by John Straley
“I’m going to get a warmer jacket and maybe a hat,” he said, and pointed toward Lester’s house. “I’ll be back over there in a few minutes.”
As Jake stepped inside and turned to switch on the light, someone grabbed his bad arm, spun him around, and crushed his face against the wall. His shoulder flared with pain so intense it numbed his face. He saw blue sparkles, as vivid as if someone had smashed him on the skull. Slowly the pain subsided, and he felt the barrel of a gun jutting into the base of his skull.
“Weren’t expecting me?” asked a voice behind him. “That’s perfect.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
OSCAR PRESSED ALL of his weight into the barrel of the gun. His good leg was planted firmly on the floor. His crippled leg hung between them.
“Hi, Jake,” he spat. “You don’t look so good. I’m kind of disappointed.” And surprisingly, Oscar did feel disappointed. He had been thinking—almost obsessing—about the sweetness of this moment ever since Ann Peel had put the idea into his mind, after she had told him how they had both been hung out to dry by their ungrateful employer who had deserted them. But now here he was in Alaska, the moment had come and Jake looked a little shriveled, an old man with a busted-up arm. Not the object of Oscar’s revenge fantasies.
“I got chewed up by that ugly dog you gave to Clive,” said Jake as casually as he could, considering his nose was mashed against the wall.
“I see Clive’s still around,” Oscar grunted. “He looks good. Looks like he’s been spending a lot of money. Why didn’t you shoot his knee off? Or was that something you reserved just for me?” Oscar was painfully aware of sounding whinier than he should have for his big moment.
“Listen,” Jake huffed, “if it would make you any happier, I’d be glad to go blow his knee off. Just give me the gun and I’ll go take care of it right now.” He waved his good hand behind his back.
The old warehouseman tried to get back on script. “You have any hobbies where you use your head, Jake? I mean, it wouldn’t inconvenience you too much if I blew out the back of your skull, would it?” Oscar leaned, and Jake could feel his bone twisting under the strain; his vision was beginning to go dim.
“Actually, I’m working on a writing project right now and maybe for a couple more months. I don’t have much money left, unless of course we sign a development deal. But I’m sure we can work something out.”
“Yeah.” Oscar suddenly let go, stepped back. “Like how about giving me back my leg?”
Jake rubbed his shoulder. “That’s better,” he said, and smiled. “Listen, I know it’s a bad deal about your leg. We can work something out.”
He was still smiling as Oscar stepped backward, leveled the pistol at Jake’s right knee, and fired one round, shattered his kneecap and the underlying musculature. Then Jake was rolling on the floor, holding his knee, and Oscar was pulling back the hammer for another shot.
“Bullshit.” Jake started to cry. “Not the other one. I didn’t take both.”
Oscar watched the blood flowing down Jake’s leg. He watched him roll back and forth in pain, watched him painting the floor red with his own blood, and he uncocked the revolver. The truth was he was getting sick to his stomach remembering his own pain, remembering the long months of boredom and surgery.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said, tucked the gun back into the top of his pants, stepped over him, and strolled out the door.
MILES HAD NOT been at the screening of Jake’s movie; he’d been wrapping a bandage around Mary Baker’s ankle when the boom of the handgun rolled down the boardwalk. Mary hadn’t heard the shot; she’d been talking about her sprain. So Miles finished up, lent her a pair of crutches, patted her on the back, and told her to come back in three days; he’d take another look at her ankle then.
Gunshots in the middle of the day weren’t that unusual. There were celebratory shots; there were accidental misfires. What troubled Miles was that those shots were usually accompanied by other sounds: the laughing and whooping of celebrations, the loud apologies and urgent walks to the clinic after accidents. This shot was followed by silence.
He put on his coat and went to take a look. A heavyset man with hunched shoulders was limping along the boardwalk. Had he been shot? Was he looking for the clinic? Miles called after him but the stranger didn’t respond, and there was no one else to be seen. So he went home, was putting his hand on the knob of his own door, when he heard a streak of curses coming from Lester’s house and he ran toward it.
