by Leslie Leigh
“You know, a lot of those hunters just come up here to get away from Mama for a few days so they can act like 18-year-olds again, drinking, playing cards and…getting up to no good. I’ve read of girls coming up from as far as Detroit with little 5th wheel trailers to ply their trade – little mobile bordellos. Yep, they’ll be bringing Mama back little souvenirs from their trip, but it won’t be anything they’d want stuffed and displayed. They’ll be in need of a urologist more than a taxidermist, some of them.”
“Mom, you’re awful!” I scolded, but I couldn’t help smiling at the images her taxidermist comment conjured. That’s my mom! She doesn’t pull her punches. Gosh, it made me wonder what she’d have to say about me if someone inquired. Well, at least it wouldn’t be anything salacious. I’m way too boring for that!
But that’s okay. Once I’d had my fill of the comings and goings in Peyton Place, I took my kitty and retired to my room to scout videos and tunes on YouTube. I had a blast, discovering lots of great music from all over the globe, most of it accordion related – For Mom’s sake, I wore headphones. Before I knew it, it was midnight and Mao was making whiny sounds, pleading with me to turn out the light. It was the end of a near-perfect day, and though I hated for it to end, technically it already had. I just hoped the next one was nearly as good!
***
Okay, I confess that I did check out the websites promoting escorts in the Lake Hare area. Understandably, the pickings were slim, as they say, since Lake Hare is hardly a thriving metropolis teeming with high rollers and thrill-seekers. Which made my search much easier as there were only two ladies from which to choose, unless one ventured farther south to the tri-cities – Bay City, Saginaw and Midland – where it’s less risky to eat the wildlife than to kill it and the babes-for-rent are more bountiful, but that would require a road trip of nearly two hours, surely too long to maintain one’s sense of ardor, unless one is in the habit of planning one’s pleasure far in advance.
Anyway, I spotted Cat’s ad with a single click. Mom was right – she did use her nickname. Maybe for a smaller market like ours, that’s a smart move; that way, if she was out with her regular acquaintances and was spotted by a customer, an indiscreet “Hi, Cat! Remember me?” would be preferable to “Howdy, Sasha! Boy, you sure do look different in the daylight!” Or something like that, I imagine.
It wasn’t just the name that gave her away, though. Despite having obscured her face in her photos – the only part of her anatomy left to the imagination – I recognized the cat tattoo on the back of her left hand. And the third strike appeared in the text where she touted to her regulars, “You’ll like me even better as a blond!”
The body of the text was surprisingly – to me, anyway – clever and good-humored. Perhaps she had used a ghostwriter? Without getting too graphic, these were the highlights:
Hunting for fun? Then rosin up your bows and oil your muskets! It’s time to bag a bird and I’m not talking turkey! Come get lost in the woods with me!
There followed a string of strained allusions extolling the various types of “meat” one might favor before ending with a jocular “Gobble! Gobble! Gobble!” Gag.
Oh, and there was mention of the option of “duets” – my phrase, not hers – with a compatriot by the name of “Alexandra.” Clicking on the other local ad posted on the site, it did indeed belong to Alexandra. Her ad was more austere and businesslike with no photos, just a brief description noting blond hair, 26 years old, and a “discreet” bedside manner. Unlike Cat, Alexandra required references.
I couldn’t help wondering whose ad was more effective for commercial purposes. I would think that Cat’s playful and more explicit approach might entice those who were hesitant about indulging in this sort of transaction. It’s all a rather cold, calculated endeavor when you think about it, and not without risk for both the provider of services and the potential customer. I felt that Cat’s more personable approach might succeed in lowering one’s resistance, especially for a new customer.
Alexandra, on the other hand, chose a different tack: less is more. Her lack of details suggested an air of exclusivity, of mystery, as if it were beneath her to post photos or employ a hard-sell approach. Perhaps I was reading too much into it, but I was reminded of the adage: If you have to ask how much it costs, you probably can’t afford it.
