by Jim Harrison
As they continued to yodel in the church basement he noted that Michael stared at Mona with graceless lust, not that he could blame him. She was by far the prettiest girl in the group. When they finished their howling they sat in silence for a full stick of incense, forty minutes, a tip of the hat to tradition. They had a predictably awful breakfast. His legs hurt mightily from his attempt to keep balance on the zafu. The tsampa tasted like cattle feed and didn’t help his pain. His prospects with these nitwits looked glum.
On the way back to the hotel Mona and Sunderson decided to pick up brisket and horseradish sandwiches, so they took a long slow walk to Zingerman’s. He dreaded calling Ziegler. He didn’t want a phone call to ruin his meaty sandwich, the surging track of protein he desperately needed.
Back in the room Mona laid out their lunch. Even the pickle and potato salad were wondrous. Mona stripped to her undies which was discomfiting, saying she didn’t want the juice from hers to drip on her clean clothes. He got an instant hard-on despite his recent hard work with Barbara. They had been amused on the way home to see Sky Blast sneaking out the back door of a hamburger joint with a package and cramming a big bite right there in the alley. Sky Blast hadn’t seen them and Sunderson was not without sympathy for the sneaky vegetarian.
He had a small whiskey for courage before he dialed Ziegler. He reminded himself that the man was a hothead but he himself would quit before he took any shit or abuse. The conversation started poorly with Sunderson admitting that Ziegler’s daughter was “living in sin” with Sky Blast. Ziegler went off like a roaring rocket saying abruptly, “My poor baby.” Sunderson was somewhat mystified. How many friends even when he was active as a detective would say they would kill anyone who fooled with their daughter? Sons were home free and if they were seducers the father would brag, “My son gets more ass than a toilet seat.” A mystery, all of it. They wanted a daughter to stay “daddy’s little girl,” though frequently they ignored her. Sunderson’s only firsthand experience of father-daughter relationships, of course, was Mona, so perhaps it was better not to think about it. He noticed both Michael and Margaret’s sister had told Ziegler nothing, obviously wanting their dad to stay out of their lives.
He had seen Sky Blast and Michael practicing wrestling holds out in the lobby. They were both big men, well over six feet and quite obviously muscular. It turned out they had been high school and college wrestlers. Michael was thicker and a bit stronger but Sky Blast was deft and extremely fast. Sunderson bet in an all-out fight Sky Blast’s speed could win if he could avoid Michael getting him in a choke hold which was the finish of any fight. Sunderson’s father had taught him early in high school that since he wasn’t a fast puncher he would be better off learning a good gut punch, knowledge he made use of against the basketball player. This was because if you knocked out an opponent’s wind he couldn’t continue. It was such a ghastly feeling that he was immediately a wounded puppy. The current wrestle seemed anti-Zen to him but boys would be boys he supposed.
Sunderson left Ann Arbor by car early the next morning telling Mona to tell Sky Blast that his mother was mortally ill. She said she would sweep up and mop the mud tracked from the churchyard. He called Ziegler from Clare and told him he would meet him for drinks in Trenary at five o’clock. That was fine Ziegler said because they were unlikely to see anyone they knew in Trenary.
Sunderson had a case of “lover’s nuts,” scrotal discomfort caused by his great moral victory before he left. He had been careful not to drink too much at dinner because he knew he might lose control. He suspected that Mona would try to seduce him. She did. She slept on the couch which opened into a bed and it took her quite a while to accept the fact that he wasn’t going to close the deal. She was bouncing naked on the bed and tried to sit on his hard-on. He rolled off the bed, quickly dressed, and went down to the front desk for another room giving the concierge strict instructions not to tell her where he was. He had a double whiskey out of a pint in his luggage which didn’t help. He watched an old Vincent Price movie where a killer was sabotaging parachuters’ chutes.
They had a hurried breakfast in her room the next morning with Mona only in her undies. She sprawled obscenely with her bagel but was also disconsolate.
