by Glen Carter
“Saying what?”
“That you not right. Weird motherfucker, is what they say.”
Bolt was hurt. He’d helped most of them, including Li’l Ray, who had returned from Afghanistan a full-blown addict. Bolt offered to be his tutor if he stayed off the dope, which he did. Except for his schooling and such, Bolt kept to himself. Susie Ralph and her mom got more of him, and when Bobbi was for sure sober, they’d be taken care of.
Li’l Ray swept crumbs from his lap. “Maximo said he saw you going into some casino this morning. You know how he’s always beating the Strip with that cart.”
That was a problem. If old and half-blind Maximo had spotted him, he was not nearly as invisible as he needed to be. “What exactly did Maximo say?”
“He said if Bolt got money for the tables, he should invest it.”
“That would be good advice if it didn’t come from a convicted financial advisor.”
Li’l Ray frowned. “A good-looking man like you, Bolt. Muscles and all. You can get into all kinds of trouble in those places. Lots of easy money comin’ to pretty boys.”
Bolt laughed it off.
“Okay, that’s not your play.” Li’l Ray paused. “I meant no offence.”
“None taken.”
“Then I gotta ask, straight up, man,” Li’l Ray continued. “Who the fuck you be?”
Simple question. Or was it? Bolt stood up, walked to the fridge, and uncapped a soda. “I’m a thirsty man,” he quipped.
Li’l Ray gave up. He loaded a few things into his maintenance cart. “Little Susie’s party,” he said. “You a good man for that.”
“You got that right.”
Li’l Ray suddenly had the look of a man holding the secrets of creation. “You know what else, Bolt?”
“What?”
“I figure this Rutter dude might be an old friend you just forgot you had.”
“Why do you say that?”
“’Cause enemies you never forget.”
* * * * *
The Internet café on Las Vegas Boulevard was a Euro-style establishment with high-speed service and free hot beverages. The walls were hung with huge posters of European landmarks. Bolt got a coffee and sat beneath a poster of the Eiffel Tower, which was twice the height as the one down the Strip but not nearly as impressive.
He dropped in a handful of coins and logged on. He hit a few keys, and after a moment he was staring at Rutter’s photograph and bio.
Thirty minutes later, Bolt slid in more coins. The guy had a lot of history, which wasn’t surprising for someone running for president. Most of it was boring. Stuff about senate elections, which he’d won handily a bunch of times. His work on House committees and his voting record. He had seen combat in Iraq during the first Gulf War and had been taken prisoner. Men with him had died. Bolt read their names, slowly.
There were about a gazillion hits, and it would have taken Bolt a month to plow through Rutter’s climb to the Republican nomination. The stumping and gruelling primaries. He watched one video with the candidates at some convention, their arms thrust high into a storm of balloons and confetti. Bolt grabbed another coffee to wash away a bad feeling. There was a lot about Rutter’s personal life, where he was schooled, his hometown with its picturesque little harbour and colourful clapboard buildings. There was a picture of him aboard a boat, another showing him mid-swing on some golf course while his buddies looked on. He was married with no children.
Bolt clicked on a photo of the candidate. Smiling, shaking hands in a crowd. A woman was next to him. She was smiling, too, surrounded by a forest of Rutter placards. He enlarged the picture and stared, oblivious to the cup that clattered off the table and smashed into pieces.
14
The Greyhound rolled slowly from the station, belching blue smoke that Bolt tasted through the open window. The engine revved, and soon the Strip was a dazzling blur. Most of the passengers were already asleep. A white-haired senior occupied a seat across the aisle. She had a ball of wool on her lap, and knitting needles clicked and clacked, impossibly fast. Bolt watched her for a while.
“For my grandson,” she said, leaning across the seats.
“Excuse me?”
“A hat, for my grandson. Lives with his mother up in Billings. Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey up there.”
Bolt laughed. “That’s pretty cold.”
“You betcha. What’s your name, son?”
“Samuel.”
“Laura.”
“Nice to meet you, Laura.”
“Likewise.”
Clickety-clack. Another couple of stitches. Laura was fast as a loom. He guessed she’d knitted a lot of hats just like it. “How old is your grandson?”
“Six,” she said, beaming. “Sharp as a tack. And you wanna talk about handsome. You have any kids?”
“Afraid not.”
“Don’t worry. There’s lots of time.” Clickety-clack. Laura checked her work. “I’ll bet your granny kept you in socks and hats, too. Handsome boy like you.”
Bolt nodded a lie and smiled. No granny. No knitted hats. Just charity from the ladies’ auxiliary with their cardboard boxes full of second-hand clothes. He envied the boy up in Montana.
Laura suddenly stopped her knitting. Shifted closer to the aisle. “It’s none of my business,” she said, “but I’m an old woman and I’ve lived a long life. My husband always said wisdom begins at the end. He stole that from someone. One of his lesser sins, God rest his soul.”
She seemed like a nice old lady, and he would humour her for a while, but eventually he’d need sleep.
“You’ve got a kind face, Samuel,” Laura said. “Isn’t it funny how the best and worst of people is written on their faces?” She smiled warmly. Her eyes held him. Sparkled with the passing lights. “That’s nature’s way of warning you off bad people.”