Chapter 7
I thought of the ads, off and on, the next day at work. Strange that my initial focus should have been to take a critical approach to their composition, analyzing the sales techniques at play, but I think that this helped me to fathom the personalities behind the ads. One can’t help wondering why someone would undertake such a dangerous and illegal occupation in the first place, and analyzing the ads was one way of gleaning clues as to their motivation.
But in Cat’s case, there was another moral component that couldn’t be overlooked. She had a daughter, after all, a child with no other parent to provide for her security and well-being. With one arrest, Cat would likely have Molly taken away from her, at least temporarily. If Cat’s illegal activities were motivated by her desire to provide for Molly financially, then why put that relationship at risk? Even worse, what if one of Cat’s illicit transactions turned violent or, worse, fatal?
My primary concern, however, was for Molly. Did Cat bring customers home, exposing Molly to a parade of strangers, or did she always go out to meet them and, if so, did she ever leave Molly alone at night when a babysitter couldn’t be secured? And did Molly suffer from classmate taunts or the hushed accusations of parents regarding her mother’s enterprise? According to my own mother, it was fairly common knowledge.
Which begged the question: why hadn’t anyone stepped up and done something about the situation? Victimless crime or not, there was a child involved. A passive-aggressive approach accomplished nothing, other than imparting a sense of superiority among the gossip-mongers.
But then, now that I had some knowledge of the situation, what could I do? Complain to Deputy Jimmy? Where was my proof? And even if Cat were to be caught in the act, that would only serve to seal Molly’s fate as a ward of the State. I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for that and, apparently, neither did anyone else.
I was relieved when the library got busier later in the day and I could focus on other things. One of the best things about Tuesdays at the library was the sunny, positive presence of Chrissie Appleton, one of our volunteers.
“Wow, I couldn’t believe how many books were in the drop box this afternoon,” Chrissie huffed, dumping an armload of books on the sorting table. The drop box, similar to a post office mailbox, allowed patrons to return materials from the convenience of their cars.
“I’m surprised you were able to carry them all,” I said, marveling at her strength and poise. Chrissie was an athletic girl, tall and tanned, who always moved about with an energetic bounce. I seemed to recall that she majored in physical education. “Feel free to take a cart with you next time.”
“Yeah, I guess I should. Why do so many people drop their books in the box while the library’s open? Why not just walk in, turn in the book and get another?”
“It just gives them another option. Maybe they’re in a hurry, or are still in their pajamas.” Chrissie laughed at that. “At least this way, we get our books back on time. Back when people used to rent tapes from video stores, a lot of them chose to pay a late fee rather than returning it on time, if it were inconvenient. Companies profit from procrastination.”
“Tapes?” Chrissie repeated, as if it were a word with which she was unfamiliar. “Oh, yeah, that was, like, before there were computers and streaming and stuff, right?”
“Right,” I agreed, realizing that I’d dated myself. “I’m glad you made it in today; it’s always a big help.”
“Yeah,” she said, looking around at all the patrons. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it this busy here before.”
“I think it’s so busy because students are cramming for finals and rese
arching reports.”
“Tell me about it,” she said, as she arranged and stacked the books. “I’ve got some cramming to do myself.” She stopped sorting and looked up at me. “Once things settle down and I know my schedule, I’ll let you know what days I can work this summer. I haven’t decided if I’m going to register for a class or two. Part of me wants to just enjoy my summer, but then I could also get ahead if I stick with my studies.”
“Whatever works for you,” I replied, grateful that she’d even consider sharing part of her vacation with us at the library. “Any time that you can spare is always appreciated. So you’re almost done at CCC, right?” That stood for Crawford Community College, but hardly anyone referred to it by its proper name.
“Yeah. I’m enrolled at Central Michigan for the fall semester.” Her expression was a blend of pride and nervousness.
