Gretchen Rovick was a Kreel County deputy sheriff, and apparently her beat included Deer Lake. She agreed to meet me at the Deer Lake Cafe after she finished her shift. I was an hour early, and it had been thirsty work driving three hours northeast from the Twin Cities—although I was familiar with the terrain since my wife’s parents lived about forty miles south—so I stopped for a taste, parking in front of The Last Chance Saloon. The Last Chance Saloon was next door to The Next to Last Chance Saloon. It turned out to be the same bar with two entrances; a hokey gag, but I liked it.
All bars give off vibrations; you can tell what kind of joint it is just by walking through the door, and The Last Chance felt like a place where you’d best keep your wits about you. It was dimly lit and furnished with cheap Formica tables and metal chairs with torn cushions—the kind my mother had in her kitchen before Dad got his raise. The floor was grubby with sawdust that might have come from Washington’s chopped-down cherry tree, and the remains of what must have been an impressive herd of deer hung from all four walls. A portly man wearing both belt and suspenders sat on a high stool behind a terribly nicked and battered bar, supporting his considerable bulk with his elbows, ready to speak but only if spoken to. He scrutinized my rate of consumption with a practiced eye, waiting for the opportunity to offer me another beer.
Had this been his life’s ambition, this man who looked as though he had drunk too much of the profits over the years? Had he always wanted to run a broken-down beer joint in a one-horse Wisconsin town? I wondered what he thought of the idea now. What do you do when your dreams come horribly, hopelessly true?
I drained the glass, pushed it toward him. He refilled it, set it back in front of me, took my five-dollar bill, brought back the change. “Eldon,” a voice called at the end of the bar, and he followed it. He did not speak to me. Didn’t look like he intended to.
It was nearing four in the afternoon, and the bar was half filled with men—no women—who tossed rough jokes from one table to another, jokes that were politically incorrect to the extreme and fairly funny—jokes that they would never tell their wives and daughters. I was wearing a blue sports coat over my white button-down shirt and faded jeans, which meant I was overdressed for The Last Chance and therefore a figure of some suspicion. Several regulars regarded me carefully with the narrow squint of rural folk accustomed to strangers who talked fast and said little. I pretended not to notice.
However, I couldn’t help but notice the argument raging at a nearby table. Two men spoke loudly as if they were in their own kitchen, not caring a fig who might be listening. I put the older man at sixty. Hard. You could roller skate on him. The younger man was twenty, twenty-five maybe, and soft, with a pockmarked face and a pale complexion. Life in the great outdoors hadn’t done him any good at all. Jab a cigarette in his mouth and lean him against the lamppost outside the bus depot in downtown St. Paul, and he’d look just like any other punk you’ve ever seen.
“You don’t believe me, you go on down to The Forks Casino and Restaurant. Take a look at the number of little kids locked inside the cars while their parents are gamblin’ away the grocery money,” the older man said.
“Can’t stop folks from being shitty parents. Just look at you, old man,” replied the younger. “But you can put money in their jeans. That’s what a gamblin’ casino does, gives people work. Looka what happened when the Indians built The Forks.”
“What happened? What happened?”
“We got businesses movin’ in.”
“What businesses? The Forks ain’t brought no business here exceptin’ the pawnshop. Isn’t that great? We got a pawnshop now. And the resort that bitch is buildin’ on Lake Peterson, across from where they say they’re gonna build a new casino? That’s gonna take business outta town, not bring it in.”
“Yeah? Well, it’s good for whores,” the younger man insisted. “Too bad your old lady croaked. You coulda put her out and made a fortune.”
The older man wiped his face slowly and deliberately with his hand as if the punk had just spit on him and he was deciding what to do about it. He stood.
“You aimin’ to try me, old man?” The punk jumped to his feet and gestured with both hands for the older man to come ahead. The older man took one determined step forward. As he did, the younger man reached into his hip pocket and brought out a knife. The blade sprang from the handle like a flash of lightning. The older man backed away.
