“Tyler! Most of the space in this ridiculous dorm-room fridge is taken up by Coke. There’s no room for all of the bacon and the eggs that I brought.” John said as he stood up and slammed a big wrapped package of bacon on the counter by the sink. “You either need to get a bigger fridge, or learn to drink your soda warm.”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking of getting a bigger one just for my Coke, and keeping the small one for food … you can see that I don’t cook/keep/store much in the way of fresh food up here. That package of bacon looks volumetrically similar to four cans of Coke laying on their side, so if you grab four Cokes off of the top shelf, it should just fit.”
He did, it did, and I started working my way through the first can … wishing that it was a few degrees colder and tasted as good as the Cokes I’d enjoyed in Canada earlier this month.
“I took care of my end of things yesterday afternoon and last night. Sophia packed and was gone with tears and shouts before dinner, and once I walked her off the property and waited for her grandfather to come for her, I had a few hours before I could do the rest. The store windows were more difficult than I anticipated. Who knew that a one-horse town like Saranac Lake would make me wait so long for an empty street and a clean getaway. I managed to get both picture-windows and the stained glass one over the door before the sounds of the first breaking started echoing back at me. The Escalade was easy-peasy. I’m assuming that you got to your guys last night as well?”
“Mission accomplished.” I said, “You could do a drive-by in that Helgafell Farm truck and be seen by each of the four guys before the end of the day to really drive the point home to the guilty party,” I must have been tired, because I almost forgot, “although Sophia talking to them is probably enough … couldn’t hurt to show the colors.” I meant this both literally and figuratively, as the Helgafell Farm truck was painted in blue and white, and unmistakable to anyone who had seen it once.
“Good idea, Tyler” John agreed. “Whatever the guilty one had planned is out of the question now anyway … I’ve changed some of our security and procedures a bit, but I’m happy to broadcast the warning. It’s a bit of a shame not to be able to neck-stomp this guy, just on general principles, but that’s the old me talking, and the new me should be satisfied with a cessation of hostilities.”
I nodded, and waited for the final, anticipated (by me, at least) shoe to drop … it did.
“So … it’s good bacon and all, Tyler, but the last few days has me wondering. Why did you do all of this for me, for the farm, for Nick? We’re nothing to you, really. So why help, why stick your neck out, why last night’s shenanigans?” He looked my way as I polished off the second Coke and cracked the third (thinking about cozies or something to keep multiple cans cool while I drank my way through them). I ordered my thoughts and reasons (real and false, the ones I would share, and those I would keep to myself) for 17 seconds before answering
“You first gained my attention with the threat of violent retribution on your part when you wrongly assumed that I shot the birds. I like a mystery. I dislike people hurting/killing animals. I had/have some interest in keeping Sophia safe and even good shots sometime miss, not to mention her or other people getting hurt during a break-in. And … I like the bacon the farm makes.”
John nodded and took out an envelope, thick and heavy with something, and chunked it down on the table between us and said, “I guess that I’m just old-fashioned, but I’d feel better if our relationship could be more traditional in terms of remuneration.”
I pushed the envelope back toward him with my Coke can. “I didn’t do it for money … ten thousand dollars is far too much or too little for what I’ve done, if you follow.”
“I think that I do, but how did you know the envelope has ten-k in it?”
“It’s about a half-inch thick … each bill is 0.0043 inches thick … 100 of them is 0.43 inches, plus your nice heavyweight envelope makes it half an inch. You don’t seem like the kind of guy to economize on the gesture with fifty dollar bills, so ten thousand dollars makes the most sense.”
“Ok, that all parses, but why do you know it?” John asked.
“It’s a fact, like thousands/millions of other facts that have passed in front of my eyes over the years … and like almost all of the rest, it stuck, and is a part of my brain now.”
“You know that you’re not like most 20-somethings, right Tyler?”
“I’m eighteen, John … and yes … I know.”
“So where does that leave us … moneywise?” John asked.
“I have enough money to last me, in style, through an improbably long life, and as I said before, it’s either too much or too little, depending on how each of us chooses to look at the last few days. I do like the bacon though, and also happen to know that Nick owns another place on the big island on Manicouagan Lake … I wouldn’t mind checking that out sometime …with your blessing.”
John looked mystified, which I’ve learned through the years is not a bad thing in this type of situation, so I didn’t explain how Cynthia had followed the trail from Helgafell through lawyers and shell-companies to the property up in Northern Canada.
