The Ravens (Minnesota Trilogy)

by Vidar Sundstøl

  “But there was something else I actually wanted to show you,” said Debbie, putting away the sunglasses.

  She squatted down and rummaged through several stacks of newspapers and magazines before she stood up holding an old issue of the Cook County News Herald. She leafed through it for a moment and then found what she was looking for.

  “Here,” she said and handed him the paper open to an article.

  It took Lance several seconds to realize what he was looking at. The headline read: “Eighteen-year-old from Duluth Appointed New Chairman of the Cook County Historical Society.” Underneath was a photograph of the new chairman. Lance knew that the picture had been taken outside his family’s house on Fifth Avenue in Duluth. He had a big smile on his face as he looked at the camera, and even though the old, moldy newspaper had been lying down here for close to thirty years, Lance could still see how young he looked.

  He read the short article:

  Following the death of the founder and long-time chairwoman, Olga Soderberg, the historical society of Cook County has chosen a new chairman. His name is Lance Hansen. He is only eighteen and lives in Duluth. He is the grandson of Isak Hansen, who opened the hardware store in Lutsen in 1929. Asked about his goals as the chairman, young Hansen replied: “To continue the work of Olga Soderberg. Since the membership is beginning to age, we also need to attract younger members.” Lance Hansen is a senior at Duluth Cental High, and he says that he is planning to become either a police officer or a historian.

  For a short time he had actually contemplated becoming a historian, simply because he’d been chosen chairman of the pathetic little historical society in Cook County. Fortunately he’d come to his senses and become a police officer instead.

  “When I saw that, I was totally . . .” All of a sudden Debbie sounded on the verge of tears.

  Lance continued to stare at the article. From the yellowing page of the newspaper his own young face stared back across the gap of thirty years that had passed since the photo was taken, and been forgotten. He vaguely recalled seeing the article when it first appeared. No doubt he’d kept a copy for a while, but eventually it probably hadn’t seemed so impressive, since it was merely a brief article in a local paper, and he’d thrown it out.

  “That was how you looked when we were together,” said Debbie.

  “But this was taken seven years earlier,” whispered Lance hoarsely.

  “That’s still just how you looked.”

  He glanced up at her and then back at the article before resolutely folding up the newspaper.

  “Take it with you,” she said.

  Neither of them said another word as they stood there, feeling somehow at a loss, in that big cold basement room. Every time Debbie exhaled, a little cloud of frosty vapor issued from her lips. He had a strange thought that it was her soul trying to escape, but each time she sucked it back in. Thousands of days and nights had passed since they were together, and there was no more time to lose. Lance always had a pen in his breast pocket, but did he have any paper? The paper bag would have to do. He emptied the chocolates into his jacket pocket and then proceeded to write on the stiff white paper, using the old newspaper as a pad underneath. It took a while because the paper had a waxy surface, and he had to go over each letter several times so it could be clearly read, but he finally had a legible sentence. You are more beautiful than anything else in Minnesota. His heart felt as if it had stopped beating as he handed the piece of paper to Debbie.

  She read what he’d written, then closed her eyes for several seconds. When she opened them again, Lance could have sworn that she looked exactly as she had twenty years ago.

  “Oh, Lance,” she said.

  He took a step toward her, but before he could do or say anything, she turned on her heel and headed toward the stairs. He hurried after her, carrying the folded newspaper in his hand. At the top of the stairs she had to stop and wait for him so she could lock the door to the basement after him. They didn’t look at each other as he climbed the stairs to join her. After locking the door, she immediately strode with great purpose through the storeroom and into the store itself. There she took her usual place behind the counter and went back to paging through a magazine. Lance went over to the counter. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he went over to stand in front of her.

  Debbie raised her eyes from the magazine and looked up at him.

  “Don’t you realize that you and I are yesterday’s news?” she said, nodding at the paper that Lance was holding.

  “No,” he whispered in his ruined voice. “You and I—we’re like the ravens. They manage to make it through the whole winter up here. The two of us can make it through anything.”

  Debbie gave him a smile that seemed older than the rest of her. He could see all of her wrecked marriage in that smile, all the years she’d spent in California and the defeat it must have been to come back here.

  “We’re not ravens,” she said. “We’re the carcasses they peck at along the road.”

  32

  LANCE TURNED ON THE LIGHT and got out of bed, but everything was as normal as it could be after someone had broken in and jammed a gun in his mouth. He opened the curtains just a crack. The only thing he saw outside was the light from his cousin’s hardware store and his own reflection against the dark. It was the same old face he’d put on a few hours ago, without a trace of the eighteen-year-old who had looked up at him from the yellowing newspaper page in the basement of the grocery store in Finland.

  You are more beautiful than anything else in Minnesota, he remembered writing, annoyed. Had he really written something so stupid? Their relationship hadn’t lasted more than a couple of months, and Lance feared it had meant more to him than to her. He had to find something that would make all her defenses crumble at the mere memory of it.

