by Greg Jolley
Since it was their last night together, Ya Ya had baked a dessert. One of the teens was asked to go get fresh plates and forks. Ya Ya returned to the table with a warm pie and a knife.
“Had to use canned fruit from the pantry,” she explained, sounding like she was apologizing.
Wiki was standing with the teens, who were half-circled around Buckethead. “Really?” she said to Ya Ya.
Jame turned to the sound of Wiki’s warm voice. He watched her studying the pie. Ya Ya sliced wedges after counting heads; there was a good-sized slice for all.
Deane watched the group as plates and forks were passed around. She chose that moment to say, “It would really help if all of you didn’t talk to the reporters or take any of their calls.”
They had discussed this the day before. Everyone except Tory agreed. He wanted to tell his story and was determined to do so. There was no argument. They had all made their decision and accepted his. Tory didn’t tell the sheriff of his plans, and no one else mentioned them.
Everyone slowly ate pie and enjoyed it. Buckethead asked for a second slice, pleasing Ya Ya. She was worried about his eating and not sleeping much in the bed he had made on the Sheaan’s recliner.
With the dishes cleared and the teens and Buckethead in the living room, Wiki, Jame, and Deane remained at the table. Ya Ya and Tory were in the kitchen cleaning up. The sheriff was looking at the backyard door. Jame was gazing at Wiki, who was studying something high on the far wall.
Deane spoke to Wiki. “We need to really, really talk in a day or so, but if you don’t mind, I do have a couple of quick questions about the car accident and the shooting of Cain Lorenzo.” She spoke softly, choosing her words carefully.
Wiki listened with her eyes never leaving that area of the far wall. She answered the sheriff’s questions in a clear, distant voice, never turning her head.
✳ ✳ ✳
The next day began with a heavy snowfall. Deane knocked on the front door of the Sheaan cottage at nine in the morning. Most everyone was packed and ready. They had shared a quiet breakfast in the kitchen where the blinds were still drawn, blocking the view of where Mrs. Sheaan’s body had laid.
The teens were the first to leave. They no longer carried rifles as instructed by Sheriff Deane. Buckethead left with them, both of his hands being held and centered in the pack. They would be staying at the tall teen’s place, his parents’ summer cottage two places east of Jame’s. Buckethead was talking by then, chattering up a storm. He was pleased to be hanging out with the older kids, enjoying their kind words and kidding.
Ya Ya was the next to leave, climbing aboard Viv’s snowmobile and heading out to stay with Jame’s mom and dad. They could use some help, and she needed a roof over her head. Her home was yellow taped, and her husband’s blood had stained the wood planks of the Pawn & Gold.
Later that day Sheriff Deane and the snowcat workers removed dead bodies from the ice room in the back of the Quickee. They were respectfully loaded into the largest snowcat. The DTE tech climbed down from the last repaired transformer at one in the afternoon and power was restored to the very small town of Dent. With the return of electricity, windows began to glow along Main.
Tory met with the television reporter and the cameraman inside their van. They had him sign documents and the discussion turned to where it would be best to film Tory’s story. They chose the front steps of the church. That evening the interview was aired and quickly became the lead story in news reports. For a few days, what had happened in Dent and to Tory was a hot topic on television, websites, blogs, and newspapers.
Jame and Wiki were the last to leave the Sheaan home. Jame was in his snowshoes with Wiki at his back, still holding hers. She was looking back inside the cottage. With electricity, the television had come on, offering a blue snowstorm. The stain on the floor from Mrs. Sheaan had been scrubbed many times, but the mark remained. Wiki and Jame had tidied and cleaned the cottage. The front room was warm and low-lit and looked ready for living, but the mayor was still missing and his wife was in a body bag. Out front, Deane approached the porch with a spool of yellow tape. She hip-bumped the mayor’s car door, closing it. Wiki turned away from the cottage and stepped into her snowshoe bindings.
Buckethead was leading the “pack”, a nickname the teenagers liked. The name was from Sheriff Deane, first used during a group interview. The five of them were walking the shortcut path from town to Three Quarter Road. They were heading for the burn site of the Lorenzo home. Sheriff Deane had warned them off the place, which made the adventure all the more enjoyable. The day was a bit warmer with the snow shin-deep, and they were staying on the faint outline of the hunting and hiking path.
The snow-covered brush was high and thick along the way. The path turned this way and that, and as they walked, the four teens talked amongst themselves and to Buckethead, who led the way. The path dumped into a clearing beside the last house along Three Quarter. They circled Eric, the phone-company guy’s, wood shed and outbuilding and crossed his gravel driveway. They could hear stones crunching under their boots under the snow. Eric’s cottage was lit, and they stopped to study the windows. After a minute of no movement or shadows on the curtains, they walked along the side yard toward the lake.