Jake was on the floor. Miles stopped the bleeding and treated him for shock; told him to lie still and ran back to the clinic to grab his medical kit. He didn’t ask any questions. He tried to call the state troopers; the phones were dead. He tried the marine radio, but there was no response.
Miles might be able to connect with boats fishing at the front of the inlet, but the way the weather was now, most of the fleet would be tucked back inside and out of radio range. He’d try again later. First he’d take care of Jake and then maybe look for the gimpy man who’d been running down the boardwalk.
Lester was home when Miles returned with his medical kit. He had Jake’s leg elevated and had put a blanket over him. Lester’s .30-.30 was leaning against his carving stool.
“You guys have some artistic differences?” Miles bent quickly, lifted the blanket, and started immobilizing Jake’s knee and trimming away his pants.
“I wouldn’t have shot him in the knee.”
“Fuck, this hurts!” Jake kept saying it over and over. “This really, really hurts!”
“Of course it does, buddy,” Lester said with more tenderness than Miles had heard in his voice before.
Weasel poked his head through the door to say, “Hey, Jake, it’s done. Everybody wants to ask you … Whoa, shit!” He came into the house. “What happened to you?” he said in amazement.
“Go get Clive!” Jake’s voice was tight. “Tell him Oscar is here, and he wants his dog back.”
“He shot you because of that dog?”
“Listen,” Miles interrupted, “could you just find Clive and ask him to come down here?”
Weasel kept standing there, blinking as if trying to focus. “I knew we shouldn’t have burned all that pot,” he said with conviction.
“Jesus Christ,” said Lester, “can you go get Clive?”
“Yeah, sure,” Weasel mumbled, then added, “Does this mean you won’t be talking to the movie group?”
“Go!” All three men shouted at the same time.
The rest of the evening was a blur of crises and crazy rumors. Meanwhile, snow was falling heavily, and there was no hope of getting a plane in. Miles talked to Billy. Would he take his boat out to the head of the inlet and radio the Coast Guard air base in Sitka? Tell them that they had an emergency patient who needed a transfer to the hospital? Tell the dispatcher that the patient was stable and could wait until better weather, that there was no need to risk their life for a patient in Jake’s condition? Billy understood. He went to warm the engine of his boat.
Kids peeked in the clinic windows; the young Lutheran minister came to offer his services, and Jake told him he’d call if he needed the last rites. And down at the bar, at a table in the back, Lester saw Clive talking with a man no one recognized. The stranger was angry, rapping his beer glass down on the table and reaching out to jab Clive in the chest with a finger. Lester heard the words “money” and “bust,” or maybe “Goddamn money” and “trust.” He couldn’t be sure but by the time the vigilante gang was rousted from their temporary headquarters in the café, both Clive and the strange man were no longer in the bar; sadly for the vigilantes, the bar was locked up tight.
The movie club members still wanted to ask Jake questions about Stealing Candy, but Miles refused admittance to the clinic. He said Jake was resting, couldn’t be disturbed, but by four o’clock that afternoon people started sliding get well cards under the door; most of them had taken the opportunity to slip in questions along with the well wishes
. We hope you get well soon. P.S. Have you ever met Jack Nicholson? Just wondering.
Jake just nodded, turned to Miles and asked for more painkillers.
Billy returned with news that the Coast Guard would send a helicopter as soon as the weather cleared, and Bonnie came by in the evening with a basket of food: warm venison pie, coleslaw, baked potatoes. Slowly, the tracks of the day were smoothed away by the white curtain outside the clinic windows; all the wild rumors and frantic activities were erased by the snow. The boats in the harbor turned into frosted vanilla cakes, and everyone’s tracks along the boardwalk were vanishing as if the snow could wipe out the past.
Lester came to offer food and stayed to share the meal Bonnie had brought. They sat around listening for Jake and watching the miraculous snow until Lester finally got up and went home, telling them not to wake him unless there was another shooting and the victim was somebody he really liked.
