Kenji shrugged.
“I’m not very good at the game. It’s harder than it seems. I haven’t ever won.”
“You should play to play, not to be finished playing. What is the longest you’ve floated your River Horse?”
“Twelve, maybe thirteen minutes.”
“Not bad,” Kenji said. “Top twenty percent.”
“Well, that’s incredible. What are you doing with all these screenwriting books, then?”
“A studio wants to make the game into a film. Animated. For children.”
“Interesting. You must be excited.”
“The first round of meetings did not go very well. They gave me these books, and I rented this car. I told them I needed a week.”
The gas nozzle clicked off and Kenji hung it back up, tore off the receipt, and folded it carefully. Reinhardt finished cleaning the window and returned the squeegee to its bucket. They went inside, used the restroom, and chose snacks. At the register Kenji motioned for Reinhardt to add his Coke and cashews to his gummy worms and cigarettes.
“Thank you, but I can take care of my own snacks.”
“I know you can, but I am the programmer who brought River Horse to the world, and you are making the sacrifice today. I am just your helper, so let me help.”
When Kenji looked up at the cashier, he was snapping a picture of them with his phone. “River Horse is cool.” He smiled at them. “I love your game.” Kenji reached into his jacket pocket and tossed an enamel pin of a purple hippopotamus to the boy. “Hey, thanks, mister,” he said.
“That is one hundred percent authentic, man,” Kenji said. “Keep on floating.”
“You keep on floating, too.”
They returned to the car, and as they buckled their seat belts, Kenji looked at Reinhardt and squinted. “You are on a quest. I could see that earlier at the teepees.”
“It’s just a vacation.”
“I think this is more than a vacation. On this drive, I have been thinking about these books I am reading, and perhaps I am your first threshold gatekeeper, or a mentor. I don’t yet know the difference.” He reached into the back and brought forth Mythstructures for Blockbusters and handed it to Reinhardt. “You’ll see it in there.”
Kenji drove back onto the highway, then, checking the maps application on his phone, turned right and headed west. Reinhardt leafed through the pages. Chapter One was called “Ordinary World.” Chapter Two, “The Call to Adventure.” Reinhardt stopped and read about the mentor. The book explained that after the rejection of the call to adventure the hero desperately needs guidance. The mentor is of great importance and provides wisdom or practical training. Often sustenance. Reinhardt looked down at his Coke and sleeve of nuts.
Reinhardt closed the book. “I am the hero?” he asked.
“I think there can be many heroes, maybe everyone is a hero. I might be a hero for my own story, just like every player is their own hippo. My job is to get you from the ordinary world into the new one. I think I am beginning to see how it works. You met me to be transported. I met you to be the transporter.”
Reinhardt opened the Coke and took a sip. “But transported where?”
“Who knows. To there, so you have someplace to come back from. There and back again. A hero will encounter obstacles. You will be thwarted. You will be tested. There will be some time in the underworld. The innermost cave. You will emerge with wisdom.”
“Are all the books helping you make a movie about hippos floating in a river?”
“Perhaps that is my quest, and I will find a mentor for that. But these books all quote a man who said to follow your bliss. What is your bliss, Reinhardt?”
“To go swimming in the desert.”
“Why that?”
“It’s something I read about once in a book when I was a child.”
“Okay, start small and build,” Kenji said, tearing open the gummy worms with his teeth.
___
Byron’s attention was split between the road and the cars passing in the other lane. Lonnie held the grab handle and rested his head against his forearm. “How do you know Scissors isn’t going to find our camp while we’re out here and sit there waiting for us to come back?” he asked.
“Because if he was gonna find it, he already would have,” Byron said.
“I’m not trying to argue with you—”
“Then don’t.”
“But this guy seems like the kind of person to just keep, you know . . . trying.”
“Let me say something to you, and I’m going to try using the crazy talk that seems to make sense to you. In the joint they had a book group. I did it a couple of times before it got too stupid. There was this one book called Mindset—”
“You read a book?”
“Not all of it. Didn’t have to. It said some people think they come as is and some people think they can make improvements. Fixed versus growth. The prison shrink thought all of us were fixed.”
