The Other Oregon

by Steve Anderson

  “Well, I was the one who shot you.”

  “True. Whoever washed them did a good job. Left them folded on my bed too. Was that Karen?”

  Gunnar shook his head.

  “You did it? I don’t see a maid around here.”

  Gunnar nodded. “We used to have one, but Karen didn’t think we needed one since dad’s around so much.”

  “You do most of the laundry, I bet.”

  Gunnar nodded. “She drives a really nice Jag.”

  “A Jaguar, huh? I’ve never actually seen it.”

  “That’s ’cause she’s never here. Three liter V-six, three-forty horses, supercharger. You should see the color. Dad calls it champagne. She calls it cashmere. Dad says she never drives it fast though. She doesn’t let him drive it.”

  “Huh.” Greg rocked in his chair, twice, three times. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is your mom? You never told me.”

  Gunnar stared. His fingertips had pressed to his thighs.

  “That’s okay. You can’t answer. I understand,” Greg said.

  Gunnar’s face had reddened. “Why did you go looking in my room?” he said.

  Greg let out a nervous laugh. He stopped rocking.

  Gunnar relaxed his stance. He glanced out at the grounds and tiptoed over to the screen door to listen to the house. “It’s okay. No one’s here.”

  Greg could feel the warmth of red in his own face, threatening to break him out in sweat. “I guess I wanted to make sure you’re not getting into any trouble.”

  “You knew dad before, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. A long time ago.”

  “You saw the branding iron, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I did.” Greg had turned to Gunnar, to look up at him. He had to be careful here. No one knew he recognized the name Double Cross, or even the two Xs. “There were two Xs on it. What are those for? Some other ranch? Karen, your dad, they already have a ranch.”

  Gunnar smiled. He shook his head, and Greg wasn’t sure if it was at Greg’s question or at the prospect of a militia running a ranch. Gunnar lost the smile. He said, “Wayne Carver, he says the two Xs stand for a Double Cross—for the two, uh, indigties this area’s suffered, from the state government, and from federal government.

  “I think he means ‘indignities.’”

  “It’s like injustice,” Gunnar said.

  “It can be, yes. Do you believe that?”

  “You know what I think? I think it’s for show. Like some guy gets a shiny new truck to feel bigger. Or he gets a bigger shotgun when all’s he needs is a .22. He’s really just a big scared baby.”

  Greg nodded to that. A silence fell, in which two adult men would have sipped their beers, reflected, and sighed.

  “Look, just, don’t tell dad I had it, okay?” Gunnar said.

  “Okay. Is it some kind of proof of something?”

  Gunnar glanced at Greg, then stared at the porch floorboards as if they were words to read. Greg gave Gunnar all the time he needed. He took a couple imaginary sips of beer. He looked out. Beyond the ranch outbuilding, a cloud of sheep gathered and began to sit all along a line like so many dominoes.

  “If you don’t tell him, I’ll tell you something,” Gunnar said.

  “Okay. Deal. I told you I wouldn’t.”

  “Wayne Carver, he’s the one who’s been messing with your rental car and that bike of yours.”

  “I know. But thank you. He’s supposed to stop.”

  “He won’t though. He thinks you’re up to something. I overheard him. He says you might not be who you say. Says, they should test you more. See what you’re made of. See what your secret is.”

  Greg forced out a laugh. “See what I’m made of? What does that even mean? Did he really say that?”

  “He did. Said it just like that,” Gunnar said, and went back to reading the floorboards.

  20

  So, Wayne wanted to test him. Wayne wanted to get at his secret. Greg got another chill from another horrid thought: What if Wayne did know about the lake? That would be almost as bad as Torres knowing, maybe even worse. His panic was back, building up inside him, pressing at his ribs and squeezing organs and making him consider drastic measures. He drove onward into town. Gunnar had wanted to go along, but Greg said that wasn’t a good idea because he had some things to take care of; then Gunnar wanted to know how long he would be, but Greg said for as long as it took, so Gunnar made Greg a peanut butter sandwich in case Greg got hungry. Good kid.

