Inhabited

by Charlie Quimby

  Wesley had stopped where the property fence met the path into the park. He paced back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists. Beyond him, Meg could see the crown of the dead cottonwood where Amy Hostetter had been struck down. It stood now as a visible warning of the park’s danger and depravity. The island where she’d seen Wesley’s boots was only a few hundred yards from there. Before the fire, this was his neighborhood. He saw its neglect and its potential, but not how much had gone into reclaiming it before his arrival. His good intentions for this patch of river put him in opposition to growth, opportunity and transformation for the entire town. Meg could explain the reasons why he would never be allowed to sink roots here, but she couldn’t advise him on how to achieve what he wanted. She had already chosen the side of progress.

  “I’m sorry for driving him off. I know you counted on me to help.”

  “You still can.” Sister Rose looked at Meg with the bright expression of an adult encouraging a toddler to speak. “He’s deciding whether he should come back and apologize. Let’s give him a few minutes.”

  “He can’t do this on intensity alone. I don’t see anyone else lining up behind him.”

  “It’s possible Wesley overestimates our population of orderly loners. So many insist they prefer to camp. Why would they say otherwise when there’s no dignified alternative? Like him, they have pride. Being on the river allows them to hang onto their personal sense of agency—and also their crutches and their demons. But offer them a realistic option to live independently and most will accept the keys. Perhaps even Wesley will come out of the woods someday. It would not be the worst outcome if this proposal failed without destroying Wesley’s confidence in himself. He might learn and emerge as a leader when he’s more ready.”

  “Why is he out here?”

  “All he’s told me is that he’s a firefighter who’s afraid of fire.”

  Meg turned toward the park. Wesley was gone. No apology, then. The compassion she’d felt was already receding. Pain and dislocation were everywhere. The world had too many dying cottonwoods, empty warehouses, men with backpacks bearing crutches and demons.

  “Oh, Sister, this reality’s so dark and far from mine. I’m afraid I can’t do the work justice.”

  “Yes, we’ve all thought that. The problem’s too big. I’m only one person, my skills aren’t right, nothing I do can possibly make a difference. It must be difficult for successful people like you to associate with an issue you don’t believe can be resolved. But God doesn’t put more in your heart than you can manage. Don’t measure yourself against saints. Don’t fret about ending homelessness in ten years. Homelessness ends when it ends for one person. And then you do it again.”

  Sister Rose brought her fingertips together. After a moment, she patted them in silent applause. “At the end of my life, the Lord isn’t going to ask me how many people I put in apartments. His question will be the one he asks everybody: How did you love?”

  Somehow Wesley had gotten inside the fence. He crossed the open space briskly, disappeared behind the warehouse and emerged again on the east end of the property skirting the tree line toward the river.

  He forgot his maps! They were still on the hood of Sister’s car. Meg raised her hand and called out. Wesley slipped sideways into the woods without looking back.

  Sister Rose said, “He brought the maps for you.”

  Out-of-state homebuyers are sometimes shocked to discover there’s more to Colorado than Denver and Aspen.

  —“Home” with Meg Mogrin, Grand Junction Style

  You must ask for what you really want. The line sounded both grounded and mystical, aimed at beggars and dreamers alike. Perhaps Rumi was telling them all: when you ask for what you really want, you become revealed for what you really are.

  Lew Hungerman lodged at the Entrada, an intimate, demi-Tuscan hostelry attached to a winery west of town. A favorite setting for graduation photos and second wedding ceremonies with beautiful views and a sense of monastic exclusivity, the Entrada had more character than Grand Junction’s downtown hotels.

  Approaching on the long drive through the Entrada vineyard, she could see Lew Hungerman waiting under a portico. He waved and came out to meet her, half-ducking, as if the sky were about to bang him in the forehead. His layers of outdoorsy technical fabric seemed more about projecting energy than actually expending it, reminding her she had heard nothing more about his interest in mountain bike adventures. The pebbled black messenger bag slung over his shoulder had to be the fabled Hungerman lambskin.

