The Ravens (Minnesota Trilogy)

by Vidar Sundstøl

  WHEN IT WAS A FEW MINUTES PAST SEVEN, Lance got out of bed for the second time, even though he’d been unable to go back to sleep. He made himself breakfast and then went out and started the car. He realized he wanted to drive north, even though he had no reason for heading in that direction. It was much too early to visit anyone, but since there was no point in going in any other direction either, he would go north.

  Except for a narrow strip of light in the east, the vast night sky over Lake Superior was still intact. The myriad twinkling stars and the seemingly endless snow-covered expanse beneath them comprised a world that no one should stare at for long if he wanted to maintain his sanity. Here all distances were erased, and any kind of shape might emerge and perish without revealing whether it was real or not. Lance stared into the void as he drove. It didn’t matter because he had no sanity to maintain. Or rather, he’d lost his former state of sanity, which might have been damaged by too much contact with all of this. His new state of sanity was concerned with very different things, such as the visit of an Indian medicine man who had disappeared in 1892.

  As he drove through Grand Marais, he saw a man filling the gas tank of his car, clouds of icy white vapor issuing from his mouth. Clad as he was in a one-piece snowmobile suit, the man looked like an astronaut on assignment in frigid outer space. In front of Gene’s Foods, a green forklift stuck its two spikes under a pallet loaded with canned goods and lifted it up. The driver was visible only as a dark, shapeless lump inside the cab. This was the world that Lance needed to return to. People who got up early and went to work every day whether the job interested them or not. A world, when viewed from outside, that hardly seemed to contain anything at all; yet in reality it could contain a whole life, as long as the person was immersed in it, as Lance had been until he found the body of Georg Lofthus. It was then that he began to fall, and by now he’d fallen all the way out of this world in which the man in the forklift was living. Yet it was there that he wanted to go.

  When he reached Hovland the sky had paled considerably, and he had to concentrate hard to see the stars. It took less than a minute to drive through the little hamlet. In 1888 two Norwegian families had each built a log cabin in the woods here and spent the winter in the deep snow, with no neighbors besides the Indians. Several years later it had become a whole settlement, with a boat-building business, a school, post office, and telephone exchange. Nowadays very few people still lived there.

  At the top of the long ridges beyond Grand Portage he stopped at a rest area. From here he could see a portion of the lake that was marked by big, forested islands and narrow bays that cut into the surrounding land, which was no longer flat and uniform but instead had steep slopes and deep valleys. A few miles farther north, the Canadian border station was visible as a small, dark patch in all the whiteness. The border itself followed the Pigeon River, which he couldn’t see, hidden as it was under snow and ice, with snow-covered woods on either side.

  As he sat there like that, looking at the borderland, he thought about everything he carried inside him. Black-clad fishermen from Halsnøy who dreamed of having their own boats and a good future for their children. Winter nights spent in smoke-filled birchbark dwellings, so far back in time that any connection with the past that he normally regarded as his heritage had vanished; the only possibility was to seek a different past, other dreams, a whole different beginning and end. And the story about Otter Heart and Sad Water was part of it. Had Willy told that story for his sake? In spite of everything, he was Willy’s ex-son-in-law. He’d done everything for Mary, building a bridge over even the smallest creek. Yet it was never enough. No matter what he did, Mary’s dissatisfaction soon returned. The worst part was that in the end she started using their son against him. “You’re so wrapped up in the past that you don’t even notice your own son,” she told him one night. No, she had screamed the words, her face flushed with anger and sorrow, while their whole world collapsed all around them. That was how the last period had been, a whole world coming unhinged and falling apart. A unique world that could never be resurrected because it existed only in the interaction between Lance Hansen and Mary Dupree.

  He felt so sad as he thought about this. But then he remembered Debbie. Beautiful Debbie Ahonen had come back from California to settle down once again in the town of Finland. She had rejected him when he appeared before her as the lonely man he was, rejected him for the second time. But if another chance should present itself, he would not only build bridges over even the smallest creeks, he would also carry her over those bridges. Never would a single drop of water touch Debbie’s feet, if only he could have her.

  Something was about to change. He just hadn’t noticed it until now. What he had thought was a mountain chain far north in Canada was in reality something he hadn’t seen for weeks: a dark cloud bank stretching across the horizon to the northeast.

  He typed a text message and sent it to Chrissy.

  “Back home?”

  He quickly received a reply. “Yes, but at school.”

  “Andy didn’t kill you?”

  “What did you do to him?” replied his niece, followed by a row of smiley faces.

  “Told him to shape up,” texted Lance. Then he sent another message: “What were you doing in Minneapolis?”

  This time it took longer for her to answer. “What do you mean?” wrote Chrissy.

  26

  BIG, WET SNOWFLAKES drifted past outside the window. Lance was sitting in his easy chair, staring at the gray swirls. It had been weeks since he’d seen any form of precipitation or even an overcast sky. The weather had been so dry and clear, with such a piercing brightness that it hurt his eyes. Now the tables had turned.

