Stormer’s Pass

by Benjamin Laskin

  Circling high in the air was the lone eagle. Talons outstretched, the eagle was picking off the balloons one by one with each pass. Regina called through the sliding rear window for the binoculars. With great joy and laughter the youths took turns watching the magnificent bird pluck the balloons from the sky.

  Max heard the shrieks of the eagle again, but he said nothing. Instead, he thought of the Greek goddess of righteous retribution, Nemesis. Aidos had told him once that in Greek mythology, Nemesis the avenger was also the protectress of the goddess, Aidos. Max smiled.

  43

  Davids And Goliaths

  Kicked out of school, Max Stormer found himself the proud owner of a daily fistful of hours which he could spend as he pleased. He divided them equally among his studies, walks, sisters, and work at the cafe, which was sinking fast, along with his mother.

  He knew the cafe’s drop in business was a deliberate attempt by the community to punish him for failing them. The grounds for his dismissal were incorrigible truancy and assaulting the principal, but he and his friends knew that it was the death of Coach Dubbs, and more awful still, the dashed hopes for a Pinecrest state championship that was the cause for his expulsion.

  Renowned sports columnist, Gil Bixler, did indeed show up for the opening game, and much to his chagrin found an empty ball field and bleachers. He responded to this attack on his eminence with a scathing article on the loss of small town values, once the cornerstone of American pride. He interviewed Principal Kohl, who told the pitiful story of a young man’s fall from grace. “A gifted boy,” the principal told the sports writer, “who had everything going for him, but who threw it all away to chase after some intemperate folly.”

  “Talent came too easily to the boy,” Gil Bixler wrote. “Such talent at a young age tends to breed cockiness and overconfidence, which Max Stormer mistook for superior genius. He was lopsided with talent, and tipped to the wrong side of the track, the side the cliff was on…”

  Mr. Bixler did not bother to interview Max, but instead looked up the persons to whom his friend Gary Webber had referred him. Their opinions of Max Stormer were unanimous and so made unnecessary any further investigations. He did, however, speak briefly with Sinclair Goldberg and Randy Dawson, the latter having recognized Bixler on the street by his picture in his column. Asked what the boys thought about Max Stormer and his failure to play ball, the boys agreed it was a shame that Max wasn’t out there throwing touchdowns and breaking records, but they had no doubts that “he was still the best quarterback in the state, with or without a team,” and that although they missed him out there, he was still their friend. “An even better friend,” Sinclair told Bixler, “than he was a quarterback.”

  Sinclair’s praise of Max didn’t make it into Gil Bixler’s article. Instead, he summed up the boys’ admiration for Max by writing: “Max Stormer was obviously as much a captain to his friends off the field as on it, which makes the story all the more tragic; for in sinking the ship, he dragged the entire crew down with him…”

  Mr. Bixler concluded his column by writing, “It is not often that the average person has the chance to do something heroic. When we spot such an individual, we secretly root for the champion to defy the odds so that we may celebrate, if only vicariously, in Goliath’s defeat by these small but gifted Davids of the world. Max Stormer had his chance to show what he was made of, and he blew it. In twirling his slingshot, he smote his own forehead and slew not only himself, but the hopes and dreams of his entire town.”

  Sorely in need of money, Max grabbed up his tool chest and took his mechanical expertise house to house, selling his abilities in automotive medicine and surgery at cut-rate prices. Despite the boycott on his person by Pinecrest’s indignant citizens, he still managed to find willing clients. Hidden away in their carports and garages, out of view of their neighbors’ scornful eyes, Max secretly plied his trade.

  For five dollars over cost he’d change their oil. For ten, he’d include hoses and belts. For twenty, he’d replace a clutch. For fifty, he’d rebuild an entire engine. His work was excellent, but the townsfolk would not give him a dollar more, less a neighbor find out and he chanced looking like a sucker. Honor among thieves.

  Some people were fearless enough to offer Max other messy jobs: plumbing, electrical rewiring, painting, refinishing furniture, and other home improvements—if, of course, the price was right.