The younger man giggled. “C’mon, c’mon, you’ve been asking for this.”
“Excuse me,” I said. While the punk was terrorizing the older man, I crept quietly behind him. He spun at my voice, the blade of the knife held low. I grabbed his knife hand, making sure my thumb was tight between his third and fourth knuckles, and then simply dislodged the switchblade with my knee. When he dropped the weapon, I pushed him backward, not enough to knock him down but far enough to be able to retrieve the knife from the floor unmolested. I went back to my stool and closed the switchblade, tossing it on the bar top.
“You may continue,” I said.
What a smart-ass. No wonder the older man turned on me. “Any of this your affair?” he shouted.
Before I could answer, he was on me, covering the floor like a cat. I pushed myself off the stool and fell to my knees, ducking under his haymaker and punching him in the groin. I followed with an elbow to the jaw, and he went down. Only he didn’t stay down long. He rolled and sprang at me again. Again I hit him and again he fell. I stole a glance at the punk. He watched for a few moments, grew bored, and turned his attention to a pinball machine in the corner as the older man struggled to his feet. It took him a little longer this time, but he made it, licking at the blood that now flowed freely from a tear in his upper lip. He smiled—actually smiled!—giving me the impression that he had been in many a barroom fight in his time and that he was enjoying himself immensely.
I almost shouted at him, “Hey, old man, you win, I’ll go quietly”—anything to get out of that place in one piece. But I didn’t have the chance. He charged at me again. This time I was able to brush him aside, letting his momentum carry him into an empty chair and table. “Jesus, how do I get into these things?” I asked aloud, shivering with the realization that I needed to hurt this big hard-ass and soon. Hurt him before he hurt me.
He was back on his feet, quicker this time, but the murderous light in his eyes flickered out as he looked over my shoulder toward the door.
“You just about finished here, Johnny, or do I have time to go out for popcorn?”
The voice was soft and low, but it resonated with the hard ring of authority. It belonged to a woman wearing a deputy sheriff’s uniform. I turned just enough to see her moving toward us while still keeping a wary eye on the older man.
“Whoa, boys, it’s Deputy Sweet Cheeks!” yelled a patron with a Green Bay Packers cap on his head.
“Sweet enough to use your balls for batting practice if you call me that again,” she replied, looking at him without a trace of malice.
“Police harassment!” someone shouted.
“No, that’s sexual harassment,” she countered, smiling sweetly. Everyone had a good laugh, including the Packer backer, his buddy slapping him on the shoulder, saying, “She got you good that time.” The tension in the room dissipated quickly. All those country boys, they were on her side now. How to Win Friends and Influence People with Humor. I wished I could do that.
Still, Johnny raised his fist as the deputy approached. She casually slapped it down. “Cut it out, you guys,” she said for everyone to hear and then asked in a low whisper, “Are you really going to hit me in front of all these folks, Mr. Johannson? I mean, you could, but it ain’t gonna look good, you know? ‘Hear ’bout Johnny?’ people will say. ‘Punched hisself a little girl over to The Last Chance.’ People around here be jokin’ on you for a hundred years. They’d be sayin’ you ain’t no gentleman.”
That last remark caused Johnny’s head to flinch ever so slightly. And then he l
owered his eyes. Cops are taught to read body language, and Johnny’s told me that while he’d be happy to stomp my heart into the floor, he would never hit a woman. I wondered if the deputy had seen it. Apparently she had.
“Best you step outside with me. In private,” she said to Johnny. “Later, you can tell these jokers that it goes against your upbringing to punch me out. You can tell ’em I remind you of your daughter. How is Angel, anyway?”
“She’s doin’ good,” Johnny answered in a soft voice, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve. “She’s thinkin’ of movin’ up to Superior end of summer. Maybe finish school.”
