by Joanna Bell
"Don't have a clue, son. But I was thinking about this recently, and I remembered Blackjack complaining – this would have been years ago now, when you were just a little nipper – that Dottie wouldn't let up, kept insisting he open a deposit box at the bank. I think you know your grandma didn't insist on much, so if she insisted on this it must have been mighty important to her. Probably just some sentimental items, you know, baby pictures and the like. Women get so attached to things like that, don't they?"
I wanted to nod and concur with Sheriff Randall but the truth was I had no idea what kind of things women got attached to, because I'd never really stayed with one long enough to find out. Instead I asked him if he thought I would even be able to get access to it.
"Oh I'm sure you would. It's Andrew Battleford that's manager down at the bank, ain't it? He's my niece's kid, he'll let you take a look if I ask him."
None of that sounded particularly legal, but I was in agreement with the Sheriff that the safety deposit box probably held nothing of any financial value – and even if it did, that it wouldn't quite hit the two million dollar mark – so I just shrugged and nodded. "Sure. When should we go?"
"Well I got to go down to the Rankin's place just now, old lady Rankin says some drunken kids have been chasing their ducks around the pond out back. And then I got lunch with the boys. Probably an hour or so of paperwork to do in the office. Hmmm. How about this afternoon, say around 4 o'clock? I'll meet you outside the bank."
"Sounds good to me."
At 5:20 p.m. that afternoon I found myself being led into a small backroom at the Little Falls Bank by a jumpy young man with red hair. It had already taken him a good half an hour to locate a key for the safety deposit box in question.
"I'll leave you here, then?" He said, handing the key to me. "You can, uh, you can just holler when you're done. OK?"
I nodded at him. "OK."
One of the room's walls was lined with safety deposit boxes and to be honest, it didn't look like the Little Falls Bank was in any danger of being robbed by high-end criminals. Everything was coated with a thin layer of grime, and the room didn't look like it saw much traffic. I followed the numbers until I got to 260, which matched the key.
It took a couple of minutes to open the damn thing, so clogged with dust was the lock, but it eventually slid out and I peeked inside. Papers, mostly. A dark green pamphlet of some kind that appeared, on closer inspection, to be my Grandma Dottie's old Irish passport. It had a circular design on the front with a language I didn't recognize over the top half of the circle, and 'Irish Free State' under the bottom half. Underneath that was the faded signature of Dorothy O'Reilly.
There was no time to get sentimental – the bank manager had been very nervous about letting me look at the contents of the safety deposit box without some kind of legal paperwork, and Sheriff Randall had only just managed to persuade him. I set the old passport aside and then picked it back up and put it in my pocket. It was of no value to anyone, and I knew Grandma Dottie would have wanted me, more than anyone else, to have what was probably the last remaining material vestige of her Irish girlhood.
There were a couple of yellowed tickets from a show – the 'Billy Barnes Revue' – dated 1959. And underneath some of the sentimental items were birth certificates – the originals, presumed lost for years, for my father and his siblings. At the very bottom was another pamphlet, one I assumed was another passport. Upon closer inspection, though, it appeared to be some kind of banking record. It had 'Bank of Ireland Savings Account' embossed on the front cover and my grandmother's maiden name – Dorothy O'Reilly – and her date of birth – July 25, 1939 – handwritten underneath it. I opened it up to the first page and a thin slip of paper fell out. The words written on the paper were faded but not totally impossible to read. The handwriting was spidery and uncertain.
"For Jack McMurtry III"
That's what they said. The 'III' had been heavily underlined three times, as if for emphasis. To emphasize that it was meant for me – not for my father and not for my grandfather. I flipped through the little booklet with some degree of curiosity, more for its connection to my Grandma Dottie than anything else, and saw that it was a simple deposit book, probably for an account opened by one of my great-grandparents on Dottie's side, on the occasion of her birth. The initial deposit amount was two thousand Irish pounds, and almost every month after that smaller amounts had been added. The last page was dated August, 1942.
