Night Skyy

by Rich Bullock

  Even though he’d built a small fire using the remaining pieces of firewood last night, the bedroom air wasn’t much warmer than it had been when he arrived. And with the ancient forced air furnace dead, it was lucky the water pipes hadn’t frozen.

  He swung his feet onto the cold rug and rubbed his face. The six-hour drive after the long workday had been mind-numbing. Summer traffic would be even worse, especially if he was still working in San Diego.

  After downing some cereal and strong coffee, he headed outside to split the wood Merle Ferris had dumped yesterday by the garage. Merle operated a wide range of business ventures from his location on Old Mill Road in Deer Cove, everything from road grading, to trenching, to tree trimming and firewood.

  The cabin’s wood stove was a small unit, and most commercially cut wood—including Merle’s—was a tight fit through the firebox door. Some wouldn’t fit at all. Hand splitting was the cure, and it was a task Canon enjoyed.

  His breath came in clouds as he made his way to the shed for the ax and splitter, the air thick and moist under the leaden sky. Rain was coming, and he needed to get the wood under cover.

  He stood one of the larger logs on a flat stump and swung the axe. The blade neatly halved the log into two more manageable pieces. He tossed those into a wheelbarrow, then repeated the process.

  Noon came and went before he finished stacking the last pieces under the lean-to shelter next to the cabin’s carport. He carried three armfuls inside the cabin as the first drops began falling.

  After a quick shower, he drove to town in search of food.

  Dad and Mom had found the cabin on the north end of Storm Lake nearly forty years ago, one of now twenty houses in an area called Box—named after the rectangular slab of rock rising thirty feet at the shoreline.

  Multiple washouts and minor landslides had rendered the northern perimeter road impassable except by a few hardy souls in four-wheel-drive clubs. This ensured little through traffic by the cabin and spectacular peace and quiet. There were rumors of an effort to reopen it as an alternate escape route, critical if a fire ever swept through the area, but so far nothing had happened.

  To the contrary, Deer Cove was anything but quiet. Even in the off-season, a line out the door of Peg’s Waffle House wasn’t unusual, but it surprised Canon to see several people huddling under umbrellas at four in the afternoon. Hot maple syrup and waffles appeared to be today’s popular choice.

  Too hungry to wait, he shifted his destination a few doors down. The Crab Shack, a ramshackle gray-sided building with red-framed rear windows, overlooked the marina and lake.

  Inside was a buzz of voices and clattering dishes. He breathed in the heavy atmosphere of all things fishy and fried. Framed sales flyers for boats and outboard motors from decades past nestled between fishing poles, nets, floats, wicker creels, and gaff hooks. The front half of a rowboat extended from one wall, repurposed to hold a small salad bar for the health conscious. A teenage girl led him to a table close to a window where a busboy was laying out paper placemats. “This okay?”

  “Perfect.” Canon sat for a minute, watching the moored sailboats through the glass, which was steamy on the inside and streaked on the outside. Tall masts parried in a perpetual sword fight on the choppy water. Even the protected cove couldn’t buffer them from the storm.

  “Hey, Canon. The usual?” Molly, a waitress about his age, was already scribbling his order on her pad. She’d worked here for a few years and had a bouncy personality that endured through her long shifts.

  “You know me too well, Molly. I’m going to trip you up one of these days.”

  “Anytime, honey.” She winked at him and whirled away toward the kitchen, her blond ringlets flying in a springy halo.

  How many times had he come here over the years with his dad, mom, and brother? Each table’s scratched surface was unique, and all were familiar to him. Surely the building had once been new, but Canon’s earliest memory of it was worn down, slightly seedy, and utterly delicious. Every visit left him full and happy. As comfortable as home.

  And it was home to some. Canon spotted Merle Ferris sitting at the long bar beside another man with a familiar face. Besides firewood deliveries, Dad hired Merle fifteen years ago to gravel and grade the cabin’s driveway. There were other locals Canon recognized among a smattering of winter tourists.