  In his home office he found Debbie’s cell number on the Internet. He sat there, typing various messages on his cell in the hope of finding the right words, but after a while he gave up. It was impossible to keep playing around like this. This time he needed to be smart and use his head.

  IT WAS ALMOST NINE by the time he woke up, sitting in his desk chair with his cell phone in his hand, not having written anything. He had a throbbing headache, which was probably because he was so hungry his stomach was rumbling. He realized with alarm that it was almost forty-eight hours since he’d had anything to eat. He’d driven straight back to the North Shore from Minneapolis, and when he came home, he’d been so tired he couldn’t muster enough energy to eat anything, even though he was starving. Instead, he’d tumbled into bed, planning to make himself a huge breakfast in the morning. But then the light from the TV had woken him, and in the living room he’d found Andy holding a gun. Lance swallowed, noticing at once that his throat wasn’t any better. He still couldn’t imagine forcing any solid food down his injured, swollen esophagus. But in the meantime his voice had come back. Maybe not entirely, but he didn’t need to use it much anyway.

  He poured himself a mug of coffee but let it sit while he had a spartan breakfast consisting of two aspirin, crushed and stirred in lukewarm water. Then he went into the bathroom and took a shower. As he stood there, letting the steady streams of hot water pummel his body, he began to feel better. Suddenly he understood the joy of refusing himself food. A trembling, electric feeling spread upward from his feet to his abdomen, to his stomach and chest, until it reached his head and made him gasp with pleasure. But as soon as he turned off the water and got out of the shower, he legs felt as heavy as lead. And when he stood at the toilet to pee, he began to retch, but without bringing up anything except some white slime, presumably from the aspirin.

  Back in the kitchen he leaned against the counter as he drank the now tepid coffee, taking little, painful sips. When he’d finished the coffee, he suddenly realized that he was naked. He brushed off a few dry bread crumbs that had stuck to his butt and then dashed for the bedroom. There he put on some clothes.

  Afterward
he went into the living room and opened the curtains. Even without any sun, the light hurt his eyes. He turned the easy chair around so it faced away from the window and sat down. It didn’t matter that both Swamper Caribou and Andy had sat in this very chair. This whole thing is about the three of us, thought Lance. Somewhere in the house his cell was ringing, but he didn’t feel like getting up to look for it. Finally it stopped, only to start up again a few seconds later.

  Groaning with annoyance, Lance got up.

  33

  WHEN HE CAME TO, he found himself headed for the shoulder of the road. The car fishtailed as he yanked the steering wheel hard to the left, but after careening from one side of the lane to the other a few times, he finally regained control of the vehicle.

  His heart was beating fast, and he had a nervous, flickering feeling inside his chest. Sleep, or whatever it was, had come over him so unexpectedly. It couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of seconds, but that had almost been enough. Right now he needed to make his way as fast as possible to Duluth because Chrissy was in danger.

  “You have to help me,” she’d whispered frantically when he answered his cell.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked her.

  “He’s going to kill me.”

  “What?”

  “I found a place to hide, but I think he’s waiting for me. He tried to . . . He grabbed me by . . .”

  “Where are you?” Lance had shouted, in a panic.

  Without really being aware of what he was doing, he had stood in the middle of the living room, shouting into the phone.

  “The parking lot at the Last Chance Liquor Store. Honk your horn.” And that was the last thing she’d said.

  It suddenly occurred to him that a man had attacked Chrissy. Somehow he hadn’t fully realized that until now. Lance significantly exceeded the speed limit as he drove the last stretch of road from Two Harbors to Duluth.

  THE LAST CHANCE LIQUOR STORE was a small place with a small parking lot. He saw two cars in the lot, and behind the wheel of one of them was a young man who looked like he was waiting for someone. Could that be the guy? Lance honked his horn, giving it two short and two long blasts, which made the young man turn in his direction. As he waited for his niece to show up, Lance looked around distractedly, trying to locate someone who better matched Chrissy’s claim that a grown man had assaulted her, but he didn’t see anyone. He was about to honk the horn again when Chrissy came running at full speed around the corner of the store, maybe thirty yards away, with her black coat flying out behind her. Lance leaned over to open the passenger door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the young man jump out of his car and start hurling swear words at Chrissy. He seemed out of his mind with rage and kept punching at the air with his fist.

  Chrissy slammed the door shut and threw herself flat, with her head resting on her uncle’s lap.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, stroking her hair as he drove out of the parking lot and down Sixth Avenue. He had an uneasy feeling that he was being used. That young man didn’t fit with what his niece had told him on the phone. It sure didn’t look like he was intent on attacking her, thought Lance. For some reason that young man had been furious with Chrissy.

  “Maybe you’d better have something to eat,” he suggested and he glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure that no one was following them.

  Chrissy was still lying on his lap. When he placed his hand between her shoulder blades, he noticed how hard she was shaking.

  “Good Lord, honey,” murmured Lance, feeling tears rising.