Lonnie laughed. “Like puppies.”
“Not that kind of fixed. Dammit. Listen to me. I’m trying to be serious.”
Byron pulled off the highway and drove under a ponderosa-pine-log entryway with a sign at the top that read ASHDOWN’S cut into a ten-foot ripsaw blade. They drove through the huge circular turnaround in front of the house, came past the garage with the RV slot at the end, and stopped at a fenced equipment yard back at the bottom of the hill. A vinyl banner on the fence read ASHDOWN CONSTRUCTION & EXCAVATION.
“Every criminal I know believes two things. One, the world is trying to screw him over personally. And two, he’s got a plan to get himself ahead. Even guys who are locked up think that. So, that makes them what? Fixed or growth?”
“Growth?” Lonnie said.
Byron slapped the steering wheel. “Damn right. Growth mind-set. That shrink was dead wrong. This bastard Scissors has got a growth mind-set. Whoever he’s working for has got it. I sure as hell got it.”
“Maybe we both got it,” Lonnie said.
Byron put the truck in park. “This is what I’m trying to say, little brother. The way you’re acting right now, I’m afraid that’s the fixed mind-set.” Lonnie’s face fell. “You don’t want nothing to change. I’m trying to show you how to fix that.”
“Okay,” Lonnie said, getting out.
“You gotta call your own shots, man.” Byron shut off the truck, fetched a pair of rusty bolt cutters from the back, and walked straight to the chain link gate.
“I thought you said you had a key,” Lonnie said.
“I said I had a way in,” Byron said, struggling to open the bolt cutter jaws.
“Uncle Pete is going to flip his wig.”
“Uncle Pete ain’t gonna know. It’s June twenty-first. That means he’s in Carvertown with Aunt Linda for the Freedom Jamboree. They won’t be back until Monday.”
“I mean the lock. He’s gonna see that it’s been cut.”
“Look. We put the backhoe right where it came from, take the lock with us, and he’ll blame it on one of the dumbasses that works for him and—boom!” Byron made an explosion with his right hand and let it drop slowly down to his side. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Yeah, boom.” Lonnie mimicked the pantomime. “So, why are we doing this in the middle of the day?”
“So we don’t look like we’re stealing it.”
“But we are stealing it.”
“Borrowing. When you’re planning to bring something back, it ain’t stealing.”
Lonnie looked around and could not see another house in any direction. Byron placed the padlock between the blades of the bolt cutters, and he struggled to move the handles. Lonnie watched his brother strain, and stamp his feet, and curse the tool. He tried moving the jaws into a couple of different positions. Lonnie made a mental note that this is what a growth mind-set looked like.
“That lock is probably made out of stainless. It’s pretty hard stuff,” Lonnie said.
“You should probably quit ta
lking to me,” Byron said through clenched teeth. He strained and re-grabbed the tool, then strained again.
“Okay. I’m just saying.”
“Just saying what?” Byron grunted.
“I’m just saying you probably need a longer tool.” After a second Lonnie smiled and snorted twice.
Byron stopped what he was doing and looked up. He let the lock slip out of the blades, and it smacked against the fence. Lonnie tried not to smile. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “It’s just funny, that’s all.”
“You know that sumbitch Scissors is out there looking for us, right? That’s what he’s choosing to do with his day. We are his entire focus.”
Lonnie covered his mouth and tried to stop laughing, but he couldn’t. “You know I do weird stuff when I’m nervous. I can’t help it.”
“Since you’re full of suggestions, why don’t you do it?” He threw the bolt cutters at his feet.
Lonnie picked them up and tested out their rusty pivot point. He took them to the truck and fished out a blue can of WD-40 and sprayed it into the jaw joint and handle bolts, then he worked the action until it was smooth. He stepped past his brother, pinched the blades down on the shackle, and clipped the lock in a single quick movement. The lock clattered to the ground, and each side of the chain fell away.
Lonnie handed the cutters back to Byron and said, “Don’t feel bad, B. I’ve just got longer arms.”