  He declined a bagel but accepted the coffee in a stainless steel travel mug, tasting the still-steaming coffee with a careful sip. (French Roast, black. She’d checked with his office.)

  He opened the bag on his lap and said, “I don’t expect your services to be on spec.”

  “This is just a tour. I’ll send you an agency agreement if your plans move forward and you want to work with me.”

  “Fine, please do. Meanwhile, I have an NDA I’d like you to sign. We touched sensitive territory the other night. There are a lot of moving parts with this deal, things you may need to know in order to help me, details not ready for prime time. It’s better to have something in place now.”

  The non-disclosure looked to be a standard one-way agreement to keep confidential specific properties under consideration for purchase; no keeping copies or sharing contracts, plans, drawings, financial information; and making no oral or written descriptions of the proposed projects. She made a show of ticking off the points and passed it back, confident that Hungerman had quickly intuited her value. Now she would demonstrate it by putting him in front of Donnie Barclay.

  He handed over an envelope labeled Mogrin NDA, then swung the bag into the rear seat, releasing a zest of grapefruit and seaweed cologne. “Don’t let me forget this.” As he twisted forward, his hand strayed to her shoulder. “I appreciate working with people who are detail-oriented. The house picks you sent were fine but I’m not doing four stops. Let’s cut to the chase and pick one. Your turf, your call.”

  She suppressed her irritation. She’d worked hard to give him a good overview, and lining up the viewings in a single morning had not been easy. Was he simply trimming his schedule or checking her strategic judgment? The wooded Crestview neighborhood was the most midwest-like. The historic mansion on Seventh had gravitas and was closest to his project. The Redlands Mesa golf course property was impressively finished and Hungerman would fit in nicely with the valley’s leading egos. The Crown B was rustic, with a long commute. But she had promised Donnie. What the hell.

  “The Crown B,” she said. “It’s a taste of the Glade Park experience, which is different from the valley. If you like it up there I could work on finding something less ranchy and closer in.”

  “Will it also give me a taste of Donnie Barclay?”

  He wasn’t supposed to know who the property owners were.

  “I thought it would be good for you two to be acquainted. I was surprised you hadn’t met already,” she said.

  Hungerman unwrapped the bagel she brought, enough to see it dressed with chive and pimento cream cheese. He fixed his eyes upon her with anchorman soulfulness, as if no script were scrolling between them. It was a talent.

  “They were right about you,” he said. “Let’s go. I want to be back by ten-thirty.”

  So she was on the team now. She made the cancellation calls as she drove, feeling reckless and in control.

  Driving first-timers up the three serpentine miles of Monument Road to the Glade Park turnoff always revealed something about her passengers. Did they marvel at the views or quiver at the exposures? Were they interested in the story of the road’s construction or the geological layers it cut through? Hungerman minded his window with the desultory attention of a frequent flier. He inquired about Meg instead.

  She assumed his questions were meant to ingratiate, and she stuck to businesslike responses. She breezed over her switch from teaching to real estate
and from married to divorced, leaving out the complex substrata of Helen and Brian. Business was great. She loved what she did. After so many repetitions, this distilled account had begun to seem like the true story.

  “Not to be rude, but isn’t real estate usually the last refuge—the backup plan or sideline that ends up becoming a career?”

  “Yeah, it’s like waitressing, only with better tips.” She was careful to say it lightly. She had not yet decoded his pattern of give and take.

  “I mean you seem like a woman with a lot of options, someone who dreamed of doing something else.”

  Where was he leading her? She made a show of concentrating on the road. “It was more wishfulness than a dream. I wanted to write poetry because I loved it—and loved the idea of being Emily Dickinson, only with boyfriends.”

  “And you still write?”

  “I do a sort of lifestyle real estate column. I’ve gotten away from poetry—even reading it. Why be reminded of that foolish lust for immortality?”