  Although he grabbed food alone many times, this time he wished he could share it with someone—and it wasn’t his brother who came to mind.

  Molly interrupted his thoughts, arriving with a heaping platter of fries, golden-battered fish, tartar sauce, and chilled coleslaw. Before dousing the fries with ketchup, he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.

  Best on Earth! My treat when you join me. - Canon

  It was bold saying when not if, but…well, she hadn’t cut him off at the knees yet.

  He attached the photo and clicked Send. Most storms wreaked havoc with the cell coverage at the lake. Today he had only one bar of signal, and the progress bar crawled slowly because of the large picture file. He held his breath as it stalled a few times before the message went through.

  Satisfied, he picked up the ketchup, gave the fries a liberal dose, and dug in. As always, the food was amazing, but it would be better sharing it with someone.

  He was looking forward to Skyy’s show tonight.

  “Hi, all. Skyy D here, and you’re listening to Night Thoughts on Black Owl Radio. Hope you’re having a good one. And welcome to my first Friday night show in addition to the regular Tuesday gig. Spread the word that we’re now on twice each week.

  “I’m here for an hour, so please send in some comments and questions on the Black Owl Radio Night Thoughts page. You can also call Black Owl Radio, and they will patch you through to me. And if you have a song or band request, let me know.” She recited the phone number and repeated it.

  “My topic tonight is a little unusual: Do cops have a sense of humor?”

  She told of her two experiences getting speeding tickets, then read a handful of scrolling comments.

  “Angelhairblue says, ‘My brother is a cop, and he’s as funny as a virus.’ And this from 2ferrets: ‘My boyfriend is a cop. Sweet and funny.’”

  Skyy skipped two with punctuation so horrendous she couldn’t decipher their meaning. Another dropped f-bombs six times in three sentences. That one rolled down unread. Within a few minutes, the topic morphed into whether cops were generally good guys and gals. Several comments were negative, and Skyy felt the show spinning out of control. Then a window popped to the front on her laptop—a live caller on the line patched in from Big Jerry.

  “Is this Skyy D?” The voice was female, young, tentative. Or maybe wary.

  “It is. Who am I talking to?” Skyy said into her mic. Big Jerry was doing his tech magic, putting two people in different areas of the country, or even the world, together on her show.

  “Uh…I’d rather not say. I mean, if that’s okay. Or you can call me K.”

  “Sure, K is fine.” Skyy sat up straighter. Was this the same K who left the comments? Skyy knew about keeping identities secret, or at least anonymous. She sipped some warm lemon water to keep her throat clear. “Did you have a comment, K?”

  “Uh…I had a cop help me once when I was fifteen and on the streets, you know?” She paused for a few seconds. “He was nice. Bought me a hamburger. He didn’t want anything. Just to help.”

  Skyy rubbed her forehead. Fifteen? That voice… What was she, all of sixteen now? “Did he help you find a safe place, K?”

  “After I finished my food, I told him I needed to use the bathroom. I slipped out the back door. My, uh…my friend would have been real mad if he knew about the cop, you know?”

  “K—”

  “I should have—” Tires skidded on pavement in the background. “Gotta go.” A dial tone sounded for a few seconds before Big Jerry muted the line.

  The girl had hung up.

  Shaken, Skyy played some new music to
give herself time to process the phone call. Then she cited a university study that said humor improves how people feel about any job no matter how unlikeable it might be. But she was going through the motions, reading scripts and clicking buttons until the show ended. She hoped it didn’t sound as flat to the listeners as it did to her.

  Every word and syllable of K’s young voice was etched in her mind. Was she safe? Had the girl’s pimp showed up? There was little doubt that was the “friend” K had been talking about. Come next Tuesday or Friday, would she call back? It was moments like these that made the virtual world so frustrating.

  “Please call back, K,” Skyy said after signing off. “Please.” She wanted to help, to finish what the hamburger-buying cop had started.

  Chapter 6

  The weather never improved, so Canon spent the weekend doing maintenance on the four-wheel ATV, raking blown-in debris out of the carport and cleaning the cabin. Smelly, baked-on grease greeted him when he opened the oven.