“Is that right? Good. Well, let’s you and me step outside. You, too,” she said, gesturing toward me with her chin. “Superior, huh?” she added as we moved toward the door. “Gotta remember to pay my respects before she leaves.”
Gretchen Rovick had short, straight, sun-splashed hair tucked neatly under her wide-brimmed hat, eyes that nearly matched the mahogany trim of her deputy suit, a small, round face, and an athletic figure. She was one of the few women I’ve met who actually looked good in a uniform.
“It was my fault,” I admitted when she asked the inevitable question: What happened? “I interfered in a private dispute.”
“Dispute?”
“My boy got a little outta hand,” Johnny Johannson said. “I guess this young fella thought he was doin’ me a service. Weren’t necessary.”
“Your boy?! That was your son?!” I asked. He did not answer.
“Are you pressing charges, Mr. Johannson?”
“No, ma’am,” he answered without looking at me.
“How about you?” she asked me.
“No ma’am,” I replied.
“Now all we have to worry about is Eldon,” Gretchen said, gesturing at the bar.
“Don’t worry none about him, Deputy,” Johannson said. “Him and me go way back. ’Sides, I don’t think nothin’ got broke.”
“Well, maybe I should arrest you both, anyway. Can’t have people fightin’ in public places, know what I mean?”
Johnny nodded his head.
“If there’s a next time …”
“Won’t be a next time,” Johnny vowed contritely.
“All right, then,” Gretchen said, tossing her hands in the air, closing the incident. However, when Johannson headed back toward The Last Chance, Gretchen called after him, “You gotta do something about that boy, Mr. Johannson. He’s headed for big trouble again, just like in Minneapolis. And no slick lawyer is gonna get him out of it this time.”
Johannson nodded sadly, like he’d heard it all before.
Deputy Rovick watched Johannson’s retreating back for a moment, and then she turned and studied me carefully. There was no hostility in her eyes. Just interest.
“I should have listened to my mother,” I admitted. “She was forever telling me to mind my own business.”
“She was right.”
“That old guy, he likes to roughhouse.”
“Johnny’s all right,” she assured me, leading me up the street. “Measures a man by how hard he throws a punch is the problem.”
“Problem is the kid had a switchblade.”
“Classic sociopath,” she said in reply. “He was busted last year in Minneapolis for cutting a prostitute. Some shyster got him off.” The deputy sighed audibly and looked back at the saloon. She knew she was going to have to deal with Johannson’s boy sooner or later. But not today. Not alone. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”
“Yes, I’m hungry,” I told her.
“Good, you can buy,” she said, leading me across the street to a restaurant called The Height.
“The height of what?” I asked sarcastically.
“The height of fine cuisine,” the deputy replied. “People in the Cities aren’t the only ones who like to eat well.”
The restaurant was spacious and brightly lit. The furniture was obviously well cared for, and there was nary a deer rack in sight. The deputy led us to a table in the corner from where she could watch the door, the bar, and the stage. A rugged-looking thirty-something playing a twelve-string acoustic guitar rehearsed a Blind Lemon Jefferson song from a stool on the stage. I was fairly amazed to hear the blues in Deer Lake and told the deputy so.
“We have music, too,” she informed me.
I listened to him pick, a Native-American so far removed from his ancestors, from Crazy Horse and Red Cloud and Roman Nose and all those other badass warriors who would have pushed the White Eyes back into the sea if only they had better weaponry, that he could have dropped the Native, hyphen and all, and no one would have noticed. Except him. His name was Lonnie Cavander, and Deputy Rovick informed me that his greatest disappointment in life was that he was not allowed to carry a feathered war lance wherever he went. Instead, he settled for a buck knife the size of a buffalo horn.
“A blues-playing Sioux,” I marveled.
“Dakota,” Rovick corrected me. “Dakota means friend or ally. Sioux is what the Europeans called the Dakota. I don’t know what it means. Snake or something like that. Anyway, Lonnie isn’t a Dakota. He’s an Ojibwa. Chippewa to the uninformed.”