  “Jules called you literary. You recognized that Rumi line.”

  “A coincidence.” She didn’t want to go there.

  “All three were Rumi, you know.”

  The curve ahead kept her from looking over in surprise. “How do you know that?”

  “I googled them. I thought you’d be interested.”

  Why did he care what interested her? The possibilities were disquieting. Move the subject to his project. “We should talk about Donnie Barclay.”

  “He’s been a hard man to get a hold of.”

  “How did you know the ranch house on the list was his?”

  “I ran the addresses past Vince Foyer. He was impressed you’d thought of it. It made me think you knew about our Las Colonias plan before I told you about it.”

  Meg hesitated. Residential real estate clients were relatively easy to fathom. A project like this one had so many crosscurrents.

  “Not about Las Colonias specifically.”

  “But you figured out we were interested in meeting Barclay.” He said it as if it weren’t that important.

  “Actually, he was interested in you. The first time I heard something big was in the air, it came from Donnie. He gave me the impression he was feeling left out. I thought I’d be doing you both a favor by getting you together.”

  “Is Barclay a client of yours?”

  “A friend.”

  “A friend you can tell me about?”

  “Where should I start? You seem to know about him already.”

  “Oh, we’re well aware he’s in ranching and construction materials, which are both ways of saying he’s in the land business. He owns a key piece of property between the river and downtown. With him and what’s city-owned, we’d have the scale to commit. The rest is a checkerboard, not worth messing with those owners unless he’s in. He seems to know that, too.”

  Meg hesitated. Donnie surely knew more than he had told her. In fact, she was beginning to wonder if Donnie had used her to arrange for a meeting with Hungerman. “Donnie knows a lot of people. He’s generous with information and he gets a lot in return. I can’t say what he knows or thinks about your project. He may look only half-groomed and seem a bit scattered, but do not go in there thinking he’s a rube.”

  “Respect. Got it. So how should I come at him—besides money, of course—jobs, civic spirit, legacy?”

  “You’ll have to read him. But I’d say all three.”

  “Vince tells me Donnie likes you.”

  “Donnie won’t make a deal with you just because he likes me.”

  “If I were Donnie, I’d do anything you asked. Can we pull over?”

  They had reached the top of the rimrock where the road flattened before climbing again to Glade Park. He’d seen the sign marking the turnout. An enticing name, Cold Shivers Point.

  Meg had made it this far without her heartbeat quickening. She didn’t slow. “Let’s do it on the way back.” Returning, Cold Shivers would be on her side of the car. If she didn’t make a thing of it, Hungerman might forget. “Do you really collect homeless people’s signs?”

  Hungerman laughed and clapped his hands. “You are good! No, that was an impulse. We saw the guy on the way in and I thought his signs might make a useful prop. It was a bonus to see you get fired up about it.”

  Was she? She couldn’t stop the flush rising in her face. “Do you honestly expect us to just make them disappear? It feels like you posed it as a test—practically an ultimatum.”

  “Do you homeless advocates think I should commit investor money to a town that can’t clean itself up? Yeah, it’s a test. Politicians prefer words. I’m a big fan of action.”

  You homeless advocates. Is that what he thought she was? Wesley probably didn’t. “And what’s our test for you?”

  He seemed amused by the question. “I’ll do my part with the development to create jobs and pay taxes that fund schools and city services.”

  Someday pay taxes. There were abatements and credits and other gimmicks between now and the day Betterment paid any taxes.

  “I meant something in advance, like you want from us. What if you made a donation right now to expand the shelter? Or you pledge to include affordable housing units somewhere in your project. Or when you’re negotiating for the property on the river, you do a swap.” Land for a tent city would be stretching it, but Wesley had planted the seed. “You buy a parcel to trade that just happens to be well away from the Betterment campus and convey it to the City earmarked for veterans or transitional housing.”

