Something True

by Karelia Stetz-Waters

  “Have a seat wherever you like,” the boulder said.

  They sat. Lill opened the menu.

  “Do you think they have vegan?”

  “Don’t ask,” Tate said.

  “What is chicken-fried chicken, anyway?” Vita whispered.

  Tate rolled her eyes.

  When the woman came back a few minutes later, they ordered coffee.

  “So, you lookin’ for someone?” the waitress asked.

  “Maybe,” Lill said, pulling a packet of stevia out of her fanny pack and adding it to her coffee.

  “Outside you said you was looking for Frank Jackson or maybe not Frank Jackson,” the waitress said. “You looking or no? ’Cause you’re not gonna find him here.”

  There was a silence. Tate mustered her thoughts.

  “None of my business,” the waitress said, moving away from the table. “You girls have a good day.”

  “Wait,” Tate said. There was something in the woman’s antipathy that she trusted. The boulder did not like Frank Jackson any more than they did. “We are looking, and we don’t know exactly how we’re going to find our friend.” She explained the situation.

  “What’s the girl’s name?” the waitress asked.

  “Krystal Jackson. Maggie, show her the letter,” Tate said.

  The waitress scowled as she read it.

  “I don’t got no pity for Frank Jackson. Don’t know why this girl does. ‘Blood is thicker than water.’ Ha. So is the borax paste we use on the rats, but that don’t mean I’m gonna drink it. You think Frank got this girl?”

  “We think she went to him.”

  “Well she’s not gonna wanna stay, and if I know anything ’bout the men in that family, he’s not gonna let her leave. You’d better talk to my sister, Janice. That way. Through the bar. Coffee’s on me. Anyone who’s going up against Frank Jackson is a friend of ours. You’re some brave women.”

  The encouragement did not make Tate feel any better. She wondered how it was possible that, a few days earlier, she had been lying naked in the arms of a beautiful real estate tycoon, while now she was destined to be killed by Frank Jackson.

  She pushed open the door with the pregnant woman sign. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was so dark, for a moment she thought the bar was closed.

  “Well, y’already came this far,” a voice called out.

  Tate stepped into the darkness. The bar was not closed, and it was not empty. It was just the darkest pit she had ever walked into.

  Tate could hear the clink of glasses, the knock of a pool ball dropping into a pocket, and then the murmur of voices starting up again as their arrival was noticed, noted, and dismissed.

  As her eyes adjusted to the light, Tate made out a small square room with plastic booths, wood tables, a wall of mirrors embossed with beer logos, and a small television playing the keno games. Really, it was not that much different from the Mirage—except for the men and the elk’s head mounted above the bar.

  Tate ordered four Budweisers, stopping her companions with a look before Lill could say she was on a “cleanse” or before Vita could ask for a cosmo. But Maggie managed to get out, “A beer in the afternoon? No, I couldn’t.”

  Tate despaired, but the bartender asked, “Well how’s about a nice iced tea?”

  He was a massive granite slab just like the waitress, but with a crew cut and a T-shirt, pulled tight over his belly, that read NO GUTS, NO GLORY. He must have had a lot of glory, Tate thought, because he certainly had a lot of gut.

  “Just drink the beer,” Tate hissed.

  “No, no,” the bartender said. “This here’s a lady, and she’s delicate. An iced tea with a lemon, comin’ up.”

  “Thank you.” Maggie wiped her forehead. “It’s hot out there.”

  “I bet you just wilt like a pretty flower.”

  Nothing about Maggie said “pretty flower”—lone pine, maybe; weathered sage, perhaps—but Maggie flashed the bartender an uncharacteristically girlish smile. This was getting worse, Tate thought. Maggie had snapped. She was flirting; she was using sex to manipulate the patriarchy that oppressed her. Next she’d be sporting high heels. Then Tate looked at the bartender again. Possibly, just possibly, things were getting better.

  “We’re looking for Janice,” Tate said cautiously.