I listened to Lonnie Cavander practice, and when he finished the song I applauded. He smiled at me and nodded.
“Do you know any T-Bone Walker?” I asked.
He shook his head. “You have to be electrified to play Walker. Only way to get those wails. How about this?” he said and started playing a complicated riff that danced on the edge of my memory until I shouted out, “Charlie Patton!”
“Man knows his blues!” Lonnie shouted back.
I was so engrossed in the song that I didn’t notice the waitress until she was at the table and Deputy Rovick said, “Hello, Ingrid.” I looked up to find a woman with shoulder-length blond hair that had the effect of motion, sunset blue eyes, and skin the color of buttermilk. Of course her name was Ingrid. What else could it be?
Ingrid reminded us that The Height wasn’t open for dinner yet but would be in a half hour if we cared to wait. We did, and she suggested the walleye special in a warm, pleasing manner that made her seem even more physically attractive than she really was, which is saying quite a lot. If she had recommended roadkill and a side of tree bark, I would have gobbled it up.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Leaded or unleaded?”
“Leaded.”
“Good for you,” Ingrid said. “We take the fun out of everything these days. We take the caffeine out of our coffee and the sugar out of our chocolate and the alcohol out of our beer and then pretend we enjoy it. If something is unhealthy, we should stop using it altogether, not ruin it.”
“I agree,” I said a little too enthusiastically.
“Well, of course you do,” Ingrid told me and smiled. I watched her as she walked across the restaurant, pausing first at the stage to give Lonnie a listen, her eyes closed to the music. I believe we all eventually reach a peak, a time in our lives when we are as smart and quick and strong and beautiful as we will ever be. Some of us reach it when we are in high school or college, others in middle age, still others just before they are ready to give it up. If we’re lucky the peak will last a year or two. If not, only a few fleeting moments. I suspect mine had come and gone long ago. And as I watched the woman swaying gently to Lonnie Cavander’s music, I wondered if this was hers.
“The most beautiful woman in Kreel County,” Deputy Rovick informed me.
“Most beautiful woman in any county,” I said, then caught myself. I hadn’t realized I was going to say that. After a few embarrassed moments I said, “At the risk of demonstrating my ignorance yet again, what is she doing in Deer Lake, Wisconsin?”
“Ingrid owns the place.”
“The whole town?”
“Just the part you’re sitting in.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You were expecting a bunch of inbred hicks dressed in overalls
and sucking on jugs of mash, weren’t you?”
“You have to admit that pretty much describes the clientele over at The Last Chance.”
“Do I?”
“Perhaps it’s my imagination, but your speech did seem to contain certain countrified colloquialisms that magically disappeared once you crossed the street.”
“You’ve got me there,” the deputy said and then presented her hand. “I’m Gretchen Rovick,” she said as if we had just met.
“Holland Taylor,” I answered, accepting the charade. Now we could start over.
We discussed Alison for an hour or more, Gretchen contributing extended anecdotes—like the time Alison embarrassed an American history teacher who couldn’t see how the rivalry between Andrew Jackson and his southern-born vice president over Jackson’s mistress, Peggy O’Neal, had contributed to the outbreak of the Civil War. Or the time she purposely answered all one hundred questions in a true-false test wrong to see how her teacher would react. (Alison argued it was impossible to get one hundred percent wrong unless you knew all the correct answers. The teacher gave her an F anyway.)
Often Gretchen would slip into the present tense. “I still can’t believe Alison’s gone,” she’d say when she caught herself.
Gretchen and Alison had been childhood friends, growing up across the street from each other. Occasionally Alison would accompany the Rovick family on weekend retreats to Deer Lake, where they kept a cabin. And when Alison’s other friends began to shun her after she was certified a genius, Gretchen remained steadfast and true.
“It wasn’t her fault she was smarter than everyone else,” Gretchen declared as if intelligence was a handicap.
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