I slipped the deposit book into my pocket along with the passport and double-checked that there weren't any enormous uncut diamonds hiding in the corners. There weren't.
Outside, Sheriff Randall asked if I found anything interesting.
"Not financially interesting, if that's what you're asking," I told him. My Grandma Dottie's old passport, an old savings account deposit book – both from Ireland – and some tickets from a Broadway production in 1959. I guess Blackjack took her to the city to see a show when they were first married. Oh, and some birth certificates for Dottie and Blackjack's kids.
"Ah well," the Sheriff said. "It was worth a look – and I'm sure Dottie would have wanted you to have those things – you always were her favorite. Now you can pass them on to your own children some day, little pieces of family history."
I nodded even as the thought of having my own children seemed so far away as to be almost impossible. I was 28 years old and I had nothing. I had quite a lot less than nothing, if we're being accurate. What kind of woman was going to take on a man like that? Sure, quite a few of them wanted to get into my bed – but marriage? Kids? They'd have to be crazy.
I found myself, that night, sitting in the formal front room of the house. It looked out over the front yard and the tree with the tire swing – and it didn't get much use. When Grandma Dottie was alive she would use that room in particular for entertaining, because it had elegant high ceilings and enough space to comfortably seat a large number of people. I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually been in it. Actually, I could. It was with Blaze Wilson, that night after the flood when I brushed her hair and told her about my grandmother.
On the antique coffee table in front of me sat a full bottle of whiskey. The temptation to spend my last few days at Sweetgrass Ranch in the comforting embrace of alcohol was strong. I wasn't sure I could make it through those final goodbyes without it. But I knew I shouldn't. I knew starting out the next chapter of my life with the hangover from hell wasn't a particularly auspicious idea.
I looked out the window at the tire swing, moving slightly in the breeze. The rope was stiff and frayed now, it would probably snap if anyone put any serious weight on it. Emily and I, and sometimes Jake, had spent so much time on that swing as children. Just hanging out, seeing who could go the highest without getting scared, keeping watch on who was coming and going from the house. My childhood wasn't some nightmare of constant abuse and unhappiness. There was abuse and unhappiness, especially amongst the adults, but it meant my siblings and I were often left to our own devices when we were young. And it is the nature of youth that the young person never understands the import of those endless summer hours doing nothing much at all until they're gone forever. My memories were tinted now with the golden light of nostalgia, and even as I raised my head to look at the swing one more time I could hear my sister's voice echoing in my mind:
"Bet you get scared before I do, Jack! Bet you do!"
She was right, too, that little daredevil. I always got scared before she did – but that was only because Emily was never scared of anything. In a child, a trait like that is impressive, charming. In an adult – and depending on the choices that adult makes – it can be a lot darker. My fearless sister, it turned out, may have done much better for herself if some fairy godmother had dusted her newborn head with just a sprinkling of caution.
I turned back to the bottle of whiskey, seized with memories. DeeDee said there was a rumor going around that the house might be deemed a liability and knocked down. What wo
uld happen then? Where would all the ghosts go? My own head, maybe. It didn't feel viable. Ghosts need dwellings. They need a foundation built on solid ground, rooms and corridors and dusty attics. Not human heads.
Jesus, I really wanted that whiskey. I also wanted to talk to Blaze Wilson. I reckoned both of those things were stupid ideas. Blaze had been so upset. I remembered her breath coming in big, shaky gulps – not for her the pretty, tinkling tears of a woman trying to elicit sympathy.
No. Fuck that. Stop thinking about that woman. You're just trying to avoid thinking about Sweetgrass Ranch.
I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and twisted off the cap, pouring a shot's worth into one of Blackjack's heavy crystal tumblers and swallowing it in one gulp.