  “That’s me,” the bartender said. “My sister send you in here? It’s nice to see some family. I’m right, aren’t I? Some family?”

  Maggie tapped the pink triangle earring in her right ear.

  “I thought so,” Janice said. “So what can I do for you?”

  “It’s a woman,” Vita whispered into Tate’s ear.

  I know, Tate mouthed.

  “I thought she was a dude.”

  “Shh, Vita.”

  “Do you think she’s trans?”

  Tate shot Vita a look that said, For the love of God, shut up!

  “We’re trying to find a young woman who’s run off with Frank Jackson,” Tate said to the bartender. “Actually, we’re trying to find his daughter, Krystal. She found out he got out of jail and came looking for him.”

  “That’s sad,” Janice said. She called over to the barback and invited Tate and her company to sit at a table in the corner. When they were all seated, she said, “We’ve had every kind of trouble with Frank. But I never seen anyone good come looking for him. Usually Frank does the looking.”

  “Does he come in here?” Maggie asked.

  “Not since I threw him out on his scrawny ass, pardon my language.”

  Maggie beamed at Janice.

  “You did that?”

  “He’s a bad man. There a lot of messed-up people out there, but most times, you can see the good person they used to be. It shines through. But if you think you’ve seen that in Frank, you’ve just seen his latest scam.”

  “Got any recommendations as to how we get in touch with Krystal?” Tate asked.

  Janice took a sip of water and wiped the back of her mouth with her hand.

  “First, I wouldn’t go out there myself, not unless he got ahold of my sister or someone I really loved.”

  “He does,” Maggie said. “Go out where?”

  “He’s living outside of town, off the old Logging Road 32. Supposedly. Some people says that he’s out there with his sister. I don’t know why a woman like that would spend a minute on him. She’s Mennonite, you know. Not the kind of woman who comes in here, but a good person. Solid. Works as a nurse out in Newport.”

  “Can you show us where the logging road is?” Maggie asked.

  “I can. But I wouldn’t go out there if I was you.”

  “Do you think the police would go out with us?” Lill asked.

  “Police? Who’s hiring police around here?”

  “They don’t have police,” Vita said in a stage whisper. “It’s like the Wild West. They probably shoot people for poaching.”

  Janice laughed. “It’s not that bad, but it’s not that good neither. State police’ll come if there’s an incident, but there hasn’t been an incident with Frank yet. We’re all waiting. But so far, nothing.”

  “We could file a missing person report,” Tate said.

  “That’s a fine idea, and that’s what I would do too, if I could. But they’re not gonna come out if she wrote her own note, saying she’s wanting to be with him.”

  “But he’s a murderer,” Tate said.

  “Well, what are you going to do about it?” Janice asked, putting her arm around Maggie’s shoulders.

  Lill, Maggie, Vita, and Janice all looked at Tate.

  “You carry a gun?” Janice asked.

  “Of course not,” Tate said.

  “But you want to talk to Frank Jackson?” Janice asked.

  “Not really,” Tate said.

  “But we have to,” Maggie added. “It’s our responsibility as women, as the collective mothers and protectors of our community.”

  “Krystal’s twenty, but she’s a child.
” Tate sighed.

  “Well…” Janice dragged the word out over three syllables. “I can take you up to Road 32, to the gate. That’s an old logging road. You gotta walk the rest of the way. You sure you don’t want to pick up a gun first? That’s the language Frank understands.”

  Tate sighed and shook her head. That might be the language Frank understood, but it wasn’t a language she spoke.

  After lunch, they piled into Lill’s van and followed Janice’s faded, orange pickup truck deeper into the foothills than Tate thought one could possibly go. Finally, Janice stopped. Ahead, Tate saw a metal gate locked across the road.

  Tate was starting to wish she had picked up a gun.

  “Close as I know, Frank lives about a mile up and off on a side road,” Janice said, pointing to the gate. “It’s probably not marked, but there’s only one road come off the main drag. You sure you want to do this?”