  After spraying cleaner on the grease, he went outside to check the propane tank on the grill. Empty, of course. Mart had been the last one here. He disconnected the tank and set it aside to take into town for a refill, then opened his phone’s texting app.

  Canon: Next time here, get off ur lazy butt, fill the propane, and cook ur steaks outside. The oven’s a mess. Better yet, buy a spare tank and bring it down. Full.

  Mart: I’m broke, man. I’ll clean the oven next trip.

  Canon: Too late. U owe me.

  Mart: 5 bucks cover it?

  Canon: Go pose for a calendar photo shoot. Isn’t that what u guys do?

  Mart: Jealous?

  He included a string of rude emojis, making Canon smile.

  He hadn’t let up on Mart since the Salinas Chamber of Commerce proposed the Hot Hunks calendar as a fundraiser. Mart featured prominently as Mr. December, complete with Santa Hat and apparently nothing else thanks to a strategically placed reindeer covering his midsection. Canon’s first question was where they’d found a reindeer in California’s central valley. Furry animal notwithstanding, he knew Mart had shorts on for the shoot, because if he’d been nude, ten of his buddies would have been snapping pics from behind and blackmailing him.

  The calendar project was so successful, there was talk of a new one called Fiery Fighters, the name chosen from dozens proposed. Most of the unchosen ones were too risqué to use.

  After the final wipe down of the oven, Canon dusted and vacuumed every room. Mart wasn’t much for housekeeping, and honestly Canon wasn’t much better. Usually.

  But all day he’d had the strangest feeling something was going to happen, that he needed to be prepared. How dusting lamps and tables helped, he had no idea.

  Maybe it was the Night Thoughts phone call on Friday. Canon had been laughing at some of Skyy’s comments about cops, when all of a sudden the girl called. Talk about a showstopper. He’d held his breath as Skyy asked K about her experience with cops, and he wondered if Skyy noticed how young the girl sounded. He’d seen more than his fair share of girls on the streets in both L.A. and San Diego. It was a rough life, and they didn’t stay young for long. He hoped K would get help before it was too late.

  Chapter 7

  Pounding woke Skyy from the dead Tuesday morning and continued while she stumbled around for something to cover her shorts and T-shirt.

  “Coming!” She’d worked until after 1:30 last night processing a flurry of orders for a new emoji doll line that was blowing up in her online stores. She and her competitors were fighting for the few suppliers.

  The knocking continued while she rubbed her eyes and considered the clock on the kitchen counter: 7:34 a.m.

  She opened the door, recoiling from the blinding sun and squinting at the man standing on the two-by-three foot concrete pad.

  “Troy?” Her landlord was dressed for work—Khakis and a black polo with his employer’s heavy equipment logo. He fidgeted with his car keys.

  “Sorry to disturb you so early, Skyy,” he said, his gaze flicking between her and his rubber-soled shoes.

  “It’s okay.” It wasn’t, really. With her show later tonight, it was going to be a very long day.

  The sun scorched the skin cells on her bare legs while she waited for him to continue. Taciturn as he was, she couldn’t imagine how he made a living as an equipment salesman, but maybe that trait appealed to men and women who used such equipment.

  “I’ve, uh, got some news,” he said. More key jiggling. “My daughter and her baby are moving home. Nasty divorce.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Troy.” She knew he was divorced, but not much else. He’d never mentioned children.

  “I’m going to need the guest house for them.”

  “Oh.” She stepped back and looked around the tiny room, as if the act could provide more understanding. He was telling her she had to move. She rubbed her eyes, a respite from the outdoor brilliance as she willed herself awake. “When are you thinking?”

  He focused on the dead plant in the pot on the step. “They’re coming Friday.”

  “Fri— This Friday?” He couldn’t seriously be asking her to move in three days.

  “I know it’s short notice.”

  “It’s no notice, Troy.” While packing up was not a huge problem, finding a new location most certainly was.

