by Sofie Kelly
“Merow!” he said. Hercules was almost always enthusiastic about helping me look things up online. He’d squint at the screen as though he were reading an article or examining a photograph. More than one stray swipe of his paw at the keyboard had somehow taken me to exactly the piece of information I needed.
It turned out there was a lot of information to be found online about the former football star. Wallace had played in the Canadian Football League for six years with three different teams. The offensive lineman’s behavior had been offensive off the field, as well, at times. There had been multiple complaints from the cheerleaders for two of those teams about Wallace making inappropriate comments and getting handsie with them. He had also been fined several times for breaking curfew and for showing up late on two occasions for training camp when he was with the Montreal Alouettes, both of which he blamed on his chronic insomnia, which often left him wandering around in the middle of the night at whatever hotel the team was staying.
Given Wallace’s checkered past and how easy it had been to find that information, I was surprised that the development committee was considering going into business with the man. Maybe this at least partly explained why coming to a final decision was taking so long.
It turned out that the supplement business wasn’t the only deal Lewis Wallace had in the works. He and two partners were also in negotiations to lease a failed marina they co-owned on the Ohio River to a group that wanted to base a riverboat casino out of the space. Wallace had owned the property since his playing days in Canada.
Hercules sat on my lap and seemed to read each new screen that came up. When I reached for my cup he put a paw to the keyboard, then turned and looked expectantly at me. We seemed to have landed on a fan forum. I read a few posts and very quickly realized that Lewis Wallace had been a very polarizing player as far as the Canadian fans were concerned. Some had praised his play and excused his off-the-field exploits as nothing more than a young man letting off a little steam. The expression “boys will be boys” was used more than once. Others had been critical because Wallace wasn’t always willing to sign autographs, and several posters felt he was just lazy. Wallace had never seemed to work out in the off-season and his diet had been crappy because of his rabid sweet tooth.
I stretched and got up to switch the laundry from the washer to the dryer. When I came back upstairs Hercules was standing on his back legs, one white-tipped paw resting on the edge of the table while he studied the computer screen. I picked him up again, sat down and waited while he got settled.
There was an article from an Ottawa newspaper’s website on the screen. It appeared to be about Lewis Wallace’s life since retirement.
“How did you get here?” I asked the cat. He looked pointedly at the touch pad and then at me. Being a cat, he didn’t say, “Well, duh,” but it was implied.
After he retired Wallace had been involved in an online memorabilia business that went under, leaving disgruntled customers behind. There were accusations from clients that not all the items that had been on the company website were legit—several pieces turned out to be fakes and some others had been obtained through some sketchy means.
“Lewis Wallace doesn’t sound like someone who’s very responsible,” I said.
“Mrr,” Hercules agreed without moving his gaze from the laptop.
There was a link to another newspaper article at the end of the one about Wallace’s business dealings. I clicked on it. From a quick skim of the second piece I learned that the former football player had lost both of his parents within six months of each other when he was just nineteen.
I shifted Herc on my lap, leaning back so I could stroke the soft black fur on the top of his head. I thought about myself at nineteen. I had been so eager to get away from home and so lost and homesick once I actually had.
“That might explain why he acts a lot like a bratty teenager,” I said. I wasn’t condoning kicking a dog or harassing women but I wondered what kind of person I would have turned out to be without my mom and dad.
Hercules cocked his head to one side and wrinkled his nose. He didn’t seem quite as convinced.
I shut down the computer and set Hercules on the floor. The dryer was about to buzz. At the meeting I’d gone to we’d learned that Lewis Wallace had bought a small organic supplement business. He was looking to expand, to set up a home base for the company as well as a distribution center. Mayville Heights was one of the possible sites.
“I remember Thorsten saying that we had a bit of an advantage because many of Wallace’s suppliers are in this area, but that Wallace was looking for some pretty significant tax breaks from the town,” I said to Hercules as he followed me down to the dryer. “The thing that sticks in my mind was that the presentation was a little short on hard numbers and firm timelines. And I don’t remember anyone mentioning that failed memorabilia business.” Had Lewis Wallace’s obnoxious behavior contributed to its failure? I wondered.
* * *
Ethan was back in time for supper. Milo and Derek were with him. I fed them chicken tortilla soup. Ethan made corn bread and the guys did the dishes.
“When are you going to join the twenty-first century and get a dishwasher?” Ethan teased as he put the bowls away in the cupboard.
“As long as you’re here I have one,” I countered.
We hadn’t had a dishwasher when Ethan and Sara were little and they had taken turns drying and putting things away while I washed each night. Cleaning glasses, plates, bowls, cutlery and pots and pans for five people should have turned me off of doing dishes for life, but I’d had some of my best conversations with my brother and sister during those times. For me there was nothing tedious about washing dishes by hand, just lots of great memories. If nothing else, it was a good time for thinking while my hands were busy.
“Hey, Kathleen, how did the furry dudes get their names?” Milo asked, dipping his head in the cats’ direction. He was the one up to his elbows in soapsuds.
Ethan turned to look at me. “Yeah, good question. How did you pick their names?”