“I don’t give a shit about your arms.” He picked up the bolt cutters. “Just open the gate.” Byron threw the bolt cutters in the back of the truck and got in. He backed the truck up to a trailered CASE backhoe. Byron dropped it onto the hitch and chained it up. Lonnie attached the brake harness.
As they got into the cab, they both watched the weather system southward at the horizon. The stratus clouds were thick and dark out there, but the sky above was white with high cirrus.
Lonnie said, “You sure we want to go out there with weather like that coming in?”
“That don’t mean nothing. Probably won’t even get to us.”
“We could still just leave that map somewhere for him. We’ve got his number. We could leave it and lay low. We could camp, and I can get another job. It’s no big deal.”
“You remember that old Sunday school lesson about the ten talents?” Byron said.
Lonnie thought about it for a bit. “No. It’s been a long time since I went to church.”
“Well, it pretty much says go big or stay home.”
“That doesn’t sound like any kind of Sunday idea to me.”
“It is, and that’s one hundred percent growth mind-set, baby. Lemme put it this way. If you and I would have stayed home, we’d be burned to a crisp. This way, we’re about to strike it rich.”
___
Reinhardt asked for Mrs. Kwon at the information desk of the hospital in Cedar City. “I am the physician who administered CPR Tuesday, and I have some personal items for her.” The volunteer lifted the glasses from the chain around her neck, put them on, picked up the phone, and called around.
Kenji dismissed himself to smoke, and Reinhardt said, “Don’t leave yet.”
Kenji gave him the thumbs-up and went outside.
A few moments later, the volunteer told them that she is not supposed to give out any personal information. Reinhardt gripped his temples with a thumb and finger and closed his eyes. When he’d gathered himself, he looked at the volunteer, who stood up while his eyes were closed. “I changed my vacation plans to bring this woman her suitcase. The other day, my mouth was on Mr. Kwon’s mouth, I was breathing my air into his lungs, and my chest compressions broke a number of ribs. That man is now dead. His family are all in Korea, so none of them are likely to arrive here in this town. So, are you telling me you are planning to deliver this suitcase to Mrs. Kwon and relieve me of my obligation?”
“I, actually, well . . .” the volunteer said, removing her glasses and letting them dangle from their beaded chain. She was visibly upset. “She is probably at the funeral home at this point.”
“Thank you. Could you give me directions?”
“I better not.”
“But it says ‘information,’” Reinhardt said, pointing to the sign.
The woman looked at him. “Swindlehurst,” she sighed. “I’d try Swindlehurst Funeral Home.”
Reinhardt left, typing that name into his phone. He gathered up Kenji, who squinted when he learned they had another stop. They drove a short distance to the address, which was a log cabin on Main Street. Reinhardt dinged the small service bell at the front desk, which summoned a young, heavyset man in a black suit to the front. He was wearing a dingy white apron over his clothes. His red hair was cut short, and his hands looked large enough to span a dinner plate. “Can I help you?”
“I have a delivery for Mrs. Kwon. Her husband died last night.”
“I cremated him this morning,” the young mortician said. “But we’re out of urns. I’m waiting for UPS.”
“Cremating him?” Reinhardt asked.
“Yeah, for the trip home. That way he’ll fit under the seat.” The young mortician smiled, and when he saw that Reinhardt did not return the smile, he lowered his eyes. “Sorry, this is a really tough job, you know, emotionally, so I try to keep it light,” he said.
“We are just trying to deliver a suitcase to Mrs. Kwon. We’re from the tour company,” Reinhardt said.
“No, we are not,” Kenji said, putting his hand on Reinhardt’s neck. “He is liberated from the tour.”
“Normally at Swindlehurst we try to maintain the confidentiality of our clients, but you two seem like Good Samaritans. And I am trying to reconstruct a nose and cheek for a viewing this afternoon, so if you could take the suitcase to Mrs. Kwon and this paperwork and that bag,” he said, removing a manila envelope and a Ziploc bag from a drawer and setting it on the desk, “it would help me out. I’m by myself today.”
Inside the Ziploc bag was a metallic hip joint and a number of small screws. “Okay?” Reinhardt said, looking at Kenji. Kenji nodded.