  When Max showed up at their doors, toolbox in hand, the mothers and fathers spoke as few words as possible, pointing or grunting if that got their wish across just as well. They never offered him a sandwich, or even a glass of water. When he was thirsty, he helped himself to the garden hose, which tasted of vinyl.

  Max did not let their pettiness interfere with the job at hand. He always gave his best. The object in front of him was all that mattered, not the owner. A job well done was always a job well done, and nobody could take that away from him.

  Occasionally, he worked for his friends’ parents. His friends asked him about Olympus and the half-dozen other kids who continued to go up there. They missed the camaraderie, and felt like traitors. Their parents were embarrassments to them, and the youths could not hide their shame in being unable to defy them. Max read the humiliation in their faces, but he never accused them of anything. They admired Max and marveled at his stoic, even cheerful indifference. And no one treated them with more respect, or showed sincerer interest in their lives than he did. To the teens, the rumors and ridicule that filled the streets was unfair and wrong. The Max Stormer they knew was not at all the Max whom their parents condemned.

  “You don’t know him like we do,” the kids protested.

  “You just keep clear of that bum!” the parents retorted. “He’s a bad influence. When you’re out of college and have a good job, Max Stormer will be changing your oil too!”

  Those who associated with Max openly did not go unnoticed. Steve, Jake, Regina, Mr. Brodie, and Ms. Winters all felt Pinecrest’s stabbing glances and bitter resentment.

  The town cut off all funding to the library and boarded up its doors and windows. The local fire department charged it was a fire hazard, and although Max volunteered to do whatever work was deemed necessary to comply with the city fire codes, his services were denied on the grounds that he was not licensed. “Besides,” they said, “we intend to build a brand new library and are only waiting for state and federal subsidies.”

  Ms. Winters was outraged, but there was nothing she could do about it. The library was her passion, and now gone she found herself void of meaningful labor. She grew listless and bored. The fight and dazzle in her eyes faded, and she started to look like an old lady. Her loose, wrinkly skin sagged on her bones, and she took to walking with a cane.

  Max, Steve, and Regina visited Virginia often, and for an hour or so rekindled the flame in her eyes, but as soon as they left, it fizzled out and she became depressed. She visited Camelot less and less because it saddened her too much to learn that there was still no word from her darling Aidos. Whenever she pulled up in front of the cabin, she expected to see the girl come running around the corner to greet her, just as she had done so many times before. But time and again she was disappointed.

  Alert to the old woman’s weakening condition, Mr. Thoreson would put aside his own worries and tortured feelings for a few hours to be as companionable as possible. In a sad, guilt-ridden way, her deterioration made him conscious of his own.

  One melancholy evening Hardy remembered Aidos’ parting words to him: “It’s as much your trial as it is mine.” Of course! he thought. It was her warning to him. Shame overcame him. Would I want Aidos to see me like this—a self-pitying, decrepit old fart? What a hypocrite and phony I’ve been! She knew this would happen!

  He called to Beowulf, and for the first time in weeks he took the dog for a long hike in the woods. Since the incident with the note-bearing arrow, Beowulf no longer sat sullen and lethargic at the edge of the woods. He had become his old self again, but
Mr. Thoreson remained too self-absorbed and depressed to notice. He neglected the dog, and if it weren’t for Max or Steve dropping by to play with him, Beowulf would have spent every day sleeping and ignored. Mortified by the realization Hardy exclaimed out loud, “My God, what would Aidos think of this!” He apologized to Beowulf and promised he would take him hiking every day.

  As Mr. Thoreson turned the corner and grew stronger, Ms. Winters grew weaker. Max found her dead one snowy day in February. She was in a rocking chair wrapped in a blanket outside on the back porch of her home, looking out towards the mountains.

  Virginia Winters was buried in the town cemetery next to her sister. The local paper carried her obituary, praising her as an energetic woman who contributed years of social work to the community. Mayor Fitch suggested that when the new library was built, it be named after her, commemorating all of her and her sister’s hard work. What he failed to mention was that Ms. Winters had willed that her house be auctioned and the money earmarked for the building of the new library. Her house was quickly sold, a promissory note was made in the name of the library, and the money went to furnish the mayor’s newly finished four-story courthouse and administration building.