  He should really go visit his mother, but he couldn’t bear the thought of driving through such a heavy snowfall. It would have to wait until tomorrow. Instead he picked up his cell, which was lying on the coffee table, and called Inga, but she didn’t answer. That didn’t mean anything. She was probably in the communal lounge, talking to somebody. Lance looked at the texts he’d received from Chrissy. He thought about the background noises he’d heard on the phone when he called her yesterday, while he was at the Kozy Bar. They were definitely the sounds of a city bigger than Duluth, so she had to have been somewhere in the Twin Cities. But why had she lied?

  At that moment his cell rang. The words “Minnesota Department of Corrections” appeared on the display. Lance felt his mouth go dry.

  “Yes?” he said in a low voice.

  “Is this Lance Hansen?” asked a woman.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it true that you requested a visit with one of our inmates? Lenny Diver?”

  “That’s right,” said Lance, although his voice was barely audible.

  “Your request has been granted. Diver is in the Moose Lake jail.”

  “So he’s willing to meet with me?”

  “Your request has been granted,” the woman repeated impatiently.

  “But doesn’t the inmate have to agree to it?”

  “I doubt he has other commitments.”

  “I guess not.”

  “So now you know.”

  “Thank you.”

  She’d already ended the call.

  IT HAD GROWN DARK OUTSIDE, but in the glow from the streetlamp down by the hardware store he could see that it was snowing hard. His own hazy reflection against the pelting snow made him depressed—a phantom whose only wish was to get inside. At least he’d managed to accomplish one thing: Andy would no longer lay hands on his daughter. That gave him a good feeling. And if you leave even one bruise on her body, I’ll make it public, he’d said, knowing full well that Andy knew what he meant by “it.” He tried seeing things from his brother’s point of view. An abyss instantly opened up before him. For Andy, “it” was probably more terrifying than the possibility that he might be found guilty of murder. Lance would have felt the same. To have “it” exposed in public would mean his life was no longer worth living. The
thought sent a cold shiver through Lance’s body. What had he done? He’d even lied about knowing what his brother had written on the note he gave to Clayton Miller.

  He went into his home office, found Miller’s phone number on the Internet, and called the professor and poet in Minneapolis.

  “Miller,” the man answered, sounding out of breath.

  “This is . . . I don’t know if you remember me, but we met in Duluth a few days ago.”

  “Who is this?”

  He seemed impatient. In the background Lance could hear traffic and voices.

  “Lance Hansen.”

  “Who?”

  “Lance Hansen. We talked about something that happened in high school. You had a fight with my brother, Andy.”

  “Oh, right. But we didn’t have a fight. He attacked me and tried to kill me. What do you want?”

  “I’m going to be in Minneapolis tomorrow, and I was wondering if you could set aside some time to meet with me.”

  Clayton Miller laughed.

  “I’m a very busy man,” he said.

  “I realize that, but it would only take a few minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to know more about what happened back then.”

  “And of course you haven’t talked to your brother about it, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Listen here, I’m really getting fed up with all this nonsense.”

  “I’m trying to stop my brother from killing himself,” Lance explained.

  Silence on the line. Nothing but the background sounds of the city.

  “Hello?” said Lance at last.

  “How well do you know Minneapolis?” asked Miller.

  “Pretty well.”

  “Do you know where Matt’s Bar is?”

  “The place with the Juicy Lucy burger?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve been there a few times.”

  “It’s on Cedar Avenue at Thirty-Fifth.”

  “I know where that is.”

  “I’ll meet you there at one o’clock tomorrow.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Okay, see you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Lance.

  What could he possibly gain from the two meetings? From Miller he primarily wanted to find out what exactly it said on the note Andy had given him. Plus he’d order a Juicy Lucy; it had been a long time since he’d had one of those. When it came to Lenny Diver, things were a lot more vague. Maybe it had to do with looking himself in the eye?

  27

  IT SNOWED the whole way to Minneapolis. The lake had disappeared behind the swirling flakes, but he could still sense the vast space out there. Everywhere he saw people shoveling out buried cars or clearing their driveways. Bowed figures wearing shapeless clothing and moving stiffly. Children played in the snow, dressed in caps and mittens and snowsuits, sliding down hills on their sleds. Snowmen had started to appear in yards and on playgrounds, some with the classic carrot noses and top hats. Lance noted how happy all this made him feel. Minnesota in the wintertime, with a beauty that was only for those who were tough.

  After leaving Duluth and Lake Superior behind, he entered the flat, uniform landscape that marked the transition between the forestland of the north and the great plains. Here the woods were interspersed with marshy areas that were visible only as open spaces in which a dead tree or two stuck up.

  The farther south he drove, the more the cultivated fields took over. Huge barns loomed, dark and sinister, in the snowdrifts.

  Just before noon he crossed the Mississippi. According to the GPS, all he had to do was stay on Cedar Avenue and go past the old cemetery, where the bones of thousands of Scandinavians and Germans lay moldering in the frozen winter ground. A few minutes later he saw the simple stucco building on the corner of Cedar Avenue and Thirty-Fifth Street.