Both cats turned to look at us as though they knew they were the topic of conversation.
“I was reading A Prayer for Owen Meany,” I said, “and every time I went to pick up the book Owen was sitting on it. So I named him Owen.”
“What about Hercules?” Milo said.
“He was named after the Roman god, the son of Zeus.”
“So they got book names,” Ethan said.
I nodded. That was true, for the most part. I didn’t add that Hercules was actually named for the particular incarnation of the Roman god on the cheesy nineties’ TV show Hercules: The Legendary Journeys. I knew I’d never hear the end of it if Ethan had that piece of information.
Once the kitchen had been cleaned, Ethan and Milo decided to drive over to Red Wing to check out a club. “My turn to be the dee-dee,” Milo said.
“What’s a dee-dee?” I asked.
“Designated driver,” Ethan said over his shoulder. He turned and grinned at me. “Don’t worry, big sister. We won’t do anything irresponsible.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said, getting to my feet. I leaned in close to Milo. “I have bail money if you need it,” I stage-whispered.
They all laughed, all except Derek, who was sitting at the table seemingly lost in thought, humming quietly to himself.
“Dude, are you coming with us?” Ethan asked.
Derek didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure if he hadn’t heard Ethan or didn’t realize the question had been directed at him.
Ethan leaned over and waved a hand in front of his friend’s face. Derek started and looked at Ethan, giving his head a shake. “Umm, scrambled,” he said.
I could tell by the confused look in his eyes that he had no idea what he’d just been asked.
“I wasn’t asking about breakfast,” Ethan said. He an
d Milo were struggling not to laugh. And failing for the most part.
I caught Milo’s eye. “Forty-two,” I said.
He thought for a moment and then comprehension flashed across his face. He smiled, nodding. “Well, of course,” he said, holding out both hands.
Now it was Ethan’s turn to look confused. “Hey, some of us have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.
“The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” Milo said.
Ethan shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t get it.”
“Me neither,” Derek said.
“In the book, ‘forty-two’ is the answer to the ultimate question about life, the universe, everything,” I said.
“The only problem is no one knows what the question is,” Milo finished.
Ethan still looked lost. I got up, put my arms around his shoulders and gave him a sideways hug. “Read the book,” I said.
He stuck his tongue out at me, but I knew he would find the book.
“So you coming or what?” Ethan said to Derek.
Derek swiped a hand over his stubbled chin. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I really need to do a little more work on this song.”
Ethan and Milo exchanged a look. “Better find Derek’s fanny pack,” Milo said. He was leaning against the counter, surreptitiously—he seemed to think—dropping sardine crackers down to Owen and Hercules, who also seemed to think I didn’t know what was going on. Milo had also absentmindedly eaten two of the crackers himself. I was waiting to share that particular piece of information with him.
Milo looked at me. “Hey, Kathleen, if later on tonight you see Derek wandering along the street, make sure you steer him back to the place we’re staying or he could end up in, oh, I don’t know”—he looked around the kitchen as though he was trying to orient himself—“say, Michigan.”
“Driving here we almost did end up in Michigan,” Derek retorted. “Thanks to you and your cheapo GPS.” He smirked. “Turn left in two, two, two, two, two miles,” he mimicked a stilted robotic voice.
“There’s nothing wrong with your writing style, Derek,” I said, folding my hands on Ethan’s shoulder and resting my head on them. “It’s better than someone’s technique, which is to sit around unshaven in his tighty-whities, eating Cheetos and burping.”
Ethan twisted out of my grasp. “I do not sit around in my underwear burping when I’m writing a song,” he said, his voice indignant.
I held up my phone. “I beg to differ and I have the video to prove it.”
“There’s no way you have that video because Sara would never have given it to you.”
I gave an elaborately casual shrug. “I don’t mind showing you.”
Ethan’s mouth moved like he was tasting his words before he spoke them. “Fine,” he said. He held up a finger. “Once, once I might have been working on a song first thing in the morning before I had a chance to put on a pair of pants. One time, and certain people”—he glared at me—“never let you forget it.”
Milo made a face. “Man, I don’t care what your process is, but I could have gone for the rest of my life not knowing that you wear tighty-whities.”
The guys laughed and Ethan slung an arm around my shoulders. “You better sleep with one eye open, big sister, because I am going to get you for this.” He was grinning, too, so I knew he wasn’t angry with me. I also knew that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to get even. On the other hand, if anyone else even hinted at coming after me for any reason, real or imagined, my little brother was my fiercest defender.
For a moment my chest tightened, as though I’d pulled on a too-tight sweater. I’d missed this, Ethan and his friends, cooking, eating and teasing one another. Ethan razzing me about Bigfoot sightings on the phone wasn’t the same thing.
As if he could read my mind, he leaned over and dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “I’m glad I’m here,” he said in a quiet voice.
I nodded. “Me too.”
Milo had run out of crackers, so both Owen and Hercules had disappeared. I was guessing Hercules had gone upstairs to prowl around in my closet while Owen was likely in the basement rooting in his catnip chicken stash.