  Weeks later it was also learned that she had a small fortune in stocks and bonds, which along with some jewelry and antiques, came to about $350,000. She left it all to Aidos.

  News of the windfall reached Hardy Thoreson from a most surprising source. He was at his laptop working on a book review he had been commissioned to write when he heard a car pull up, and two doors slam shut.

  44

  Winter Tales

  Hardy Thoreson peeked through the curtained window above the sink, and groaned. After a heavy sigh, he opened the front door and intercepted Ed and Nancy Boswell on their way up the porch steps.

  “Surprise!” Nancy sang, throwing her arms out wide and offering him a cheek. He kissed her and took in a dose of perfume that almost made him sneeze.

  “Hello, Hardy-boy,” Ed said, extending a glove-clad hand.

  “Hey, Ed,” Hardy returned. “Spending the night?”

  “We are,” he said. “But relax. We got a room in town.”

  “Save your money. You can stay here. You know that.” He had to say it, even though all ten toes were crossed when he did.

  “Thanks, pal, but we don’t want to impose. Besides, upstairs must be an icebox. Heck of a winter you’re having up here. Doesn’t all this white get to you after a while?”

  Nancy said, “I think it’s beautiful. There’s something so purifying about snow.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you had to shovel it every day,” Ed said. “Snow is slush in the making. You’d hate it.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to move here.” She clapped her mittens together. “So, where’s my little angel? Where’s Aidos? Don’t tell me she’s out playing in this dreadful cold?”

  Hardy said, “You don’t expect her to stay cooped up inside all winter long, do you?”

  “But it’s so cold.”

  “She doesn’t seem to mind,” Hardy said.

  “Hey, Thoreson,” Ed said, “are you going to make us stand out here all day or are you going to invite us in?”

  “Sure, sorry. Come on in…”

  Hardy showed them into the den and they took seats around the fireplace. Beowulf, who was curled up in front of the fire, looked up and thumped his tail on the floor.

  “I thought she didn’t go anywhere without her dog,” Nancy said. “She really shouldn’t be out all alone.”

  “She’s not,” he lied. “She’s with a friend.” He hated lying, but compared to the disastrous truth, it seemed harmless. They weren’t, after all, spending the night and he figured he’d be rid of them quick enough to allay their suspicions.

  “She has friends now?”

  “Quite a few. She’s become very popular with many of the kids from town.”

  “Well, I hope they return soon. Is it a him or a her?”

  “Him,” Hardy said. “Max Stormer. But I don’t expect them home anytime soon. He’s as rugged an outdoorsman as she is.”

  Ed and Nancy frowned. Ed said, “We’ve heard about this Max character.”

  Hardy laughed. “You’ve heard of Max Stormer? How would you hear of him? He’s just a local boy. Nice kid. Rather extraordinary, actually.”

  “For one thing,” Ed said, “we read about him in The Times. Gil Bixler wrote an article—”

  “Who?”

  “You know, Gil Bixler. The sports columnist.”

  Hardy shrugged.

  “Well,” he continued, “if you were an American and read the sports page, you’d have heard of him. He came up here to do a feature on your Pinecrest Panthers. Seems this Max fellow is quite an athlete, and coming from Gil, that’s a big compliment.”

  “Gil?” Hardy said. “I take it he’s a friend of yours?”

  “I have many friends. Anyway, he comes up here and what does he find? A dead coach, a disbanded team, and one disillusioned small town. What he didn’t find was his personal pick for all-state quarterback. Now someone of Bixler’s caliber doesn’t have to spend a word on something so trivial as high school football, so it was a big deal, an honor—”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is this Stormer fellow quits the team, giving no reason whatsoever, and simultaneously ruins not only his own life but spoils everyone else’s.”

  “Come on,” Hardy said. “Aren’t you exaggerating just a little?”

