Dakota Blues Box Set

by Lynne M Spreen

  “Aw, he’s not so bad. Behind that weasely exterior, he’s a lot like my kid. The one I never see. Besides, he actually apologized to me. How many people can say that?”

  “You’ve got the magic touch.” If Peggy wanted to believe it, Karen wouldn’t disabuse her. She stood up.

  “What’s next?”

  Karen glanced at her watch. “I have an appointment with the weasel.”

  “AGE DISCRIMINATION is a joke. You can’t make it stick.” Wes sat back in his chair, glaring at the file that sat reeking between them on his desk.

  “I can and I will, and you know it.” Karen tossed him a business card. “I have a whole firm full of lawyers ready to go.”

  The file contained the names of eighteen older employees who had been fired in the past twenty-four months. All were over forty. All had acknowledged in writing that Wes had badgered them repeatedly before their terminations, using expressions such as “geezer, old fart and battle-ax,” and opining that the company needed an infusion of “new blood” and “young ideas.” All were willing to file age discrimination lawsuits, according to Karen.

  “Fuck.”

  “Exactly.” Karen sat back, smiling.

  Wes scowled at the window, beyond which a small plane chugged across the sky, towing a banner. Something about vodka. “What do they want?”

  “Call Peggy. Tell her to bring the checkbook.”

  Epilogue

  KAREN STARED OUT ACROSS the arid landscape. Other than wheel marks carving through the sagebrush, no sign remained of the Bronco. She hung the rosary on a rusted metal fencepost and returned to the Roadtrek. Without the sound of Frieda’s voice, there was only the low whine of the road and a gentle vibration of housewares stowed securely in the galley.

  Karen held the van steady as an eighteen-wheeler blew past. She ran through a list in her mind, trying on the options. Her golf clubs were in the back. She might map out a path according to the courses, maybe following the Lewis and Clark Golf Trail through North Dakota, or the Audubon through the southern states, or one of the dozens of other golf trails across the country. She could spend a few weeks in Dickinson with her family and friends, check on Father Engel’s office situation, and maybe even drop in on the governor, but then she would head south ahead of the snow. The CRS ladies had said they would be in the Florida Keys for Thanksgiving and Karen planned to join them.

  Out of a cloudless sky, a blast of wind attacked the van, but this hefty Roadtrek could handle it. It was a 210, the biggest and beefiest of the line, bought with the proceeds from the house. Heading north on the same highway she’d travelled with Frieda, Karen knew about wind. It never stopped. It only changed direction. On each curve or rise the prevailing gusts might come at her from any point on the compass, blasting first one way and then another. At the top of a hill, she passed a fluttering highway sign bearing a picture of Mount Rushmore. Past that she saw nothing at all except miles and miles of sweeping dry grasslands rolling out to the horizon in every direction.

  She realized she was speeding out of habit and eased up. Over the past three decades in which she had reported to work every day in a large corporate building, years in which she had lived cheek-by-jowl with her neighbors in a gated community, in which she had driven slowly down congested roads through frenetic cities, she had forgotten what was meant by the concept of space. Now, unconsciously, she had been hurrying to get through it, but there was no need. No cars rode her bumper. The sun was plenty high and the day would be long. She was free to choose her own speed through this vast park-like space.

  The highway, one lane in each direction and narrow like a ribbon, stretched out in front of her for a dozen miles before disappearing over a hill. When she reached that crest, she knew she would see another ribbon reaching out for ten or fifteen more miles and when she finished that and topped the next hill, there’d be yet another ribbon road and another and another, a dozen or more times that afternoon. As the miles rolled by, she became enthralled by how much country surrounded her, and just how incredibly vast it was.

  Suddenly she understood something that confounded her for years–how people could look at the sky or the ocean and feel reassured at their own insignificance. She had always wondered how feeling small and powerless could give a person comfort, she who had always drawn security from significance. As Karen had moved up the career ladder, accumulating more money and power, she felt the world was less dangerous.