  The first time he’d gone to Matt’s, Lance had been a young man attending the police academy in Minneapolis. Later he’d always taken the opportunity to have a Juicy Lucy whenever he was in town. He had a feeling Matt’s was one of the few places that hadn’t changed at all in the more than twenty years that had passed since then. Here everything was exactly the way it used to be. It was partially this lack of branding and marketing that had made the place so popular. It still functioned as a neighborhood bar, but people from other areas had also embraced it long ago. People like Clayton Miller, for example, thought Lance as he went inside.

  Since all the tables seemed to be taken, he sat down at the bar, where a few stools were still vacant. It wasn’t yet twelve thirty, but he was starving. Should he wait for Miller to arrive? Yet they hadn’t really agreed to have lunch together. And besides, he had a hard time believing a poet and professor would eat in Matt’s Bar. Miller probably stopped here occasionally for a beer and discussed with friends how authentic the place was. But a Juicy Lucy? Not likely, thought Lance as he ordered one for himself. Since it was impossible to get anything that tasted even close to a Mesabi Red, he chose a Grain Belt instead.

  Matt’s resembled a classic American diner, with the long counter and the booths against the walls, which were paneled with dark wood. The red vinyl on the bar stools had cracked to form a fine network of veins. The buzz of voices from the other guests completely enveloped Lance. Most looked to be locals who had dropped by for a bite to eat. The air smelled sharp and damp from the snow that had melted on clothes and boots.

  But it was more than just the casual, neighborly atmosphere that made Matt’s so attractive. Lance’s stomach growled in anticipation as the waitress placed a Juicy Lucy in front of him on the counter. It looked like any decent, ordinary hamburger, but as the name indicated, there was nothing decent about it. A Juicy Lucy was a sinful burger, and that made it dangerous. Lance, who was a man of experience when it came to burgers, let it rest for a few minutes to cool down. When he finally sank his teeth into the burger, melted cheese sprayed out of the meat with explosive force, like yellow lava from a volcano. It burned his hands and face, but not too bad, since he’d allowed it to cool down first. Many a newbie headed to the door with burns on his face after a first encounter with the famous burger. That was because a Juicy Lucy was filled with melted cheese. This was achieved by forming two hamburger patties and then placing a sizable portion of American cheese on one of them. Then the second patty was placed on top of the cheese and the edges of the meat were pressed tightly together all around. Then the burger was put on the grill until it was properly cooked with a piping hot core of melted cheese inside. It was this specialty that was the bar’s real claim to fame. Even though it was now possible to get a Juicy Lucy in countless other places in Minneapolis, it was here that the first one was served. At Matt’s the cooking grease was scraped off the walls twice a year, an operation that was probably behind the myth that the same grease was constantly reused. And that was purportedly why a Juicy Lucy tasted especially good in this place—because it had been cooked in the original grease from the very first burger.

  Lance was almost done with his food when Clayton Miller appeared at his side. He was wearing a heavy, dark coat, a Russian-looking fur hat, and elegant leather gloves, which he proceeded to remove.

  “So, here you are, huh?” he said in greeting.

  Lance got down from the bar stool to shake hands.

  “Have a good drive?”

  “Oh, it was okay,” said Lance.

  They each straddled a bar stool, and Miller ordered a chicken sandwich, mineral water, and coffee.

  After taking a sip of the water, he turned to Lance.

  “What’s going on with Andy?” he asked.

  Lance knew that this whole meeting would founder if he tried to sidestep the issue. He needed to get right to the point.

  “I’m worried that he’s going to try to kill himself,” he said.

  “For any special reason?”

  “I think he might be gay, and he doesn’t think he can live with that any longer. I mean, he’s mar
ried, you know.”

  “But why did you want to talk to me about this?” asked Miller.

  “Because I need to know what it said on that note he gave you.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “I have to talk to Andy about all this. He’s my younger brother, so I feel responsible for him. But first I need to find out if that’s really the problem. I don’t want to broach the subject if he’s not—”

  “Homosexual?” Miller finished the sentence for him.

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me, what do you think it said in the note?”

  “That he had feelings for you?” suggested Lance.

  Miller smiled.

  “It was a poem. And the poem was a declaration of love for me, but I didn’t realize that back then. I evaluated its poetic quality, which was so awkward that it made me laugh. It was a terrible poem. Only later did it occur to me what it was really all about, and what it said about Andy. And that’s when I was able to understand his reaction.”

  Lance could hardly believe his ears. Andy had written a poem? He tried to envision his brother as a poet, wearing a beret and holding a pen.

  “But what did it actually say?” he asked.

  “It was just a bad poem.”

  “Do you still remember it?”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

  “Would you recite it for me?”

  “Of course not. It would be disrespectful to your brother.”

  His words were the response of a man who was used to talking to people who were below him in status. It was Clayton Miller the professor who had spoken.

  After that they both sat there in silence, waiting for the chicken sandwich to arrive. While Miller ate his lunch, Lance took small sips of his beer and stared at the snow falling steadily outside. So it was true, he thought. Only a few months ago no one could have made him believe such a thing about his brother. But now he knew.