  Tate was not sure. Everyone was looking at her. And suddenly it occurred to her that they weren’t coming along. She had envisioned the whole gang trouping up to Frank Jackson’s house. In her mind, she had stood at the front, the first to call out, the first to get killed. But they were in it together. Now she noticed that Vita was still wearing last night’s stilettos. Lill had on flip-flops. And Maggie, for all her political fervor and her leftist battle cries, was an old woman. Her shoulders slouched, and she swayed when she stood up quickly. She was not going to clamber up the coastal foothills.

  The forest crackled with life. To Tate it sounded like twigs snapping beneath the footsteps of the murderous Frank Jackson.

  “You’re frickin’ crazy,” Vita said.

  Lill pressed the xeroxed court decisions into Tate’s chest like a talisman.

  “Remember,” she said. “This man has killed.”

  Tate rolled her eyes.

  “Thanks.”

  Tate set off up the hill. Each rocky step sent a crack of pain through her foot and up her leg. After a hundred meters, she broke off a sapling from the side of the trail to use as a cane. But the pain in her foot had kept her from focusing all of her brainpower on her own imminent death. The walking stick lessened the pain, but that freed up more brain space for Frank Jackson.

  Eventually, she came to the footpath that led off the main logging road. For several meters, there was no sign of human habitation. But eventually, she thought she heard the shriek of a small child. She froze and listened, but there was only the creak of the forest as cool wind blew down the hill.

  She took a few steps forward. Through the trees she made out the gray of weathered boards. She took a step forward, and another. Each time she paused, she leaned against the far side of a tree, hoping to conceal herself for as long as possible.

  Eventually, she arrived at the edge of a clearing. In front of her, a single sheet flapped on a clothesline. Behind that stood a tall, weathered house. The paint was long gone. The windows were small squares.

  She dropped her walking staff, so it would be evident she was unarmed, and stepped into the clearing.

  The sheet flapped on the clothesline, obscuring the front door. Behind the noise of its movement, she heard a sound she knew only from late-night TV drama: the sound of someone cocking a shotgun. And like a character from the same late-night drama, she saw her life flash before her eyes—not so much a story as a few fleeting images. Vita standing in front of a burning porch. Maggie handing her a plate of cookies. The lights dimming in a lecture hall at PSU. The espresso machine hissing at Out Coffee. Laura’s face lit by the light of Palm Springs.

  She heard another authoritative click as metal met metal.

  Chapter 31

  Don’t shoot!” Tate said.

  The tip of a rifle appeared at the corner of the sheet and threw it back.

  Standing before Tate was a woman of about fifty in a long dress, white sneakers, and white mesh cap over her hair.

  “Who are you?” The woman’s face was plain and clean, and her lips were set in a thin line.

  “Tate Grafton, Portland barista.” Tate raised her hands to show her good intentions. “I’m looking for Krystal Jackson. I’m a friend of hers. I just want to talk to her.”

  Slowly the muzzle of the rifle came away from Tate’s chest. The woman eyed her from her boots to her labrys tattoo.

  “You look like a friend of Krystal’s.” It did not sound like a compliment. “What’s your business with her?”

  This must be Frank Jackson’s Mennonite sister, Tate thought. She was not sure how honest to be. Perhaps blood was thicker than water. Perhaps this godly woman would not appreciate the fact that Tate had come to rescue Krystal from her brother.

  “I’m worried about her,” Tate said.

  “I asked Krystal if she left any loose ends in Portland. She said no. Would you call yourself loose ends?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Krystal’s been living with my friend, Maggie. We had a disagreement. Krystal left us a note, and said she’d gone to see her father.”

  “And you’re worried ’bout what my brother might do to her now he’s been released.”

  It wasn’t a question, and Tate did not bother denying.

  “You better come in,” the woman added.

  Tate approached the house slowly. Inside it was as quiet as the forest beyond. It took her a moment to realize what was missing: TV, radio, the hum of a refrigerator. There was only the slightly muffled sound of the wind.

  “Sit,” the woman said.