“It was a really strange nose to begin with,” the young mortician said. “And when the putty softens, it’s hard to work with.” Kenji nodded. “This is commercial putty though,” he said. Reinhardt waited to see if the young mortician was going to keep talking. When he didn’t, Reinhardt asked for an address, and the young mortician said, “It’s on the envelope.”
Reinhardt looked down. “Very good. Thank you.”
Back at the car, Reinhardt said, “One more stop on our quest.” Kenji shrugged, and Reinhardt typed the address into his phone, and they drove through town to a motel called the El Rey. The voice on the phone said, “You have arrived. The destination is on your right.”
“Enchanted helpers,” Kenji said, gesturing to the phone. “You see, this is a quest, complete with magic.” When Reinhardt narrowed his eyes, Kenji said, “The best technology is simply magic by another name.” As they pulled into the motel, they passed through the covered entry, and Kenji said, “This is the gateway. The first threshold. Don’t you see?”
Reinhardt said, “It says she’s in room two thirty-seven, so keep going.” They drove past ordinary cars, dust and dirt-speckled, some with plastic shells mounted on the roof, some with bike racks on the back, some with telltale bar codes revealing them as rentals. As they drove past the swimming pool, they saw an older woman sitting alone in a chair with a Ranches, Relics, and Ruins T-shirt on. Her head was down. Her arms crossed. A half dozen children screamed and jumped into the water, swam back to the edge, climbed out, and jumped again.
“Is that her?” Kenji asked.
Reinhardt nodded.
“The time has come, then.” Kenji put the car in park but left it running. “This is where we part ways. I must return to Hollywood. You must follow your bliss.” He handed Reinhardt his copy of Mythstructures for Blockbusters. “This is the owner’s manual.”
Reinhardt refused the offer. “I couldn’t,” he said, but he took the
gift when Kenji insisted.
Kenji popped the trunk and got out of the car. He set Reinhardt’s duffel bag on the ground and hauled the Kwons’ suitcase out of the back and wheeled it around to him. Then, without warning, Kenji threw his arms around Reinhardt and hugged him, lifting him slightly from the ground. Kenji clapped him on the shoulders and said, “Go. Be a hero.”
Kenji drove through the turnaround and came back the other way. He lifted his fist into the air and left it there as he drove to the street and turned south.
Reinhardt came to the swimming pool gate and waited for a line of children to waddle through. When the gate clanked shut behind him, he thought that Kenji had been wrong. Perhaps this was the real gate, a small and nearly unnoticed thing. Then he looked at the book in his arms, put it in his bag, and shook off the thought.
He rolled the suitcase along the pool deck and stopped in front of Mrs. Kwon, who had moved to the edge of the pool now that the children were gone. She sat with her pant legs rolled up and her feet on the first step.
“Mrs. Kwon?”
She looked up and didn’t recognize Reinhardt, but her face changed when she saw the suitcase. She put a hand over her heart to ask, Is this mine? Reinhardt nodded yes and offered her the envelope and bag of hip parts. “All of this belongs to you,” he said.
Mrs. Kwon stood but remained on the swimming pool step. Reinhardt still held out the bag of medical remnants and the envelope, but Mrs. Kwon gestured to a side table with an elegant slow sweep of her open hand. She said something to him in a few sentences of Korean, and Reinhardt said, “Es tut mir leid für deinen Verlust.” He stepped aside and set the items on the designated table. Mrs. Kwon reached out with both of her hands. Reinhardt understood that he was to grasp them, which he did. She squeezed his hands softly, with almost no pressure at all.
Reinhardt did not wait for anything else to happen. He took himself back out the gate and let it close behind him. Was this returning to the ordinary world? Did the owner’s manual in his bag talk about a path that returned to itself like a Möbius strip? He wondered if he now had a role in Mrs. Kwon’s journey as Kenji had a role in his.
He slung his duffel across his shoulder and walked through the motel driveway entry. When he reached the street, he looked up at the mountains and the thunderheads rising behind them, their tops shearing off. He typed RENTAL CAR into his phone and waited for the results.
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