  “Not at all,” Nancy said. “What right did he have? He knew a lot of people were counting on him.”

  “It’s his life,” Hardy said. “If he didn’t want to play, why should he? I’m sure he had his reasons.”

  “He didn’t give any. He just wanted to loaf.”

  “Then that’s his business. You make him sound like a criminal.”

  “That’s another thing,” Ed said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Okay, a juvenile delinquent. Do you know he was thrown out of school, that he assaulted the principal, that he has a long history of trouble making?”

  “How do you know so much about this boy? What’s he to you?”

  “He isn’t anything to me. I just happened to hear some people talking, that’s all.”

  “What brings you into so much contact with Pinecrest that you’d be made privy to such gossip?”

  “Well,” Nancy said, coming to the rescue, “we haven’t got around to telling you yet, but recently we’ve had a little business in Pinecrest. And in the course of things, we learned some of what goes on around here.”

  “What kind of business?” Hardy asked, suspicious.

  “Let’s just say it entails good news for you, Hardy-boy,” Ed said exuberantly. He took up his briefcase and snapped it open. The click attracted Beowulf’s attention. He got up to investigate, sticking his huge head inside the briefcase.

  “How ya doin’, Beowulf?” Ed said, patting the dog on the side. “Do you remember what I taught you the last time I was here?” He reached into his coat pocket that he had hung on the back of his rocker and pulled out The Pinecrest Tribune, the local paper.

  “I don’t think so,” Hardy cautioned. “Aidos cured him of that.”

  “Nonsense,” Ed said, turning in his seat and raising the folded paper above his head. “Okay boy, now remember, I toss the paper and you bring it back, just like we practiced. Show Uncle Eddie what a smart doggie you are. Ready…?”

  Beowulf let out a deep woof, full of anticipation. His tail wagged wildly, his eyes fixed on the paper Ed waved teasingly in the air.

  “Okay boy… Fetch!”

  Ed flung the paper to the top of the stairway. In a flash, Beowulf tore off after it, his feet sliding on the wooden floor, running in place before darting ahead. He bounded up the stairs and pounced on the paper. He snatched it up and shook it viciously as he growled. Pinning it to the floor with his paws, the dog mauled and rip it to shreds.
Pieces of the paper floated down from atop the stairway. Hardy and Nancy laughed unabashedly. Ed stared on disconsolate. Beowulf returned to Ed, tail wagging, a scrap of soggy newsprint stuck to his wet nose.

  “Traitor,” Ed grumbled.

  “Honey,” Nancy said, “tell my brother the good news. We can’t stay long. It’ll be dark shortly and it might snow.”

  “Your friend, Virginia Winters,” Ed said, reaching into his briefcase, “she was quite fond of Aidos, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  He handed Hardy some documents. “The old woman had more money than she was aware of,” Ed said. “Had she any business sense along the way, she could have died a very wealthy woman.”

  Hardy rolled his eyes. “You can’t take it with you, Ed.”

  Ed laughed. “Lucky for you!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone must have given her some good advice once, because she bought into some stock a long time ago that has since quadrupled a couple of times. She didn’t have that much but enough to give her a small fortune.”

  “I remember her mentioning once that her late husband was an astute businessman.”

  “Well,” Ed said, “what she had she left to Aidos to be set up in a trust fund—some 350,000 dollars.” Ed leaned back in his rocker, clasped his hands behind his neck, and gave Hardy time to absorb the news. He smiled munificently at his wife, as if the money had come from his own generous pocket. He studied Hardy’s face for a reaction, anxious to see some scant trace of greed—a belying glint in the eye, a lick of the chops, a swipe of moist palms down the lap of his trousers.

  Hardy, however, gave no such sign, not even a break in the slow rocking of his chair. The money was not unimportant, but neither was Ed’s knowledge of it.

  Ed continued. “I took the opportunity to do the necessary paperwork, certain of your unfamiliarity with such things. I contacted my broker, banker, and lawyer, and set up the trust in Aidos’ name so that all you have to do is sign a few dotted lines. Nancy is a notary, so you can do it now if you want.”