  Gunnar should have nothing to do with this. The less Gunnar was seen with him, the better. In town Greg cruised Callum Street, nice and slow, then back through the main drag again, eyeing every shop window. No Donny. No Wayne. Greg didn’t know Donny’s mobile number; Donny had never offered it. Not knowing what else to do, he entered city hall, which occupied the second floor of the Callum Building and was an insult to its grand exterior—all fake wood paneling and Formica like a set from The Rockford Files. It was pretty much vacant. He found the mayor’s office. An elderly secretary sat behind a dulling Plexiglas screen that she pushed open as if Greg had come to pay a bill. Greg asked if the mayor was in, not knowing what he was going to say to the man, just going with it. The mayor was on a fishing trip, the secretary said, wouldn’t be back for a week at least. Greg asked, was his son with him, “Wayne, was it?” The secretary snickered, said she doubted that very, very much, “Not unless Wayne was aiming to do him in.”

  Down Callum Street he saw Tam in front of Tam’s, leaning on a broom almost like she was waiting for him. He asked her if she’d seen Wayne Carver. You might try his feed store, she said. Greg went over there. It was a 1960s prefab building just beyond one end of town, a big sign reading Carver Farm Supply mounted high on a thick pole as if it was meant to stand along a freeway. The front was dressed up like a chain store with colorful sale banners, but the lettering and phrases were outdated as if recycled year after year. The parking lot was empty. Closed sign on the door, not open on Tuesdays. Greg moved along the tractors for sale out front, using them as cover to eye the store windows. No lights on, no one inside. He even walked around the building, passed the loading dock out back. No one parked there, no pickup truck. Greg, calming down now, told himself this was all a good thing. He really did not know what he would have done if Wayne was here. If it were just him and Wayne, he could have gotten away with just about anything. But then so could have Wayne.

  A Jaguar sedan, recent model. Greg had sensed a flash of champagne color in the corner of his eye, then jerked his head to see the parked car as he passed. He was cutting through a quaint old tree-lined block on the nice side of town, the houses set back and surrounded by mighty hedges from about a hundred years ago when Pineburg looked to be going places. The white house had ornate woodwork decorating the eaves and windows and manicured shrubs up to the windows. It had a white picket fence, recently painted. The Jaguar was parked inside the carriage house next to the home and the door was still open, the only reason Greg had a glimpse of that gleaming color. Cashmere, Gunnar said she called it.

  He took his foot off the gas and coasted a few houses further, then turned at the next street and rolled to a stop, parked. Turned off the engine. He pulled on a hoody from the back seat that he hadn’t been seen wearing. He had a bucket hat and he put that on, and sunglasses.

  Karen Callum. The only player he had not considered, not really.

  The street had dissecting alleys open to backyards. Greg made his way down the alley, eyeing the houses. The first, second, and third looked dark and empty, and he imagined elderly people in them or that each was long vacant after an estate sale and one day would be turned into a bed and breakfast by some city-dwelling inheritor as soon as the area started to pick up. It was the same on the other side, with no toys in yards or signs of decay such as turkeys, pit bulls, and the requisite rusting fridge or car engine. This block was like a museum. The house he wanted had that picket fence out ba
ck as well, also newly painted, the back yard ringed by more manicured hedges and fruit trees. He stood in the lane, using a hedge for cover. The windows of this house looked dim too.

  The fence had a gate. He stepped sideways over to it. He pushed it open, making sure it didn’t squeak.

  He moved through the yard, acting natural, prepared to say he admired the house and wondered if it was for sale, even if he ran into Karen—what a coincidence.

  Something flew by him, then another little something, buzzing and humming. A hummingbird floated before him, then two and three, and they zipped away one after the other. He couldn’t help smiling at that and noticed the porch had more than one hanging hummingbird feeder. He stepped around, eyeing the dim windows, and caught contours of a living room, a kitchen and, at one corner, what could be a den.

  He stopped, frozen.

  He’d seen shapes moving, like the color of that Jag but brighter, flushed, glowing.

  Two people naked, on a chaise lounge. Kissing, caressing, laughing.