I didn't pour another one right away. Instead, I sat quietly in the sitting room as the evening light faded and the warmth spread down to my belly and then out, slowly, into my limbs. Blaze Wilson. Why couldn't I stop thinking about her? Was it that self-destructive streak that seemed to haunt the lives of at least a good fifty percent of the McMurtrys? Was I destined to only feel attraction to women who secretly – or not so secretly, in Blaze's case – wanted to destroy me? She was so... what? So... something. Many things. If I closed my eyes I could just about imagine what it would feel like to hold her in my arms. How warm and tangible her body would be, how wet her tears on my neck when she buried her face there as I held her.
I poured another shot of whiskey and sipped it that time. Then I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts list until I came to her name. My thumb only hovered over the call button for a couple of seconds before it fell, as if pushed by some invisible hand, and I heard ringing.
"Hello?"
Shit. Shit! I called her!
"Um, hey. Blaze. This is Jack McMur –"
"I know who it is." She sounded nervous.
"Yeah," I said, "I'm just calling to –"
Why the hell was I calling Blaze Wilson? Because I'm a damned fool with no sense of self-control, probably. "I'm just calling to apologize for being so rough on you. I don't think you're a bad person. I mean, I don't know you well enough to say whether or not you're a bad person. But you didn't deserve how I treated you."
Blaze laughed. "Yes I did. That's what happens when you act like a crazy person. People get angry. I understand. You don't have anything to apologize for."
I could hear it again, that impervious tone in her voice. Whatever version of Blaze Wilson had called me and dared to reveal her vulnerability, she was back under lock and key.
"No, you didn't."
"Well," she said breezily, "thanks for calling, Jack. You didn't have to do that."
"Oh I know I didn't," I said, shaking my head. "If you want the honest truth I don't even know why I called you – I've had some whiskey and I'm feeling sentimental and, goddamnit, I seem to be having difficulty not thinking about you."
Silence. I heard her sharp intake of breath, as if she was about to say something, but no words followed. Why did I just tell her I couldn't stop thinking about her? Why did I do that? Oh yeah, because I'm an idiot.
"That was a stupid thing to say," I started, "I don't even know why –"
"No. It's, uh, I – Jack, I feel the same way. I know you already know it, because you called me on it when we spoke. I didn't call you to discuss the case. I miss you. It doesn't even make sense! How can you miss someone you don't even know?"
A sudden rush of warmth, not entirely the result of the alcohol, filled my body. I wanted Blaze Wilson to be there with me. I didn't want to be talking to her on the phone, I wanted her in my arms. I wanted the sound of her soft sighs in my ear.
"I don't know," I mused. "But I feel it, too."
"Maybe it's because of the flood?" She asked. "Maybe we went through an extreme experience together and now we feel like there's a bond there? My therapist said something like that, but I don't know if it's true. It could be, couldn't it?"
28 years old, in debt, about to lose my house and land and how did I feel? Totally exhilarated. Like I just got an A on my test, a check for a million bucks (OK, two million) and a blowjob from the head cheerleader on the last day of school before summer vacation.
"It could be," I replied, trying to keep the fact that I was grinning out of my voice. "Were you talking to your therapist about what happened here?"
"Oh, yeah. I started to have panic attacks a few weeks ago – after I came back from Montana – and I, well, my doctor thought I should talk to someone about it."
"Panic attacks? You mean from being caught in that flood?"
I'd never had a panic attack myself, but I'd seen it happen to other people before. My Grandma Dottie used to have what she called 'episodes.' Her face would go a kind of grayish-white color and her breath would come quick and shallow and she would cling to me, muttering prayers under her breath until it passed. Sometimes it took hours to pass. Blaze was having panic attacks? And I'd been such a jerk to her when she called me. Fuck.
"Yeah," she replied, quietly. "I've actually been having kind of a tough time. And it's starting to seem like I'm not so great at having tough times." Her voice was sad, almost resigned.
"You should come out here." I didn't blurt it out. The words didn't come out of my mouth without my thinking about them. I said what I said because the whiskey had loosened me up a little – and because I meant it. There was a strange certainty in my heart that no matter what was happening with Blaze, no matter what was wrong, that I could fix it. Not her therapist, not the drugs he probably had her on. Me. It was one of those things that simultaneously make absolutely no sense and still manage to be true. Or to feel true, anyway – and sometimes a thing feeling true is just as important as it being true.