It was after midnight when Bonnie spread out camping pads on the floor of Miles’s office. She unfolded some quilts and unzipped an old felt sleeping bag and spread it out, making a bed wide enough for two people; she took off her shoes and lay down in her clothes.
“I just want to be here with you,” she said, and patted the pillow next to her head.
Miles took off his shoes, too. He lay down beside her and she draped her arm across his chest and he smelled the soap on her skin; he cupped her hand in his. He lay there, looked up at the bottom of his desk, and watched the shadows of snowflakes ripple down the walls; everything seemed strange to him from this angle.
He looked at her, and he wanted to love her more than he had ever wanted anything. He looked out the window and saw snow sloughing off the roof. He wanted to love her but wasn’t sure exactly how to begin.
He fell asleep, and he dreamed of being out in the inlet. He was in his boat, and he was fishing. Bonnie was swimming behind his boat, and he was panicked that she might accidentally get snagged on his line. He took a hammer and beat on the side of his metal skiff, he was trying to scare her off, but of course he didn’t want her to go. He kept hammering and waving, and Bonnie kept swimming closer, each stroke of her legs stronger than the last, her swimming easily able to outpace his boat.
The noise grew louder and louder until it was a banging, and Bonnie was shaking his shoulder and telling him that someone was at the door.
Billy stood outside. He was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants; Miles could see his feet sunk down into the fresh snow. A strange, warm light played on the side of his face.
“The bar is on fire, Miles. I can’t find Clive, Nix, or Bonnie.” It was four o’clock in the morning.
“Bonnie?” Miles was confused. “Bonnie is here.” She stood at his shoulder, and Billy reached out to hug her.
“Good. Good. Good,” he said.
Orange light lashed up and down the snowy houses on the boardwalk as Miles pulled on his boots. People were yelling, and a low rumble traveled through the air.
Awake now, Miles barked, “Have you checked Clive’s house?”
“Sure. He’s not there.” Billy’s face contorted. “Miles …”
“What?”
“The doors to the bar are chained shut from the outside.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A CREW FROM the cold storage tried to roll hoses from a hydrant off the main water line, but all the junctions were frozen. Moisture in the line had frozen in the unheated shed, and now they sat like coiled springs. The hydrant itself was buried in the snow, and men were running around in nothing but their long underwear and rain gear, poking shovels into the snow and trying to locate the main line.
Weasel walked back and forth, wringing his hands and calling out for Clive. Miles ran along the boardwalk toward the bar where great orange flames burst through the windows and waved frantic arms in the air.
The heat blossomed out onto the night. Every surface within fifty feet was either dry or shedding snow. The faces of bystanders glowed orange and red as the fire reached toward them; men in their bathrobes stepped back as if being scolded; some called suggestions to each other on how to get water to the site; others hugged their children close and told them to stay put; others simply stared, dulled with worry.
Anthony Cera, his finger still in a splint from his wrestling injury that cost him his spot on the championship team, had a coat thrown over his shoulders and was chopping against the front door of the bar with an axe. Flames howled through the broken windows. The two front doors were held shut by a length of shiny chain looped through the handles, and Anthony was chopping against the hinges. Between strokes Miles saw that someone was pushing hard from inside. Little Brother was standing next to Anthony and barking. He’d bark, charge to nip at the flames, retreat and bark some more.
“We can’t find Clive or Nix.” Lester came up beside Miles. “Someone said they were in the bar, cleaning up.”
“What about the other guy? Oscar?”
“I have no idea. Someone said they saw a stranger stealing gas from the gas dock. He was filling up two five-gallon cans. But nobody has seen him since the fire started.”
Miles put a scarf around his face and reached for Lester’s coat, never taking his eyes off the door. The pounding from the inside had stopped.
“What about the back door on the mountain side?” he asked.