“Consider it done. Get in touch with me a week or two before you want to head up, and I’ll get the keys and other stuff to you. Enjoy the bacon, and don’t be a stranger.” He said and left the SmartPig offices, sounding as though he meant the penultimate, but not the ultimate, things he said, and closed the door … I could barely hear his bulk walking down the ancient stairs which ordinarily creak and groan under my 130 pounds.
SmartPig Offices, 11:38am, 6/7/2002
I’d just begun entertaining thoughts of some sweat-inducing Chinese food when I could hear Maurice trudging and wheezing his way up the stairs to my door. I was still deciding which of my smiles to greet him at the door with, when he saved me the trouble by keying and dancing his way in, beaming and kissing me on both cheeks (something I could go years … decades … without having it happen again).
“Tyler, I don’t know if it was you, don’t care, but she came home last night … in tears!” He exclaimed in a way that left me uncertain of whether or not he was happy or sad or angry (his English is thick, and with a cigarette always in his mouth, his face doesn’t move much … which makes deciphering emotional cues, a difficult task for me in the best of times, even more difficult).
“I’m glad to hear that she’s home.” Seemed like a safe/neutral/prudent answer, regardless of his mood.
“She got up this morning, and called the Registrar at NCCC about registering for her classes again. She pulled her stuff down from the attic. I’ve got my girl back, yes?”
He seemed happy, so I smiled at him (my #1, ‘just happy that you’re happy’, my oldest, always fully convincing).
“I’m glad that it worked out, Maurice.” I didn’t know how to segue from the resolution of his issue to the implied connection with my office space, but he managed it just fine on his own when he saw the pile of camping gear in my corner.
“So, Tyler, when you gonna get rid of that stuff and get a bed? I know Phil, at Gartner’s, and his boy could get a nice bed up here this afternoon for you.”
“That’s a nice offer, Maurice, but I like camping … even in the cold, and plan on doing that most nights. If you’re OK with it, I’d like to spend a night (or a part of one, since I seldom sleep more than three hours at a time) on the couch from time to time … but not every night by any means.”
“Tyler, my friend, I don’t know what you did, or said, to that man, to those people,” (Maurice was stringing together clauses in a way that was making me nervous, and think of Faulkner), “for my Sophia, for me, for my family … you can sleep here or anywhere, as long as you want. You keep paying the rent, and don’t burn my building down, you can stay here forever.” He grinned toothily at me, and gave me a hug and a series of pats and squeezes (that, again, was miles outside of my comfort zone, a concept that he might have laughed at, or dismissed, if he
understood it).
“Thanks Maurice … that’s great.” I answered, when, after a few seconds, it became clear that he needed some response.
“Lookin’ at you, who could know you’d be so smart, so good at something like this? Not me, I’m not ashamed to tell you. I was desperate when I come to see you the other day, didn’t think anyone could help, ‘specially not some kid from downstate, sleeps outside most nights. But you did something right, something smart, brought my girl home to me, and she’s glad to be home. You figured things out good, Tyler.”
Maurice hugged me again, and was on his way a few minutes later, but I scarcely paid attention … the idea/notion/plan/seed was turning around in the back of my head … the lizard bit that work better/faster than processed cognition. I had ‘figured things out good’, and found an interesting way to pass the time, and was able to help some people out … it was not an unworthy thing.
I called down to the Chinese place and asked the cook to make me something really spicy with chicken and broccoli and garlic, and turned it all (what Maurice had said, the events of the last few days, and the shape of my life/world since the events of 9/11/2001) around and around.
The food was hot and fatty and spicy enough to make me sweat. And as I ate, I realized that I was, maybe, a consulting detective with a place in the world (where before I had had none).
Life was/is/will be good!
.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jamie Sheffield lives in the Adirondack Park with his wife and son and two dogs, Miles and Puck. When he's not writing mysteries, he's probably camping or exploring the last great wilderness in the Northeast. He has been a Special Education Teacher in the Lake Placid Central School District for 15 years. Besides writing, Jamie loves cooking and reading and dogs and all manner of outdoor pursuits.
Look for his debut novel
"Here Be Monsters"
And the ongoing adventures of Tyler Cunningham including “Mickey Slips”
and other works by the author.
Visit Jamie Sheffield’s website:
http://www.jamiesheffield.com
and at his Amazon Author Page.
Bound for Home (Tyler Cunningham Shorts) Page 7