  Yet at this moment, she realized what they might have meant: as you accepted your insignificance, you could also accept that you were not in control of nor in charge of the world. You could go through your days concerned only with your own small world and the circle of people who loved you.

  “Room enough, and time.” The phrase tickled around the edges of her memory, something she’d read in a book or heard in a movie, a blessing proclaimed by the Native Americans about places such as this. Here on this highway in the vast freedom of the plains, her mind uncluttered by a daily agenda or the demands of a casual populace, she could permit herself the luxury of thought. She slowed the van until it came to a stop, the highway deserted for miles in both directions. The wind rocked the van, blowing in through the windows, rearranging her hair until she was blind and thrumming past her ears until she was deaf.

  Karen shut off the motor. Her bare feet touched the blacktop, warm but not hot. She filled her lungs with the dry, clean air, right off the plains and miles from any town. She heard a ground squirrel chirping and saw antelope walking along on the other side of the barbed wire fence, tearing clumps of grass from the rich earth. The rippling grasses were topped by feathery beige flowers that resembled wheat.

  Insignificance: for the first time she considered she need not accept responsibility for everybody and everything within range in her world. In taking on that responsibility she had not only over-burdened herself, but shortchanged those for whom she worried.

  Why had she assumed them incapable, taking that weight on her own shoulders? Other people surely carried within them their own strength, their own resources, and she finally saw she had not been responsible for her parents’ satisfaction with their lives, for her relatives, nor her former employees at Global Health, nor for what happened to the planet after she left it.

  Instead, she saw herself as a bright, vivid figure standing on a timeline, her ancestors barely visible behind her, their small, beloved bodies dim and fading into history. In front of her she saw only stick figures moving into the unknowable and impersonal future, as anonymous as the ancestors. As if she slid a magnifying glass along the ruler of history, the figures became larger and clearer as they edged nearer in proximity to her own life. They gained names and identities, but only for that small space in time they shared with her.

  In front of the van, she stood on the center line of the deserted highway, her arms outstretched, eyes closed. The wind embraced her with its clovered breath, wrapped itself around her waist, between her legs and under her arms, lifting her. She turned in a slow circle, her arms reaching out, her fingertips lengthening to touch all that she could see in three hundred and sixty degrees of solitude and peace.

  It was enough. It was everything.

  Key Largo Blues

  by

  Lynne M. Spreen

  Key Largo Blues Chapter 1

  Staging was everything.

  Karen Grace closed her windows against the possibility of noise. Key Largo teemed with Christmas Eve revelers, and the marina was like a parking lot, with fishing charters and pleasure boats coming and going. So Karen took precautions. She couldn’t afford to blow her scheme. In one hour, the show would go live.

  And the show, if successful, would launch her new business. In the past year, her safe and happy life had imploded. Now footloose and broke, she needed to rebuild everything, starting with finances.

  She stood back, considering the optics. During the video call, her new client had to think Karen was calling from a high-end office building, not an o
ld camping trailer.

  First, she unfurled a backdrop poster depicting a floor-to-ceiling bookcase and attached it to the wall behind the dinette. Next, the kitchen table got a makeover with the addition of a leather-edged desk blotter, a coffee cup full of pens and pencils, and a monogrammed in-box. Placing her laptop on a stack of books, Karen raised it so the webcam would catch her from the waist up. She lowered the shades to enhance the lighting, adjusted her headset, and tested the audio. Everything checked out.

  She showered, put on makeup, gave her blond hair a twist, and anchored it atop her head with ebony chopsticks. She pulled on a pair of Bermuda shorts, a white tank top, and a St. John’s blazer, purchased years ago when she and Steve were rolling in cash.

  As one last precaution to protect the illusion, Karen dug around in her office supplies, found a thick black marker, and wrote Do Not Disturb on a piece of cardboard. Then she stuck it outside and locked the door.

  With the flick of a switch, she activated the camera and microphone. Her client needed forty additional nurses to staff a new hospital. Thanks to the recruiting website Karen had designed, a bumper crop of candidates clamored to be hired.