“So what’s your plan for the morning?” I asked Ethan. He and Derek were teaching a one-day songwriting workshop at the St. James Hotel on Sunday.
“Can I get a ride down with you? Milo wants the van. He’s going to some flea market place Maggie told him about.” He smiled.
“Sure,” I said. “My meeting’s at nine.”
“Why so early and why on a Sunday?” He held up a hand. “Not that it’s too early for me. Derek and I need to get stuff set up.”
“There’s a quilt festival coming up. It’s mostly centered at the library but there will be a big product show and tea at the hotel. Things need to be moved back and forth. I have to go over the schedule and coordinate with Melanie, the hotel manager, and tomorrow morning is the only time we could make work for both of our schedules.”
“Yeah, Derek talked to her when he was getting this workshop set up. The whole thing was pretty much his idea.”
I glanced over at Derek, who was showing Milo something on his phone. “Well, since it’s keeping you around longer, I’m glad,” I said.
“You know, when Jake said he was going back to school I was afraid we were going to be screwed,” Ethan said, sliding the leather cord bracelet he wore up his arm. “But he was actually the one who suggested we at least hear Derek play. One time was all it took. Lucky for us he was looking to make some extra money. You heard him say his kid is headed to college in the fall.”
I nodded.
“Don’t get me wrong, Derek can rub people the wrong way sometimes and, yeah, there are lots of days I wish Jake was still with us, but I’ve learned a ton in the past couple of months. My guitar playing is better. So’s my songwriting.”
“I’m glad it worked out,” I said, “and I’m sure the two of you will be a big hit tomorrow.”
Ethan grinned. “You might be a little biased, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Marcus arrived just as the guys were leaving.
“Do I have time for a shower?” I heard Milo say.
“You don’t need to wash your hair,” Ethan replied. “It looks fine and it smells like a piña colada. You’re good.”
I didn’t hear Milo’s response.
Marcus set a small brown paper shopping bag on the table. Both cats appeared in the kitchen, sitting side by side next to the table, green eyes and golden eyes fixed on the paper bag. “What makes you think there’s something in that bag for you?” I asked.
Owen shot me a look.
“I had this coupon for fifty cents off a can of sardines,” Marcus began, fishing in the bag.
“And you didn’t want it to go to waste,” I finished.
“Something like that.” He at least had the good grace to look a bit embarrassed.
We’d been a couple for a year and a half now but I was still learning things about him. For instance, I’d recently discovered he liked samurai movies. Tonight we were going to watch one of his favorites: 13 Assassins. It seemed fair. He’d sat through one of my favorite movies, Santa Claus Conquers the Martians, at Christmastime. Marcus had promised popcorn with the movie. I knew that was a bribe.
I sat at the table while Marcus made the popcorn at the stove. After they had made quick work of their respective sardine halves the boys joined me, Hercules on my lap because he’d be closer to the popcorn when Marcus eventually set it on the table and Owen at my feet, which was his preferred spot in case any buttery kernels landed on the floor, which had been known to happen. Sometimes actually by accident.
Marcus was on a popcorn kick and had been since Christmas, when his sister, Hannah, had sent him some organic popcorn from a little company in Illinois. Now instead of making popcorn in the microwav
e he made it on the stove, dousing it with melted butter and sea salt, both of which he bought at the weekend farmer’s market.
“Hannah had no idea she was creating a popcorn snob when she sent you that original bag,” I said as the aroma of melting butter filled the kitchen. Hercules’s whiskers twitched as I stroked his fur.
Marcus put one hand on his chest in faux indignation. “I’m not a snob, I’m an aficionado,” he said. Right on cue Owen meowed his agreement.
“You have an opinion on everything, don’t you?” I said to the cat.
He licked his whiskers. He definitely had an opinion on anything with melted butter.
I leaned back in the chair, one hand on Hercules, who sighed softly. He knew there was pretty much no chance either of them was getting any popcorn; still, he liked licking butter and salt off my fingers, so for him this whole process was taking way too long.
“Did you know that the US is the world’s largest producer of popcorn?” I asked.
“No, I did not.” Marcus tipped his head toward the covered pot he was shaking over the burner. I wasn’t sure what he was listening for. Then again, I was happy with a bag of popcorn made in the microwave.
“It comes in two shapes, you know,” I continued. “Snowflake and mushroom. Because snowflake-shaped popcorn is bigger, movie theaters typically sell that shape.”
He was smiling at me, I realized.
“Am I talking too much?”
He stretched sideways to kiss the top of my head. “No, you’re not,” he said. He straightened up and turned his attention back to the stove. “Remember Lewis Wallace, the drunk from last night? Turns out he’s had some dealings with the police.”
“The memorabilia business,” I said. “How did you find out?”
“Guy from the prosecutor’s office was at the bar. He recognized Wallace. How did you find out?”
I gave him a brief rundown of my two encounters with Lewis Wallace and my subsequent research online. “I don’t know if any of this is relevant to Wallace bringing his business to town,” I said. “It’s not as though the information was hard to find. And let’s be realistic. The town can’t make some kind of character test a requirement for anyone who might set up business here.”