Bolt nodded his agreement but kept his mouth closed out of respect for that wisdom she was talking about.
“I was not always good at that,” she continued. “Take my late husband, for instance. A good man, except when he drank. Problem was he drank all the time. Had good fists, too. The booze was his monster. My monster, too.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“So am I.” Laura paused. “You’re a good listener. Can I give you some advice?”
“I’ll take good advice anytime.” Even from an old woman he’d just met.
Laura reached over to touch his arm. “This might sound crazy, but there’s a reason you were put on this earth. I can see it, it’s all over you. Find that reason and cling to it. Don’t let anyone push you off your path.”
Bolt thought about it. Maybe that’s why he’d boarded the bus. “Did you find your reason?”
“Yes,” Laura said. “Survival. When my husband came at me with a knife.”
“Jesus.”
“No Jesus that night, or a hundred others,” she said sourly. “They said it was murder. I said it was self-defence. A jury believed them.”
Bolt didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t recall ever meeting a convicted killer before. She had no teardrop tattoos or shaved head. Just a ball of wool and a pair of deadly knitting implements. He supposed that on the inside she gifted her little goodies to the other inmates. Who wouldn’t love the soft-touch senior on the range?
“Got out a week ago. I’m going home now. My sister’s taking me in.”
Bolt nodded. “Grandson’s gonna be happy to see you.”
Sadness morphed onto Laura’s face. “My daughter never saw the monster in her dad. We haven’t spoken in years.” Laura picked at the wool on her lap. “I don’t know if my grandson ever gets his hats. I’ve never met him.”
He felt a deep sympathy for the old woman, but there was nothing mo
re he could say. Laura fussed with her wool, apparently not in the mood for talking anymore. Bolt got the hint. He slumped in his seat and stared out the window. Did he have a grandmother somewhere with a basket full of unworn hats? What about a father or grandfathers? Dead or alive? What was his reason for walking the earth? Was there some pointful life-code that he hadn’t deciphered yet?
He’d made a phone call before leaving for the bus station. Someone was looking forward to seeing him. He had been putting it off for a long time, and now was as good a time as any.
The Vegas lights faded to limitless black along a serpentine stretch of desert highway. The knitting needles went quiet. Laura was out like a light across the aisle. The sweet little old lady who had no choice when her murderous husband came at her. Snoring softly. Bolt felt sorry for her but felt sorrier for that little boy in Billings. The kid had never known his grandmother. Had never known her love or her strength. Surviving the worst of life. Maybe, one day, when the kid was all grown up, he’d need to find her. Bolt hoped so, and as he drifted off to sleep, he wondered what he was about to discover.
15
He dozed until the whoosh of an electric toilet woke him. Slivers of sunlight streaked through the windows. Bolt squinted at his watch. Four hours’ sleep and he was feeling refreshed. He looked across the aisle and saw that Laura was gone. He must have slept through the stop where she got off. His eyes were suddenly drawn to the seat next to him. Carefully laid out. A knitted hat with a note next to it.
Good luck Samuel. Whatever your reason. Laura.
Bolt smiled. He stuffed the note and hat into his knapsack and removed a breakfast of bottled water and a vacuum-wrapped muffin. He wondered whether Laura was having breakfast with her sister. Talking about the things sisters talk about. Maybe sharing a tear or two. A television on the seat ahead of him flickered to life, and he watched while he ate. It was a morning show, and the two anchors seemed to be really enjoying each other. Eventually, video was rolled, and there was Senator William Rutter, fishing rod in hand, on the aft deck of his boat. Even with a bit of a swell, the senator was showing good sea legs. In the next shot, the rod was in action. Rutter had a fish on, and with a little bit of editing, the fish was quickly aboard, and Rutter was getting high-fives from a couple of his buddies. The camera angle switched, and from a chase vessel behind the senator’s boat, the camera zoomed in on the vessel’s name.
Bolt said it aloud.
Mystic Blue.
* * * * *
A cab dropped Bolt off at the front of a building about ten minutes out of town. It was a sprawling stucco structure the colour of sand. A gleaming gold Cross towered over a tall, steepled, plate glass entrance. The parking lot was full of cars. A yellow school bus was stopped at the curb taking on a load of kids. Bolt knew exactly where they were headed. Back in the day, he’d ridden a bus just like it, going to the same place. He was usually the last aboard and took a seat at the back of the bus that was always left empty. The other kids called it “Bolt’s bench.”
Most of the memories of this place he had cast off long ago. Some he never would. Father Oscar was one of them, a kind and wise mentor in all things. Bolt had enormous respect for the man’s devotion to the security and comfort of so many children. He smiled as the short, rotund figure burst through the front door and barrelled toward him. The priest’s toothy smile and white skin blazed against the black garb of the Roman Catholic Church. They embraced warmly.
“Welcome home, Samuel,” Father Oscar said. “It’s been too long. But you’re to be forgiven.”
A decade had fattened him. Wisps of white hair streaked his bald head. Tiny blue eyes danced in a chubby face. He had a voice that boomed as if permanently amplified.