“Mona, I’m like your father. It’s out of the question.”
“I don’t need a father. I got a letter from my real father this week. He wants me to visit him in Los Angeles. My mother has remarried and doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
Sunderson sat there with an English muffin and an indelicate hard-on, quarreling with his own mind. He frankly felt cheap but if one more session got to Diane everything would be over with her. He suddenly ran from the room, took the elevator, and was out in the parking lot in a trice. He had forgotten his suitcase but Mona could send it. He hoped Mona’s father wouldn’t break her heart again.
He made the bar in Trenary in six tiresome hours and had a couple of doubles as he waited for Ziegler half an hour.
Ziegler’s tantrum was immediate. He had talked to his son who had obviously finally spilled the beans about what was going on in Ann Arbor. He knew it was all reprehensible in his father’s terms and had wanted to keep his sister’s secrets, but his wrangling with Sky Blast had given him a taste for revenge. The bartender came out to the bar porch to see what the yelling was about so Sunderson gestured Ziegler down the street. In his braying voice Ziegler offered Sunderson a $5,000 bonus if he would retrieve his daughter from Ann Arbor.
“Can’t do it. She’s over eighteen and that would be the serious felony of kidnap.”
“But she’s my fucking daughter,” Ziegler wailed. “I can’t give her up to a fucking California hippie. She was dating a quarterback a few months ago.”
Sunderson said nothing, reflecting on how many parents think that they virtually own their children. The children are never allowed to become independent beings.
Ziegler bellowed, “You chickenshit. You’re fired. I’ll fucking get her myself.” Ziegler ran for his car and swerved off in the other direction from home.
Well, it made the next morning’s Detroit Free Press in a big way. Pure mayhem. Sunderson caught up with it over breakfast at a local eatery, having returned to an empty pantry. Evidently Ziegler, the ex–University of Michigan football star, was the paper implied a very rough customer. According to Ziegler’s daughter Margaret her father and brother came into their house and immediately attacked “Mr. Sky Blast, a Zen teacher from California. Sources revealed that Sky Blast’s students howl like the primate howler monkeys during meditation which is unique to their sect. Mr. Sky Blast is also a trained martial arts champion specializing in judo. He defended himself capably from the attack and now all three are in the hospital. Margaret Ziegler reported that her brother hit Sky Blast in the face with a baseball bat. Ms. Ziegler called the police who quelled the fight with difficulty. Mr. Ziegler Senior is being charged with assault and resisting arrest in addition to other charges, including significant property damage to the apartment.”
Sunderson’s disgust was immediate and wholehearted. He didn’t feel culpable but was ashamed that he had had anything to do with these people. He called the chief of police for Ann Arbor and gave a telephone statement to the effect that he had worked for Ziegler in his efforts to retrieve his daughter but had been recently fired after refusing to simply kidnap her. “Wise choice,” the chief said. Sunderson had known him from long ago but had never liked him because of the man’s essentially fascist attitudes about police work. The chief told Sunderson he might have to come back to Ann Arbor as the case developed.
Sunderson noticed a waitress who had a startling resemblance to Mona. He couldn’t help staring, which started a long session of near nausea that lasted several hours. He knew he had to rid himself of his aimlessness and criminal activity, including Barbara. He called and asked her to meet him on his back porch in an hour. He chafed against the self-denial but he had
to stop this sexual nonsense. He would have to become a hermit fisherman. Even in winter he could afford to go anywhere to fish. Both coasts of Mexico beckoned.
She arrived while he was having a stiff drink. She quickly made herself some lemonade on this crisp autumn day when the maples were sparkling in their multicolored beauty.
“It’s over,” he said to her.
“I was afraid you would say that. Just when I was really enjoying it.”
“You can resume with someone your own age or a college boy.”
“But I love you,” she pouted.