  Hungerman didn’t answer at first. Was he stunned by her audacity or actually thinking it over?

  “I like your thinking but it’s still my money that’s being spent here. I have to stay focused on the business outcome, not good intentions. And right now, to get approval, I need to lead with shiny objects, not promises about low-income housing.”

  Had she overstepped? Of course this deal wasn’t as simple as planting a Walmart next to the highway. It would probably take a decade or more of local commitment before the riverfront began to look anything like Hungerman’s vision. As she started the drive down to the beautiful green ranchland of Glade Park, she shifted into tour guide mode and told the story of the Coates Creek school. An odd similarity struck her: the historic log schoolhouse had been hauled to its present site by a powerful rancher who wanted it closer to his children. Too bad for the others. The school board approved the relocation after the fact rather than fight to get it moved back.

  “Gotta love the good old days,” he said.

  From the road, nothing much stood out about the ranch. Rail fencing flanked a plain wooden gate, an iron Crown B hanging from the crosspiece. Corrals, but no livestock in evidence. Sheds with their boards and shingles battened down. Barn tucked back against a bluff as if the composition demanded it there. A low, white-chinked settler’s cabin in a nimbus of lilac bushes. Further along the creek, the former ranch house under a fountain of cottonwoods. The summer retreat Donnie and Terri had built two decades ago seemed both to respect and repudiate these ancestral structures.

  A border collie mix met the car and herded it to Donnie, who emerged from the porch with his hand raised against the brilliant morning sun. The dog circled his legs until it received his approval and then dropped to await the next moving object. Donnie’s tracking of their approach was no less alert. Meg knew his act well enough to see he had dressed to play either gentleman rancher or shit-kicker. His crisp, rose-embroidered white shirt looked fresh off the hanger, his work jeans puckered at the knees and showed brown rub marks on the thighs. Donnie met her with a handshake, an arm clasp and a wink, then rocked onto his toes for the introduction to Hungerman. His animation worried her. She’d told him to be charming but he had some funny ideas about what that meant.

  “Heard you were important,” said Donnie. “Now I know it. Queenie didn’t bark and Meg brought you in her nice car. She only lets me set in her pickup.”

  Oh, boy. Donnie was tr
otting out his cowpoke grammar.

  “Then I’m twice flattered,” said Hungerman, giving Meg a sidelong look. “Thanks for having me. She told me a little about the ranch. I sort of expected to see cows.”

  “The cattle’re out on my lease. You innerested in ranching?”

  “To be honest, not really.”

  “Good, that’ll save us all some time.”

  Okay, then.

  They entered the house through the rag-rugged screened porch where the Barclays took the sunrise over Piñon Mesa. A white coffee mug cooled on a scarred blue table. Meg pictured Hungerman sunk into one of the deep-cushioned wicker chairs that crackled and wheezed at any movement. How many mornings of this solitude could he endure? The house tour was proving to be a sham and everyone must know it.

  The house was built well, its articulated spaces and vernacular materials suggesting an architect might have been involved before surrendering it to the Barclay clan. Now it was imprinted with hunting trophies, ranch relics and furnishings orphaned by Terri’s in-town redecorating. In the great room, a stuffed mountain lion stalked a near-complete taxonomy of North American ungulates. A bulky, hair-on cowhide couch grazed on a storm pattern Navajo rug under a flatscreen TV the size of a dinner table. Expensive stuff but well-used in the sort of place where friends left their shoes on, sloshed drinks and plopped down knowing whatever was breakable had already been broken. Hungerman took in the display, deadpan, and drifted to a large sepia photograph depicting Donnie’s great grandfather and a Ute chieftain holding up clutches of dead rabbits by the ears.

  “You hunt?” Donnie inquired.

  Hungerman shook his head.

  “I hear you got boys. All I got for grandkids is girls. Madison. Taylor. Whitney. Last names for first. What kind of girl names are those?”

  Meg jumped in. “You named their father Chase. What did you expect?”