  This was Andy and Tammy’s little girl lying here. Chrissy, who had been allowed to chase her policeman uncle around the house, from one room to another, shrieking all the way, until she arrested him. Chrissy, who should have been in school right now. The girl was supposed to make something of herself. But here she lay, shaking and sobbing.

  “How about some food?” he again suggested.

  She sat up, hunched over in what looked like a sitting fetal position.

  “Or would you rather have a beer?”

  For the first time since she’d thrown herself into the car, Chrissy looked at her uncle. Just a fleeting glance, as if to see if he really meant what he’d said.

  “Okay,” she replied, still shaking.

  Lance drove over to Fitger’s Brewhouse, which was close by, and parked.

  “You need to pull yourself together,” he said as they headed inside.

  There were only a few other people in the pub since it was so early in the day.

  “What kind of beer would you like?” he asked.

  Chrissy seemed far away, as if in a state of shock.

  “I don’t know,” she muttered in that same, unsteady voice. “Something light, I guess.”

  When the waiter appeared, Lance ordered a Fitger’s Lighthouse Golden for his niece and a Mesabi Red for himself. He knew they’d have problems if he had to deal with someone who was a stickler for the rules, but the waiter didn’t even cast a glance at the seventeen-year-old Goth girl. He merely repeated their order. Then uncle and niece sat in silence, waiting for the beers. Lance knew it wouldn’t look good if anyone they knew turned up, but right now his main concern was Chrissy, and he had a strong feeling that she’d feel a lot better after drinking a beer. She was sitting on the other side of the table with her arms straight down, her elbows locked, as if she were holding on to the seat of her chair, which may have been exactly what she was doing. Her face was even paler than usual, and the dark circles under her eyes were the real thing.

  The waiter came back and set the glasses of beer in front of them. No sooner had he turned around than Chrissy grabbed her pint and with trembling hands raised it to her lips. Lance watched in fascination as the young girl’s delicate white throat gulped down the beer as if she were an old alcoholic. A moment later she set the glass back on the table, having finished off a good third of the beer. She gave her uncle a wan, apologetic smile.

  “Maybe you should have something hot too,” said Lance. “Were you lying in the snow?”

  “No. In a pile of empty cardboard boxes. I’ve been in worse situations.” She smiled briefly.

  “But what are you doing here? You should be in school.”

  “Please don’t ask.”

  Lance slammed his fist down, making the table jump.

  “Don’t ask?” he shouted. “You call me up and say that you’re about to be . . . I don’t know what. So I drive all the way down here from Lutsen, and all you can say is ‘don’t ask’?”

  Chrissy raised her hands, as if to protect herself, and started to cry. A moment later the waiter soundlessly appeared behind Lance.

  “Everything all right here?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lance. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Good. I hope it doesn’t.”

  And then he was gone.

  “If you don’t get a grip, we’re going to get thrown out,” Lance whispered.

  “You’re the one who pounded on the table.”

  She drank some more of her beer, but a much smaller amount this time.

  “Well, I meant what I said. Since you dragged me all the way out here, you can at least tell me who that guy was in the parking lot.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  Lance gave her a withering look.

  “Okay, he was the one who tried to—”

  “Don’t lie to me. Who was he?”

  “A friend,” Chrissy said after a moment.

  “Not much of a friend.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Lance took a sip of his Mesabi Red and instantly began to cough so that foam ran down his jacket. Seeming to rise up out of the floor, the waiter was once again standing next to their table, giving them a professional and politely accusatory glare.

  “Okay,” said Lance, fuming. “We’re leaving.”

  CHRISSY DIDN’T SAY A WORD as they drove out of Duluth. She sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. The route t
hey took headed inland, through big areas of marsh and bog that were famous for their rich bird life during the summertime. Right now the landscape looked like a lifeless world, which was further enhanced by the naked gray tree trunks that stuck up here and there from the snow. Lance had no idea where they were going, only that they had to get out of Duluth and whatever Chrissy had gotten herself involved in back there. And since the North Shore was not an option, they were driving across the marshlands.

  “What’s the matter with you?” asked Chrissy after a while. “Are you sick?”

  “Haven’t eaten in two days.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s something with my throat. Can’t swallow.”

  “So that’s why your voice is . . . ?”

  “Yeah.”

  “An infection?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “But haven’t you gone to the doctor?”

  “It’ll get better.”

  Lance wondered what he should do with her. He couldn’t just keep driving north toward the Iron Range and Canada. That wasn’t much of a plan. She needed to get back to a normal life, which meant school, home, and girlfriends. Not running around in town the way she was doing now.

  “What did he want from you?” Lance asked.

  “He thought I’d taken something from him.”

  “And did you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, if by ‘taken’ you mean ‘stolen.’ ”

  Chrissy shrugged.

  “Do you realize how scared I was by your call?”

  “But he was trying to get me.”

  “Yeah, because you stole something. That’s not exactly the story you told me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re telling too many lies. You must be mixed up in something.”

  “I’m not mixed up in anything.”

  “Well, you’re not the girl I thought you were, at any rate.”