“Don’t say that. My friend the prosecutor said he had been tipped off. The paperboy saw us together in the living room and told his parents. They reported it. If I were charged I could get ten years for sexual abuse of a minor. I don’t have that many years left and I can’t bear the idea of spending them in prison. They’d love to convict an ex-detective.” He felt a bit desperate lying to her but somehow believed it would let her down easier than a simple rejection.
“We could run away together.”
“I’ve thought of it but there’s no safe place.”
As luck would have it Barbara’s parents, Bruce and Ellen, came driving down the alley in their boring beige Camry. Barbara waved and pulled the hem of her skirt down. She had worn an especially short one for his delectation. Bruce and Ellen came through the back garden gate. Barbara had stacked all of the autumn garden detritus near the gate for the garbage truck. Bruce looked coolly at the weeded garden.
“Nice job. You should do this at home.”
Sunderson got up to shake hands and offered a drink. Bruce was small and had a slightly nasty edge known as the small man’s syndrome.
“No thanks. I only drink after dark except in summer when the dark comes so late up here.”
“What are you drinking dear? I hope it’s not wine.”
“Lemonade,” Barbara said looking in her glass.
“Offer your mother some, dear,” Sunderson said. It was evident that Barbara wasn’t going to make a move to do so unless he said something.
They chatted like neighbors for a few minutes and then Bruce and Ellen were off for the store. When they left Barbara burst into tears again then went through the house to catch the last of the autumn sun on the front porch.
“I don’t see how you can leave me high and dry when I love you.” She started sobbing as he looked at her wonderful legs thinking that they should be around his neck. He had poured a huge drink when they walked through the house hoping it would make him calm and meditative. No such luck. He felt a flood of warm tears. The local paper had called repeatedly about the Ann Arbor violence. He hadn’t answered.
Suddenly she was running down the street toward home still sobbing. He felt more interior tears then saw her dreaded parents coming down the street in their Camry back from the short grocery trip. He waved, they waved. He felt light-headed from his first moral choice in recent memory though part of his motive was not to be in prison for the opening of trout season next spring. There was a virtual flash in his mind of Barbara’s gorgeous bare butt but he was undeterred. He already felt and was trying to subdue his regret. Good people don’t have it easy, he reflected, though he wasn’t really a good person.
It was a scant fifteen minutes before Barbara’s mother was doing a military march down the street toward him. He was happy he had refreshed his drink.
“My daughter is sobbing. I think it’s about you. Did you fire her?”
“No I didn’t fire her. She’s just starting to trim the hedges. She was unhappy this morning about something.”
“Well she seems to be sobbing about you. If her father finds out you’re up to something with her you’ll go straight to prison.”
She turned around and marched up the street.
Sunderson felt sweat oozing from every pore though the air was cool. He went inside and refreshed his drink yet again. He was tempted to cut and run for his trout cabin, but it was only two days from deer season when the orange army would invade the north. He called Marion anyway. They usually opened the season without much interest at his cabin. But as the phone rang with no answer he remembered that Marion was in Hawaii with his wife for a big indigenous conference. Everyone in the Midwest except Sunderson wanted to go to Hawaii, though it interested him slightly more thinking about it having its own native population. There was the idea that he should move to a remote place out of harm’s way. Early in his detective career he would have been happy indeed to bust someone for his current behavior. It would likely bring a ten-year sentence.
Now his sweat turned cold and even more ample. He went in, poured yet another drink, and then pushed it aside and gathered his gear for a cold trip to the cabin. There were snow flurries already up there though the weather report hadn’t predicted anything dire. Winter was coming on so quickly. He packed his rifle and shells in order to at least pretend he was deer hunting. He had long ago lost his taste for it so cherished when he was a teenager and they got the first few days of deer season off school. He prized the memory of shooting a big buck near town when he was sixteen. It dressed out at two hundred pounds and those were hard times. His dad had shot a little spikehorn but Sunderson proudly delivered a real hunk of meat for the family. Like many northern folks they all loved venison and his mother regularly made a stew out of the lesser bits with a big lard crust on top he adored that soaked up the gravy. There was also a nice corn relish a cousin sent up from Indiana. It was virtually impossible to grow sweet corn in Munising or Grand Marais.