"I – what?" She asked, hesitating. "What did you say?"
I said it again. "You should come out here."
"Should I?"
She wanted to. I could hear it in her voice. But she needed a reason the way women – by far the more level-headed sex – often do.
I chuckled. "You know what, Blaze? I don't even know. All I know is that you sounded so upset when you called and now you've just told me about the panic attacks and I don't know if I can give you a logical reason but I just feel like you should come out here. Not forever, I mean. Just for –"
"Just for a couple of days?" She asked.
"Yeah. Just for a couple of days."
"OK."
We both went quiet for a moment, not quite believing what we'd just done. It was as if speaking again would break the spell, force us to face the fact that it was a ridiculous plan – because it was ridiculous, and we were both smart enough to know it.
"I have a dog now," Blaze said eventually. "I need to check if he she can stay with my friend's parents. It'll probably be fine.
"I love dogs," I replied. "When I get my life sorted out I'll probably get one myself. What's her name?"
"Lulu. I found her on the side of the road on the day I flew back from Montana. She cost me a small fortune in vet bills but she was worth it. If you think I'm crazy now I don't know how much worse I'd be without Lulu."
"I don't think you're crazy. Well, I didn't until about two minutes ago when you agreed to this."
Blaze laughed. I loved the sound of her laughing.
"So I'm going to take a couple of days off work," she said. "I'll be there – well, soon. Is that OK?"
She was giving me – and herself – one more chance to back out of our spontaneous, insane plan. I wasn't going to be the one to take it.
"That's OK," I told her. "That's more than OK, Blaze."
"Good. So I'll, um – see you soon?"
"Yeah. See you soon."
We hung up and I sat there in the dark for a little while, shaking my head at myself and wondering what I'd just gone and done.
Chapter Twelve
Blaze
The next morning, I called the office and took the first two sick days of my entire life – including grade school, where I
was the proud winner of many perfect attendance awards. Melissa didn't even hesitate to approve them. After that, I called the salon and made a waxing appointment. It's not that I had designs on Jack McMurtry – I really had no idea what we were going to spend our time doing or how he actually felt about me – but I knew what it felt like just to sit across from his broad-shouldered, square-jawed self at the kitchen table at Sweetgrass Ranch, and I'm a woman who likes to be prepared for all eventualities. I managed to squeeze a mani-pedi into the salon visit and from there went straight to the hairstylist, who washed and blew out my hair in record time. The last stop was Jess's parents house, to drop Lulu off. My fears about her pining for me were immediately assuaged when she wriggled out of my grasp as I tried to kiss her goodbye and threw herself at their Weimeraner.
"Don't worry," Jess's mom told me, giving me a hug. "She'll be fine. I've got your number – I'll call if I need to."
At just past 5 o'clock in the evening and less than two days after our phone call, I stepped out of a taxi outside Sweetgrass Ranch, practically vibrating with nerves and increasingly unsure as to whether or not what I was doing was entirely sane. The air was chilly and filled with the rasp of dry leaves in the breeze. I looked up at the old house, perched on the peak of the land, and made my way up the driveway to the front porch where I had first encountered Jack McMurtry.
I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again. Still no answer. It was only then that I spotted a handwritten note nailed into the balustrade. I made a face, thinking about how that nail was going to leave a mark, but the wood just crumbled away beneath my fingers when I went to grab the piece of paper. The entire porch appeared to be rotted, with white paint chipping off and gathering like snowflakes in little piles on the yellowed grass. Such a sorry state for what had obviously been, at one time, a very grand house.
Jack's handwriting was barely legible, but I managed to make out an entreaty to come inside and make myself at home. So that's what I did, pushing the unlocked front door open with the little secret thrill that comes with being in someone else's space when they're not there.