  The woman took a seat at the table across from her. She was silent for a long time.

  Finally, she said, “There are a lot of people lookin’ for my brother, lot of people who aren’t celebrating his homecoming.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tate said.

  “Ran into some men down in town said they was looking for Frank, said he owed them a debt. They said they’d come looking for him if he didn’t get them their money. I told them the only debt Frank owes he paid to the state of Oregon. Rest is up to the Lord. But they’ll be back. I know they will. That’s why I have the shotgun. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You didn’t,” Tate said reflexively. “Well you did, but I understand.”

  “I’m not sure you do.”

  The silence stretched between them.

  “No. You’re probably right.”

  She’s killed him, Tate thought. She’s killed Frank and Krystal, and now she’s going to kill me.

  A pale-faced boy of about six appeared at the window in the back door, startling Tate with his ghostly appearance.

  “It’s okay. Come in, son,” Frank’s sister called. “My Zacharia won’t leave my side, never does.”

  The boy pushed open the door and ran across the kitchen on bare feet. He buried his head in his mother’s lap.

  “She’s not one of the bad men I told you about,” the woman said to him.

  “When are they coming?” the boy spoke into her skirts.

  “We don’t know when they’re coming, but you know what to do when you hear someone.”

  “Hide,” the boy said and began to cry.

  The woman pushed him off her, rather roughly for Tate’s taste.

  “What did I tell you? I told you you could be a grown boy or you could stay with Miss Aster from church. Which’ll it be?”

  “I want to stay with you.” The boy sniffed, the effort to hold back tears turning his face red.

  “And what do you do if you hear someone who isn’t Uncle Frank or New Sister?”

  “Hide in the root cellar and don’t come out ’til I hear someone I knowed.”

  The woman patted his head.

  “Okay. Go bring in your toys.” To Tate she said, “Miss Grafton?”

  “Yes.”

  “You came here to see Krystal. I think it’s time you see Frank too.”

  Tate followed Frank Jackson’s sister up a flight of stairs as steep as a ladder. The top of the stairs opened onto a narrow corridor with two closed doors.
The space was dark, except for a small window at the end of the hallway. Tate noticed something else that was missing. Light fixtures. She scanned the baseboards—no sockets. Above their heads only the stained plaster. There was no electricity. She opened her mouth to comment, then closed it.

  “In here,” the woman said, knocking gently on one door, then pushing it open. The room hung heavy with the scent of disinfectant, urine, and, over that, something like sage. As Tate’s eyes adjusted to the dark she saw a plain room, like an Andrew Wyeth painting. Curtains were drawn over the window. In the middle of the room stood a bed. In it lay the remains of a man, like someone who had starved or desiccated.

  “Tate!”

  A voice from the corner of the room startled her. It was Krystal, dressed in a loose gown and wearing a handkerchief over her hair. Tate rushed over. Krystal flew into her arms.

  “Are you all right? We were so worried.” Tate squeezed her.

  “Shhh,” the sister said. “He’s resting quietly.”

  “I’m sorry, Sarah,” Krystal said, falling out of Tate’s embrace. “Sarah, you met my friend Tate.” Krystal clasped her hands and looked down.

  “You said no loose ends, Krystal,” Sarah said. “You told me you’d made your peace with everyone you was leaving behind.”

  “I did,” Krystal mumbled.

  “Well, clearly you didn’t because she’s here. We got too many loose ends here already.”

  “I wrote a letter.”

  “Then you didn’t say what needed saying.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The transformation was shocking. Gone were the pink pigtails. Gone was the bubble-gum-pink lipstick, the Hello Kitty purse, and the eighteen-buckle boots.

  “Are you okay?” Tate asked again, trying to catch Krystal’s eye so Krystal could signal her unspoken distress. Krystal met her eyes, but there was no hidden message.

  “This is my father,” she said. “They let him out because he has liver cancer. They let him out because it was too expensive to take care of him in prison, and they wanted him to die.” She looked at the bed, her face a mask of grief. “How could they do that, Tate?”