  The screen beeped, and her client appeared. Ursula Wahl looked exhausted, her face gray, eyes puffy. By contrast, in the past month Karen had acquired a healthy tan.

  “Three more nurses resigned,” said Ursula. “I hope you have good news.”

  “I have excellent news, and after that, we could talk about your turnover situation, if you like.”

  “Perhaps.” Ursula lifted her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Tell me about our candidates.”

  “Did you have a chance to review the information I sent you?”

  “Not in detail.” Ursula shuffled some papers. “It’s been a madhouse here.”

  Karen summarized the three dozen candidates in a few minutes.

  “Some of them appear to have erratic work histories,” said Ursula.

  “Part of that was the recession.” Good people had been savaged by the economic downturn, and Karen was eager to see them return to work—not to mention she’d receive a nice fee per hire for her efforts.

  “You’re too kind.” Ursula frowned, the dark circles under her eyes becoming more pronounced. “But I won’t settle for mediocre choices.”

  “You’ll be pleased. I promise.” Karen knew what she was talking about. This time last year, she had been a corporate executive in charge of human resources for a national firm. She had the expertise to dazzle Ursula, earning a fat paycheck and a great reference. She felt the excitement, a sense of energy rising inside her chest. Her business was ready to take flight. Her future was in her hands. Finally.

  A sharp pounding rattled the door of the trailer. Apologizing, Karen paused the call and yanked open the door. At the bottom of the step stood Gina, sporting more jewelry per square inch than Liberace. Her white hair contrasted with a deep tan. “Oh good, you’re up. Here’s that cocktail dress you were going to alter for me. Remember I told you about it yesterday at the beach?”

  “I’m in the middle of a call.” Karen pointed at the Do Not Disturb sign, which she had put up specifically to ward off unplanned visits from the CRS ladies.

  “This will only take a sec.” Gina unfurled a bundle of fabric and held it against her chest. “See? It’s too tight across the boobs. Not that I’m bragging. Well, really, I am. But I know you can fix it.”

  “Gina, this isn’t a good time.”

  “Look how beautiful it is. Here, I’ll just leave it with you, and you can get to it anytime. Well, any time before Saturday, which is when I need it.”

  “No, I’m sorry, I can’t. You’ll have to ask someone else. Now I have to get back to my call.” Karen closed the door, hoping Gina wouldn’t knock again. She didn’t want to be rude, but if she’d learned anything last summer in Cheyenne, it was that sometimes you had to put yourself first.

  When she returned to her laptop, Ursula was frowning. “I only have five more minutes.”

  “Here’s a suggestion. Why don’t I rank the candidates in order of their qualifications and identify my top choices? I know what you’re looking for, and that will save you time.”

  “Good idea. Thank you.” They said good-bye, and the screen went blank.

  Karen breathed a sigh of relief. She’d suggested that in the first place, but Ursula had wanted to micromanage the recruitment. Perhaps this was a sign that she would trust Grace and Associates to handle her business.

  Twenty minutes later, she sent the email, stored her props, and opened the windows. A boat motor started up, and a tropical breeze floated in the window, calling her out to play. Feeling she’d earned a break, and eager to feel the sun on her face and the wind in her hair, she slapped on sun block, threw some snacks into her back pack, and hurried out the door. She unfastened the chain around the frame of her Buddy scooter, a cheap version of the sleek Italian brand. Karen had bought it to travel around the campground without having to use her truck. The little bike purred along the shoulder of the Overseas Highway, zipping past the line of cars always present during the tourist season. Turning in at Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park, Karen waved her pass at the attendant and headed for the rental boats.

  “Haven’t seen you for a couple days,” said the clerk.

  “I’ve been busy working. Do you have any kayaks left?”

  “A bunch. You need a map?”

  “No, I’m good.” When she had first rented a kayak, Karen would prop the map on her knees while paddling through the mangrove swamp, afraid of getting lost. Her movements had been clumsy, the front of the craft jerking back and forth with her strokes, until she learned that less movement from the paddle propelled her in a straighter line.

