

  After forking over our deposit, Ol’ Sour Puss saw fit to spread his sunshine elsewhere. I listened to the heavy retreat of his footfalls with a sense of relief, seizing the opportunity to sprawl out on the blue shag. I’d only stopped once in Big Rapids to eat a bean burrito and go to the bathroom and was starting to feel the exhaustion that comes with hours on the open road.

  Holly noticed my mood and came over to sprawl beside me. “This sure beats Bill and Marty’s basement. Thanks for talking me into it, Squirt.”

  “Squirt?” I asked, puzzled.

  “You’re a little thing.”

  I frowned. I’d been looking at myself every day for the past ten years wishing for a little bit of what she had a lot of, but she didn’t have to rub it in.

  I rolled over onto my back, stared at the ceiling, and wondered how long I could hide the truth and if telling her would ruin my chances of finding Dad. I wasn’t sure I could trust her, wasn’t sure I wanted her pity, and was sure as hell certain I didn’t need her questioning me every step of the way.

  Despite my misgivings,
I couldn’t help myself. The opportunity to learn about him was so ripe, like an apple that bent the branch it hung from.

  “You ever run into anyone up here named Robert Cook?”

  She scrunched up her face, thinking hard for a few seconds. “How old is he?”

  “Around forty-five,” I tried to sound nonchalant.

  She held up a hand. “You think I hang around with old guys?”

  I laughed, trying to throw her off. “He’s an uncle. My Dad’s like, one of eight children and we heard his brother moved up here a few years ago.”

  Truth was my father was an only child, just like me—and his parents had died before I was born. No cousins came on Easter to hunt for colored eggs, no grandparents bounced me on their knee. Which made finding him that much harder.

  “Ask the old lady downstairs, bet she knows the Founding Fathers.”

  I nodded, thinking I might take her advice.

  “Is that what brings you up here? I mean…I wondered why you would want to come to a Podunk town like this, but I didn’t wanna ask.”

  From what little I knew about Holly Marchand, “not wanting to ask” didn’t seem like her style and so concluded her silence meant she didn’t want to ruin her chances of escaping “Bill and Marty’s Basement.” Which meant she might be trustworthy.

  In time.

  “Yeah,” I conceded. “Robert Cook took part of Dad’s inheritance when Grandma died and we want to get it back.”

  “So, they sent you?” She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna go all ‘Dog the Bounty Hunter’ on me?”

  I laughed nervously, trying to think of a reasonable excuse. “Heck no! He’s a good guy. I was always his favorite niece, so they thought I might be able to talk him into coming home.”

  “Really?” the eyebrow went up again and I wondered if I’d blown it already.

  “Worth a shot, right? And I needed to get out of town for a while,” I coughed, fishing for the one thing I thought would intrigue her. “Man trouble.”

  She shook her head, a sad smile dusting her lips. “No wonder you’re not looking.”

  “Nope,” I agreed, hoping she would buy it, realizing I was going to have to get better at lying if I wanted to fly under the radar up here.