“It’s chained shut. It might be easier to break down, but the fire is way worse back there. I’m betting he soaked his way out of the building, set the fire from the back door, and went up the hill in the snow. It won’t be hard to find him.”
“That can wait,” Miles said. “We’ve got to get in there.”
Anthony took a final stroke with the axe, and the fire pushed one side of the door away from the front wall; a smoky hole appeared and Little Brother squatted down; he jumped high into the air, straight through the opening. Lester and Anthony shielded their faces with the forearms and pulled the corner of the door to one side.
The bar was a pyre of burning timbers; a gas tank had exploded inside and broken glass spattered the snow up on the hill. “I don’t know, Miles …” Lester said, but Miles had disappeared into the burning building.
Fire pumped through cracks in the walls; it seemed that the flames were hysterical to exit the building. Anthony’s hair, his coat, and his shirt caught fire. Lester pulled him back to the boardwalk, and his friends led him away. Then Lester ran back and rammed his shoulder against the burning door. From a distance, Billy could see that Lester’s hair was burning and flames danced on his jacket. Billy took a step forward, and Lester turned away from the fire.
Lester had years to consider what had made him stop; what made him stand there and call out for help from the edge of the blaze. All he knew at the moment, standing in the fire, was that if he didn’t pull his neighbors out he would bear the shame of it for the rest of his life.
And the fire concurred, for before Lester had any chance to reconsider, the floor gave and Mouse Miller’s Love Nest collapsed in a shower of sparks, flames, and blackened mats of char-encrusted timbers.
EVERYONE IN TOWN was facing the fire as the building fell. They all put their hands up in front of them as if trying to hold the image upright in the air; if they had been able to turn around and look toward the inlet, they would have seen the light from the fire pushing out into the darkness, lighting the paddling gulls as if they were Christmas toys. The wind was calm, and the snow, which no one noticed now, was falling silently without a ripple into the black water. And if they had strained their eyes they might have seen Oscar getting into Miles’s red skiff, starting the engine and moving slowly out into the darkness.
LESTER WALKED BACK toward the shadowy boardwalk where Bonnie put her arms around his neck. “Thank you for coming back,” she said.
“I don’t know where Miles went.” Lester’s tears trickled from ravaged eyes.
“He’s in there,” Bonnie said softly, holding Lester’s head in her hands.
Crews got wa
ter flowing that night around the same time Nix showed up on the scene. She’d fallen asleep during Jake’s movie and stayed asleep next to the stove in the community center for the entire evening. There were books on the shelves, and when she had woken up around eleven thirty, she lit a candle and started reading Pilgrim’s Progress until she fell asleep again. What woke her the second time was the sound of the bar collapsing.
The tide was high at the moment it had collapsed, so there had been several feet of water underneath the front, but the back of the building nearest the hillside burned fiercely and a couple of volunteer fire fighters sprayed two feeble streams of water onto the flames. Meanwhile, tired men and women in sooty rain gear climbed under the boardwalk and waded into the frigid water, tried to pull pieces of the blackened wreckage away in their efforts to find the bodies. No one saw any sign of Clive, Miles, or the dog, but they called out their names. As the fire slowly quieted, their voices sounded thin, tired, like the bleating of goats.
Billy was down under the boardwalk when he saw the stainless steel ice machine that had been the cooler for beer bottles. The six-foot-long machine lay upside down, beneath several beams, on a piece of flooring that had broken away. It was rocking back and forth.
He heaved a shoulder against one of the timbers. The heat seared his shirt to flames, and he winced but pushed the beam off. Lester came, and they threw the next timber out into the inlet, and their hands were burned. But they rolled the chest over, and Miles fell out in a slurry of slushy ice cubes, beer, and broken glass.
He choked and Billy and Lester rolled him over, but he was clinging to something raw and red: a man whose clothes had burned away. Miles was holding his brother in his arms.
“Watch it!” someone yelled, and a section of wall plummeted onto the rocks below them; soot and sparks flew up.