  “I’ll refund your full deposit,” he offered.

  She almost laughed. He’d better. But the cash would go fast if she rented motel rooms. And finding a new place to live on three-day’s notice would be impossible.

  She looked past him to his side yard where a homemade teardrop trailer sat among a half dozen scraggly weeds. Spiderwebs laced the wheel wells, and red dust rose a half inch where it had settled along the bottom sill of each window. But the trailer’s aluminum skin shined valiantly under the desert grunge. She felt a kindred spirit.

  “I’ve got a proposition for you, Troy.”

  “Hi, all. Skyy D here, and you’re listening to Night Thoughts on Black Owl Radio. Hope you’re having a good Tuesday evening.

  “Hey, I’ve got a question for you. If you could live anywhere in the U.S., where would you go? Maybe you’d like to be on a beach watching the sunrise or sunset, or in a high-rise in Miami, or a Montana mountain, or by a lake. One study says career, family, friends, and climate are the big deciders, but I want to know what you say. What’s important to you for a place to live?

  “While you’re thinking about that, here’s a pair of songs off the Kelp EP by the Flying Whales.”

  Skyy monitored the scrolling Night Thoughts comments while listening as Big Jerry faded the first song into the second. As prep for the new show starting on Friday, he volunteered to handle more of the technical production, including checking the music links. Skyy arranged the order of songs on the site, which she could change on the fly during a show. A checkbox for each song signaled him to begin play.

  A small popup window on her laptop screen showed statistics: number of listeners logged in, waiting phone calls with caller name and Area Code, and show time remaining. Another notes window was available for her to select and drag comments out of the rolling feeds and drop them in so she wouldn’t lose them on the scroll.

  Skyy tensed when one from Creeper rolled up, but the comment disappeared before she could read it. Big Jerry’s controls were working, if not an actual block. She stretched the tension out of her neck, but it wasn’t enough to fully dislodge the slimy residue.

  Two phone calls were in the queue—a good sign of interest. Skyy was ready with twenty comments by the time the last song faded.

  “All right. Some great comments coming in, as well as phone calls. Barryterry6 says definitely by a lake stocked with big trout. Several people say living by water is a must. Pinkjail and four others vote for New York overlooking Central Park. I guess if you’re living in NYC, that’s not a bad place to land. Others mentioned anywhere with great clubs and theaters. And 95fun&sun says, ‘I want water lapping at the shore
and mountains that reach for the sky.’

  “And now let’s take a call.” She clicked the first caller link named Izzy. “Hi, is this Izzy? You’re on the air with Skyy D.”

  “Hi, Skyy! I listen to every show!” The voice was female, bubbly, and Skyy guessed her mid-teens, maybe younger.

  “Thanks, Izzy. Have you got a favorite place you’d like to live?”

  “I saw this picture of a yacht once that belonged to some rich guy in Southern California. If I lived on a boat like that, I could sail to a new location whenever I wanted.”

  “Great idea. Where would you pick first?”

  “New Orleans…for Mardi Gras!” Someone in the background slurred “Yeah, baby!”

  Skyy doubted the girl was old enough to drink, but it sounded like the other person had had a few. “Okay, Izzy, I hope you get your yacht someday. Thanks for calling in.”

  Big Jerry ran a commercial for an organic acne cream, then segued into the next song in the queue, an older number by Pancake Sunset, a group of indie guys out of Philly with incredible talent.

  Ember tiptoed through the front door while Skyy was sliding comments over to her notes app.

  “It’s okay,” Skyy said when Ember drew her fingers across her lips in a zipping motion, “there’s a song playing right now.” She increased the volume on her laptop, making it just loud enough so Ember could hear.

  “Ooh, Pancake Sunset,” Ember said, setting her backpack on the floor and taking the other chair at the table. “I love their music.”

  “How do you…?” Skyy shook her head. Ninety-nine percent of the U.S. had never heard of the group, but this girl knew them? She pointed to the clock displaying 12:24 a.m. “What are you doing here? It’s way past your curfew.”