“CMU, that’s great,” I said. “That’s my alma mater. You’ll love it there, Chrissie. And you’re majoring in Phys Ed, right?”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “I’d like to teach. Not to get on a soapbox or anything, but I think Phys Ed is more important these days than it’s ever been. I mean, kids today are just so sedentary. It’s like, if you gave them a choice: lose your legs or your gaming thumbs, I’m sure they wouldn’t bat an eye. ‘Take my legs. Now leave me alone; I’m almost to Level 100,’ or whatever.”
I nodded, impressed with both her logic and her zeal. I was surprised that the term “soapbox” had filtered down into this generation’s vernacular.
“Well,” Chrissie sighed, “I’ll get these books put away. I don’t want to make you late tonight. Do you have any plans?”
On a Tuesday night? I realized that I was of an age where I’d be lucky enough – or have the stamina – to make plans for the weekend, let alone a weeknight. Chrissie, on the other hand, no doubt, wasn’t bound by such considerations. “No, nothing special. And you?”
Chrissie flashed a megawatt smile. “I’m going turkey hunting tomorrow! Bow hunting. I’ve been going with my dad since I was a kid. This time, I’m going with a guy, sort of a boyfriend, y’know?” Her smile became slightly muted by a tinge of embarrassment. It must have been that filter trying to rein in that youthful gushing of emotions.
“That sounds like fun.” I smiled. Personally, I’d have to be dragged into the woods against my will to be anywhere within range of the slings and arrows – not to mention the buckshot – of other turkey stalkers. I was sincere in saying that it would be fun for Chrissie; it just wasn’t my idea of communing with nature.
Just as she was about to scoop up a stack of books, Chrissie’s cell phone rang or, rather, chirped. Incessantly. But within a few seconds, she had retrieved it. She made a half-turn so that she wasn’t facing me while she spoke, and she lowered her voice to a near-whisper, but these efforts weren’t sufficient to prevent my hearing her.
“Hi,” she answered, in that breathless tone one uses when the caller is a particularly welcome one. “Yeah, I’m just finishing up. We’re still on for tomorrow, right? Have you decided when we’re going? Early? Aw, I was hoping to sleep in. No, that’s fine. Morning is good. I can sleep when I’m dead…or old, like you. Just kidding! Alright. See you tonight. ‘Bye, Gary.”
She smiled apologetically as she grabbed the books and disappeared. The last word in that conversation made my blood pressure drop. Gary? It couldn’t be…Gary Van Dyke? That was insane. There must be gaggles of Garys in the vicinity. Why would I automatically assume…?
The shocking thing was that, if Chrissie’s boyfriend and hunting partner was Gary Van Dyke, there would be a significant age difference between them. Gary must be about 36 or so, and Chrissie couldn’t be more than 20. Significant, but not entirely scandalous, by any stretch, at least not in my mind. That would be one explanation for Gary’s lack of any follow-up since we last went to dinner, but then there were probably many other explanations as well, including the possibility that there was no real romantic chemistry between he and I.
I actually detected a sly smile creeping across my face when I thought of it. That wily old dog! He might be a little young – technically – for it to be classified as a mid-life crisis, but I imagined that, especially in a town the size of Lake Hare, Gary and Chrissie might have to keep their infatuation under wraps. Jeez, she probably still lives at home with her parents! I wonder how that works when he picks her up for a date…or does he? I envisioned clandestine rendezvous in out-of-the-way locales, or possibly the employment of disguises. Seedy motel rooms and fictitious names? After all, Gary still lived at home, too!
As did I, so I’m not knocking it. It was just my imagination at work, nothing more. A kernel of information can erupt into a veritable cornfield of speculation. That’s just how I roll, as they say. Perhaps I should just mind my own business and allow others to mind theirs. If my personal life was a little more fulfilling, my flights of fancy would likely become more grounded.
And yet…I couldn’t resist the urge to probe – some might say pry – when Chrissie returned to sign out on our volunteer track sheet.
“So…promise that you’ll treat me to a turkey sandwich if you’re lucky tomorrow. You and….”
“Oh, I promise,” Chrissie assured me. “I don’t even like turkey all that much.”
“I see.” It was an admirable deflection on her part, but I refused to be thwarted that easily. “It’s more about the companionship…with….”