  Karen tossed the backpack into the kayak, slid it into shallow water, and climbed in, awkwardly pushing off against the sand. The sounds of the marina faded as the kayak slipped around the point and into the mangroves. Her shoulders relaxed, and Karen let out a big sigh. She loved camping with the CRS ladies, but sometimes a person just had to get away.

  The gentle late-morning breeze cooled her as she paddled, and she relished the freedom of being able to explore the forest on her own. No one else was within sight or hearing. The only sound was the whistle and chirp of birds calling to each other from within the swamp. The water was crystal clear, the sea-grass bottom visible fifteen feet below. She raised the paddle out of the water and drifted, remembering a time when, as newlyweds, she and Steve had ridden in a hot-air balloon, marveling at the silence as they sailed over farmland and country roads. Except for the occasional heater jet, the balloon had floated in absolute quiet. The passengers had fallen silent, too, as if in reverence.

  She felt the same way now, all alone out on the water, rocking gently in the windblown waves, breezes rippling across the surface of the bay. She angled toward the mangroves, alerting a blue heron, which glared at her in indignation before lifting off on a seven-foot wingspan. Nearby, a turtle splashed into the water from its resting place on a tree root. Karen tied up to a root, in the shade of the overhead canopy. Between her own self-imposed workload and the competing clamor of the CRS ladies, a solo kayak trip was the perfect respite. She cracked the seal on her water bottle and unwrapped a granola bar, finally able to relax.

  LATER THAT DAY, SHE went looking for a present for Eleanor, the oldest and most reclusive of the CRS ladies. Eleanor had been under the weather lately and wasn’t expected to show for the Christmas Day beach party. Karen remembered seeing a gift shop a few miles south. With the windows rolled down, she turned onto the highway, with Jimmy Buffett on CD, since the old pickup truck had been built before Bluetooth.

  In the month she’d been in the Keys, she hadn’t played tourist much. Now she dawdled along the crowded highway, eyeballing the cute pastel cottages nestled in a jungle-like backdrop. Overhead, cottony-white clouds scudded across the tropical blue sky. Key Largo, familiar yet exotic, was on the same latitude as the Bahamas. At times, the
clouds would darken the sky, and an occasional raindrop would land on her windshield, but then the sun would come out again and dazzle the eyes.

  A mile south of the campground, the island broadened, allowing for a smattering of residential neighborhoods. On impulse, Karen turned down a side street. The trees, bushes, and flowers were so different from what she was used to. Almost every yard had a planting of fishtail palms, and many properties were right on the water. If she drove slowly enough, she could peer through the sapodilla and gumbo-limbo trees to the water’s edge, where old pilings spoke of sunken docks and the power of past storms. From time to time, a resident would look up and see her, and Karen would give a neighborly wave, which was always returned.

  At the end of a rustic lane, the pavement turned into a dirt path leading to the water less than fifty yards away. Karen rolled to a stop, and the coastal breeze carried the tang of brine through the open cab. The beach in front of her was deserted. She caught movement on the periphery of her vision, and saw a lone windsurfer gliding high over the water before dipping down and lifting off again. Mesmerized, she studied his movements, the way he’d catch the breeze and float so naturally. She imagined herself under the sail, and the sense of freedom and longing made her dizzy. The air felt soft, almost weightless, as it brushed her skin. It smelled of jasmine and citrus. She sighed, amazed that people could live in such an Elysian setting.

  Maybe if she worked hard, she could make enough money to retire completely in a couple of years. She pictured herself lying around in a hammock all day, reading tabloid magazines and sipping rum punch.

  A watery splat of bird poop hit the windshield. So much for her dreams.

  She started the truck, rolled up the windows, and hit the wiper/wash button. The bird was right. After two weeks, her natural restlessness would kick in and she’d be looking for something to do. All her life, she’d struggled to find the balance between work and leisure. Work usually won. She’d been told it was a failing, but she enjoyed her career. Until her marriage ended, and reality hit her in the face.