He went to bed early very drunk and woke up for the trip very hungover. He couldn’t make it past a single piece of toast. On the way out of town he would pick up a few steaks and a dozen pasties. While he was packing the car Barbara rode past on her bicycle on the way to school, the tenth grade he reminded himself with self-loathing.
“I got time for a quickie if you like,” she said, getting off her bike and revealing her winsome crotch.
“I’m too hungover,” he said feeling his bilge rising. She ignored this, walked into his house, and leaned over the kitchen table lifting her skirt and dropping her panties to the ankles. He couldn’t resist and then off she went whistling her way to school. He was suddenly exhausted and sat on the sofa reading the morning Detroit Free Press that had been delivered by the mouthy paperboy.
He was pleased to read in a longish article that the former football hero Ziegler was being charged with both assault and illegal entry. He paid fines to get out of the rest but his daughter Margaret, the legal tenant, had refused to open the door, or so she testified, saying that Ziegler and her brother saw Sky Blast standing behind her and broke down the front door. Ziegler threw the first punches, a critical matter in charging him, and Michael grazed him in the head with a bat, but Sky Blast was in fine shape with some martial arts training. Margaret knocked her brother over the head with a rolling pin which turned the tide as he had Sky Blast in a sometimes fatal choke hold from behind. Margaret had called the police and when they arrived Sky Blast was busy throwing both father and son off the front porch. All were arrested. Ziegler was a bloody mess from face punches and Michael had a minor skull fracture for which he would never forgive his sister. Sky Blast was put in a cast for a broken arm and knuckles but had clearly defended himself well against the two big bullies.
The real news was that a small town cop in the Bay Area of San Francisco had been surfing the Net and recognized Sky Blast’s photo as that of a man known locally as Roshi Simmons who had an open arrest warrant for embezzling a large amount of money from a Bay Area Buddhist organization. Extradition orders were being filed. So Sky Blast had feet of clay, Sunderson thought, a little embarrassed by his amusement. Ziegler would be happy about that no matter how badly he and his pride were injured.
Sunderson felt mildly suicidal, a new emotion for him as the least self-judgmental person imaginable. He had not been
able to resist Barbara once, even looking at ten in the hoosegow. He decided to put off his departure one more day, wondering at the absurd mystery of love and lust and his own questionable behavior in the face of them. Helpless in the world, he thought. None of the pretty girls were available to him in high school so maybe he was living the unlived life. He knew even as he thought it that it was a lie. He’d never unlived life. Without Diane divorcing him none of this could have happened, starting with Mona. But his dad used to say, “No excuses” and there really weren’t any in this case. You walk away from something wrong in an ideal world. He hadn’t done so.
He was sure he had loved Diane during their more than twenty-five years of marriage. He had fucked up the whole thing with drinking and talking ad nauseam about the grim aspects of his work as a detective for the state police, the many wife and child beatings and sexually abused children. She simply couldn’t bear that dose of reality and it was sadistic of him to unburden himself because he couldn’t bear it either. The culture said it was very wrong to make love to his fifteen-year-old gardener. Making love to the married neighbor lady was not recommended either but was at least legal.
He awoke at 7:00 a.m. to an unpleasant call from Ziegler who demanded he drive to Ann Arbor and pick up Margaret.
“Have you forgotten you fired me?” Sunderson replied.
“You’re hired again. Go get her pronto.”
“Fuck you big shot.” Sunderson hung up on him.
The second call, to his cell, was far worse. It was his quasi-friend the prosecutor. He explained in painful detail that Barbara’s parents had taken her to a female shrink, new in town, and she had told her everything about her affair with Sunderson.