  It was two women. Karen Callum was one. He couldn’t mistake her dark flowing hair, those curves. Her lover had clipped hair and was shorter, thicker, more bulk than curves. He couldn’t stop staring. His feet moved him to the side, just behind a hedge. Their lovemaking looked at first glance almost violent in its fury and pace, like flailing, but then he saw its purpose. Caring. Devotion. Tenderness. Like they were painting each other as murals. They turned his way. He ducked. When he peeked again, into a corner of the window, they had turned again, into another position. And he had the sense that they would not have seen him anyway, such was their blind passion.

  He ran off.

  21

  Greg’s phone rang again. Someone was calling him again. The screen read Unknown Caller. He kept eying his screen for a voicemail but whoever it was would not leave one. This was not helping his mood, not helping him think. After seeing Karen Callum and her lover, he had gotten back in his car, pulled off his hoody, drove over near Callum Street, parked, got out, and walked. Just walked. He wandered side streets, hands shoved into his pockets, kicking at gravel. He needed to think things out. Break it down.

  He should have known about Karen Callum; he had such good gaydar. The question was, what would Donny do? If Donny knew, the result might be the same: If Karen came out and owned who she was for the world, Donny might not be needed anymore as Charlie Adler. And Donny-Charlie could lose face all around, since the XX crew surely belonged to that dwindling minority who still thought gays an abnormality, an unknown entity, and so a menace. This could all drive Donny even farther from him, make Donny realize that their own secret was his last leverage, for someone. That someone could be the authorities. Greg doubted it. That someone could still be Wayne, however. So he had to find out what Donny knew without giving it away.

  His phone rang again. Unknown Caller, no message. This was the third time in about ten minutes. It could be Karen. But how would she have his number? Then he realized it could even be Emily. Was that why he didn’t want to answer? Because they were breaking up. There, he had thought it—he had never let himself think it before. But it was true.

  He had a sudden urge to call Emily. He owed her a call even if he couldn’t tell her much, but now his phone coverage wavered. To get it back, he picked up the pace and found himself on a side street of ramshackle old bungalows and mobile homes, the lane marred with cracks and potholes patched with dirt or gravel.

  Up ahead, he saw the three dealer teens, Jamie, Rory and April. He saw Gunnar. The three stood around Gunnar. Surrounded him. Gunnar had that same rigid stance as on the porch.

  Greg hurried over.

  Gunnar saw Greg and eased up, but the three stood between Greg and Gunnar. They had their loose clothing on—baggy jeans, oversized hoodies, cocked caps.

  One of the boys stepped forward, keeping his hands inside his hoody pockets. He had a tribal tattoo on his neck, Greg now saw. “We’re just talking, just talking is all,” the boy said.

  “What’s your name?” Greg said.

  “Jamie.”

  “Everything all right?” Greg said to Gunnar.

  Gunnar went to speak, but the other boy stepped forward, Rory.

  “Why don’t you three just leave him alone, all right?” Greg said to Rory.

  “Who the fuck you anyways?” April said to Greg. “We saw you fucking looking at us—”

  A shout: “All of you! Halt right there!”

  It came from behind Greg. Greg whipped around.

  Wayne Carver charged out from a cross street. Slung across his back was a hunting rifle, with a scope.

  Jamie and Rory backed up, and April slotted in behind them.

  Gunnar moved to the side, his eyes shifting between Greg and Wayne coming at them all.

  Wayne kept coming. He pulled off his cap and stuffed it in his front pocket, kept coming.

  “What you gonna do, huh? What?” Rory said to Wayne. “Think you’re so fucking big with your gun, just makes you a bigger pussy.”

  Wayne charged at Rory, passing Greg.

  “Don’t! Stop!” Greg shouted.

  Wayne stopped and pivoted as if only now noticing Greg.

  “They’re kids. They just need help,” Greg said.

  “You can’t do fuckin’ nuthin’ anyways,” Rory said. “What are you gonna do?”

  Wayne turned and lunged at Rory and punched Rory hard across the bridge of his nose. Rory landed on his back, striking the rim of a pothole. Blood gushed out his nose.

  Wayne kicked Rory across the head, in the gut.