They stood there, slapping each other’s shoulders, and then Father Oscar led him into the building, talking as he went. It was all so familiar. The hallway portraits. A large glass case that displayed trophies and ribbons. The smell of floor wax and the echo of their footsteps. Five minutes later, they were in Father Oscar’s office. It was a sanctuary of dark wooden furniture piled high with books and newspapers. White walls were hung with the knick-knacks of his faith and many framed pictures, the largest of which was the benevolent face of the Holy Father.
Father Oscar sat quietly for a moment, taking the measure of him. “Living among sinners has apparently done you no ill,” he finally said.
Bolt was ready for it. “Hate the sin. Love the sinner.”
“Good for you, Samuel,” Father Oscar said. “Although Gandhi wasn’t one of us, he always meant well.”
Bolt nodded. The priest’s wisdom was dispensed in small doses and larger when needed. It was part of the reason he had come.
“I was surprised by your phone call,” Father Oscar said. “Frankly, I was beginning to believe it would never come.”
“It’s not that I was ungrateful.”
Father Oscar chuckled. “You want ungrateful? We had a bad one a few years ago who set the boys’ dorm on fire. He didn’t like what we served him for supper.” The priest shook his head. “We released him to a place where he could no longer be a menace to the children.”
Bolt knew how tough a decision that would have been. The man’s compassion and tolerance were boundless. The children in his care were the saddest cases in the state. With their smashed little spirits. But he loved them all and treated them like his own.
“You were no trouble to us,” Father Oscar said. “But I suspect you didn’t come to hear that.”
“I certainly didn’t come to set fire to anything.”
“Then why have you come, Samuel?”
Bolt expelled a rush of air. “I’m not entirely sure.”
“Then we’ll just visit for a while. Catch up.”
Father Oscar kept the conversation going. Talking excitedly about the expansion planned for the orphanage. “There is no end to the need, Samuel. You remember.”
“What I remember is never going hungry. Always a bed.”
Father Oscar’s eyes settled warmly on him. “And a head full of mysteries.”
Bolt also remembered the isolation and anxiety and feeling so alone, so desperately alone.
“And I suspect that’s why you’ve come back.” Father Oscar smiled.
* * * * *
There was a soft knock on the door. One of the Sisters walked in carrying a tray with two cups and a plate stacked with cookies. She was young and pretty. Without a sound, she set the tray on Father Oscar’s ornate desk and retreated from the office.
The priest reached into a drawer and removed a silver flask, which he opened and poured into both cups. “Alcohol is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”
“When Benjamin Franklin said that, he meant wine.”
“Yes, he did. But such a hangover.”
Bolt hadn’t forgotten the man’s love of an occasional drink. He took the cup and sipped along with him.
Then Father Oscar opened a file. “I hope you can find some of the understanding you’ve come for, Samuel. God knows it’s time.” The priest pulled out a few documents and gave them a quick review. “You know the broad strokes. But I’m afraid there’s not much more.”
Bolt simply nodded. The file was an inch thick.
The priest passed him a document. “You’re old enough to see this now.”
It was a faded police report. jane doe was typed at the top. There wasn’t much on it, except for the times and a date, and the basics from a pair of “attending” cops. He was told long ago that his mother had perished while giving birth. The details weren’t meant for a child.
Father Oscar proceeded slowly. “There was absolutely nothing that could be done, Samuel. The hemorrhage was massive. She was gone within a few seconds of delivering you.” The priest leaned forward on steepled hands. “She came to us a mystery. To t
his day we know nothing about her.”
“Nothing?”
He shook his head. “Frankly, it was hard to get the police interested. They put a photograph into their computers, but . . .”
“No one came forward?”
“We were contacted by a women’s shelter. But even they could tell us nothing. She kept to herself, and they didn’t ask questions.”
How sad. A death that mattered to no one, Bolt thought. “I should have come before now.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He thought about it. An experiment with drugs in Thailand had blossomed into something ugly and for a while, uncontrollable. Rehab couldn’t knock the heroin down. It took an overdose, and a simple choice between life and death. “There are things I don’t want to talk about,” Bolt replied.
“If it’s absolution you’ve come for . . .”
“No, Father. And not judgment.”
“I understand, my son.”
Even though understanding was his job, he wasn’t about to test the priest’s limits. “What was I like as a kid?”
“Better than most,” the priest said. “But you had your moments. How much do you want to know?”
“Start with the moments.”
Father Oscar thought about it. “Let’s just say you were afflicted by a fertile imagination.”
“How fertile?”
“You kept strange company, Samuel. People known only to you.”
“Like imaginary friends.”
“Not exactly,” Father Oscar replied. “More like people from the past, which was funny, because you were just a child and really had no past. We thought they were characters from whatever book you were reading at that moment. Rogues and warriors on some battlefield. But to you, Samuel, they were real. Do you recall any of it?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“When you got older, it stopped. But, then there were the nightmares. You’d wake up screaming at the top of your lungs, which scared the pants off the others. Eventually, I believe you were too frightened to sleep. Around the same time, you stopped eating and became withdrawn. You worried about everything. That’s when we got doctors involved.”