“Actually, I’m the more experienced hunter,” she laughed as she signed out. “As in, he’s never hunted before. I’ll have to loan him one of Dad’s bows and hope that he doesn’t accidentally shoot me!” She set the pen down and looked up with a smile. “Well, I’m outta here. Have a good night.” Before I could formulate another question, Chrissie bounced away.
Hmmm. I turned the clipboard around to see if, under my interrogation, she had inadvertently gotten her wires crossed and signed out with the mystery gentleman’s name, but no such luck. I sighed and began my closing duties.
I couldn’t help wondering whether there was a pang of jealousy or regret dwelling beneath my curiosity. Did I feel any romantic chemistry between Gary and myself? I had to admit that I hadn’t felt that way prior to today. We were friends, for sure, and I had always enjoyed his companionship, but I never swooned in his presence or felt pangs of longing in his absence. I might have, long ago, felt a bit of a girlish crush before we became more familiar with each other, but that dissipated once we got past that awkwardness that always exists between men and women. Did the possibility of his being in a relationship with Chrissie somehow shift my perception of him, and cause me to see him in a different light?
I really couldn’t say. My Method of Operation when meeting a man was, foremost, to gain his respect, and I looked for signs in his character that would prompt me to do likewise. It could be that this approach pretty much snuffed any possibility of love-at-first-sight, although I will admit that I did experience that phenomenon once, but only once.
Chapter 8
On my walk to work the next morning, I remembered that the library board meeting would be held at noon. This would be a first for me, and since I would be the de facto hostess and wanted to appear hospitable, I headed for Geri’s Bakery for pastries. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten that Geri closed on Wednesdays. Problem-solver that I was, I quickly formulated a Plan B: the Snack Shack convenience store.
Well, it was better than nothing – but just barely. As a stream of customers gassed up and slapped their Big Slurps on the counter, I browsed the gastronomical delicacies found only at The Shack: frozen hoagies; tubular meat products of an unknown origin twirling on a rotisserie, gleaming under the heat lamp; and, last but not least, their specialty, homemade pork rinds. Though I was tempted to treat the board to a cornucopia of carcinogenic cuisine, I moved on to the donut case.
I chose half a dozen of the least aesthetically offensive pastries and took them to the counter, thankful that no one was buying lottery ticket
s at this hour – an experience through which I’d suffered more than I’d care to recall. Seriously, do people just wake up feeling lucky, ready to defy the odds? How grand that must be…for them!
Exiting the store, I recognized a familiar face, cleaning his windshield as he pumped gas. Gary Van Dyke. He was wearing jeans, work boots, and a flannel shirt with a sporty-looking down vest to complete his ensemble. I’d never seen Gary outfitted thusly. It wasn’t Halloween, and it was evident that it wasn’t a school day, so I tromped toward him to investigate.
“Good morning, Gary,” I smiled. “Care for a donut?” I held the bag up and jiggled it invitingly.
“Oh. Hi, Melody.” He returned the squeegee to the bucket, but as he did, he seemed to be looking about the lot, as if checking to see who was around to see us talking together. He turned back to me and stared blankly at the hovering donut bag, as if the meaning of my words had just been processed by his senses.
“Donuts?” he repeated. “Thanks, but no thanks. You on your way to work?” he asked, and looked at his watch. I wasn’t sure whether that gesture was made to instill a sense of urgency on my part in order to send me on my way, or because he was running late for something. Perhaps a secret rendezvous?
“Yes, I am,” I replied. “And you?”
“Oh, I took the day off,” he muttered, busying himself with the gas pump.
“Really? Any special plans for the day? You look as if you’re loaded for bear!”
Gary grimaced. He was clearly uncomfortable about divulging this information but, being lashed to the pumping station, as it were, he was stuck with me.
“Actually, I’m going hunting,” he finally ‘fessed up. “It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, and so I decided to do it!” He offered a weak smile, and then turned his head away, as if he were closely monitoring the LED numerals on the pump.