  Jamie and April ran off. Wayne stood tall over Rory. He let Rory pull himself up. Rory fled, following after Jamie and April. April turned to pull Rory along as if Wayne was still charging them all.

  Wayne turned to Greg and Gunnar, panting like snorts from a bull.

  Gunnar looked to Greg. His eyes told Greg to get going.

  Greg held his ground.

  Wayne got in Greg’s face, bringing a reek like that bull’s snort.

  “Those aren’t no kids, not anymore,” Wayne said. “They’re animals.”

  “You’re just making it worse on them.”

  “You, you’re just a goddamn tourist. What do you know? We’re just playing you. Charlie Adler is. We all are.” Wayne waved at air. Greg flinched. “And you know what? You’re on your last legs.”

  Before Greg could answer Wayne turned to Gunnar, said, “You okay, son?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” Gunnar said.

  “I won’t tell your father. Just stay away from them, you hear? They’re doing meth and who knows what.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wayne turned back to Greg, snickered at him, and marched off the way he came, clenching his rifle strap.

  Greg and Gunnar watched him disappear.

  Greg’s phone buzzed again. He let it ring. It stopped. “People really need to leave messages,” he muttered.

  Gunnar was staring at Greg. He had the wide eyes of someone under great stress. Of someone far older.

  “I hate it here. I hate him,” he said.

  Greg hated himself for just standing there. Sure, he had held his ground, but hadn’t he come into town to confront Wayne? Wasn’t that really what he was after? But he hadn’t expected Gunnar to be there. He didn’t want the kid implicated in any way. Something about the way Gunnar said he hated it here, his lips curling and shrinking as if wilted by a great heat, reminded Greg of Leeann Holt. It had tortured Gunnar just to say the words. Another thing Greg noticed: Gunnar didn’t seem to have much of Donny’s swagger or sense of humor or any of Donny, really. Greg tried not to think about what that could mean, of what shape Leeann was in now, wherever she was. All he knew was that he had to help counteract the force of Wayne and the obstinacy in Donny. Adults were only outsized expressions of who they were and what they were doing as kids. So where would that leave Gunnar ten or twenty years from now if Greg didn’t do something to deal with Donny, to shield Gunnar, and to protect his
own secret.

  He thought it for the first time: He would kill Wayne Carver if that was what it took.

  He got back to Callum Street and found his car where he had parked it, in the corner of a secluded parking lot, shaded by trees. He got in.

  His passenger door flew open.

  FBI Agent Rich Torres dropped into the passenger seat, slammed the door shut. He looked like a local in worn work clothes, a beard that had to be fake, and an old cap.

  Greg almost wanted to laugh. He gasped, blurted, “What are you doing here?”

  “You kidding me? Who the fuck you think you are, going around my back?” Torres’ mouth had scrunched up in a scowl, and his face bore deep lines like scars. He kept one hand fisted. “I’ve been calling and calling you.”

  A rush to Greg’s head told him to hate the sharper tone of Torres’ voice. To spite it. But he took a moment, sighed, and let the heat disperse. “How long have you been here?” he said.

  “Long enough to know a lot more than you,” Torres said.

  “No one said I couldn’t go on a trip,” Greg said, avoiding eye contact. He shook his head, looking out the window at the wind whipping through the few tall treetops.

  “I should just arrest you,” Torres said through clenched teeth. “What I should do.”

  Maybe he deserved Torres’ full wrath. Donny probably did. But the last thing Gunnar needed was a state-assigned home. So Greg said nothing, just sat there. Obstinacy enveloped him, covering him like an extra layer between skin and muscle.

  Torres eyed him. “Well? Say what you’re going to say. Say it.”

  “All right. Who’s to say that a guy can’t start over?”

  “Oh, so you think you can help Donny? That’s why you came here?” Torres blew through his closed lips, sounding like a balloon losing air. “Man. I thought you were kind of a pussy, but I never thought you were this much.” He shrugged and added in a calmer voice, “It doesn’t matter, whatever you’re thinking. You’re in now. You don’t have a choice. You had a choice before.”

  “I know where I am.”

  “Do you?”