When the pack reached the white lawn, they could see the Lorenzo place, or what was left of it. Buckethead raised his left hand in a fist. They all stopped at his command, only one teen smirking. Buckethead had found a dead branch along the way and held the staff firm in his other small cold hand. Before them was the black outline of the burned down house. One charred wall still stood. The sprawl of rubble was circled with yellow ribbon. Where they stood, the snow was uneven with clutter from the explosion. Buckethead took two steps, climbing up on a low rise to elevate his view.
“Permission to proceed, sir,” one of the teens asked. Another muttered something followed by a laugh.
Buckethead raised his pink fist in reply. He was uncertain. Truth was, he feared disobeying the cop and the black wreckage was scary. One of the voices at his back said, “I think I see a shovel.”
Buckethead planted his foot to balance his next step. He felt it press into something pliant under the snow. He stepped forward and his shoe sank up to the knee.
“Charlie…step back,” he heard the tall teen say, using his given name.
“Holy fuck,” another teen yelped.
Charlie turned around. They were looking at his sunken leg. The tall teen’s hand was out to him, but he was staring down. Charlie followed their gaze. He dropped the staff and fell backward. One of the teens caught him and pulled him from his last step into the burned guts of Eric’s belly.
One of the teens courageously stirred the snow and there was Eric’s face—sort of. It was recognizable as a head, but the burning had removed its identity. Buckethead peddled his feet fast and crashed back. The tall teen tried to hold him tight, restrain him, but he squirmed, ducked, and broke free. Charlie ran off up the path to town, ignoring the calls from behind. He wanted to call out for his mom, but…
“Ya Ya!” he screamed, over and over.
✳ ✳ ✳
Sheriff Deane’s supervisor arrived later that day and took over the makeshift office at the Quickee. He had Eric Adam’s slightly decomposed and frozen body temporarily placed inside the locked ice room until the large snowcat returned.
The market was up and running with Tory at center stage at the cash register. Tory was taking calls from his boss, Viv, still in the hospital, and Viv’s husband, Beau, who was en route.
When the supervisor overheard Tory doing a telephone interview, he took off his gloves and verbally tore Tory a new one in front of a good number of people in the store. The supervisor was applauded and his hand was shook.
That afternoon he had Sheriff Deane relocate the temporary police department to the other end of town, in the vacant shop between the Sew What and the Pawn & Gold. Those two shops were shuttered and crossed with yellow warning tape.
Every time Wiki took Jame’s hand in hers, he felt hope and wonder, but he soon figured out that the only meaning was her need for balance and assistance as they worked their snowshoes along Three Quarter Road. The two of them had visited his parents. She took his hand again and the warmth and reverie of the dinner and conversations with his folks faded. He braved a look at her face. Wiki was looking straight ahead. He lowered his eyes to their joined hands and locked his arm to give her balance. The two of them entered the narrow space between the snowplow he had wrecked and the bridge’s steel abutment. He squeezed through first, after seeing to her steady balance. He frowned when she released her grip.
Wiki stopped walking when they reached Jame’s driveway. He looked for her gaze, but she was having none of it; her eyes were to the western sky where layers of massive clouds were colliding as they boiled. He looked out and saw the gold sun in full circle, peeking through layers of gray and white.
“That’s nice,” Wiki said to the view, not him, in her throaty voice.
She smiled to the last of the daylight. Jame nodded, watching the side of her pale, lovely face, partially revealed within the fall of her hair.
✳ ✳ ✳
Jame closed the door between the two rooms of his cottage and leaned back a step. Wiki had started the shower in the other room, and it was a painful sound; a sound that could make him delirious with joy and lust, if he was also welcome to step into the warm falling water. He could not help but see her stunning slim and petite naked body in the shower. He saw soap gel lather sliding down from her neck, outlining her firm breasts, her awakened nipples and…Jame shook his head.
He stepped away from the door and further into the warmly lit, front room, seeing nothing, shaking his head again. He crossed the room and entered the porch. Out front of the cottage, Jame sucked in cold air and stared at a tall fir tree. He took another deep breath, filling his lungs, but what he felt was an ache in his lower belly, and in his heart.
Wiki dried, dressed, and asked Jame to teach her how to bake a pie. She had seen the signs of his adoration and passion in the way he watched her, studied her, and breathed of her. She was keen to continue to engage him, to enjoy him, as a good buddy.
I hope I don’t have to bark. Hand him his head, set him straight, she thought.
She decided to restrain her natural tendency for relaxed, spilling, and revealing clothes. Having grown up on the la Diana resort had given her an unconsidered ease with being naked or slightly draped. Her life with Sara had been much the same; both girls eschewing bras and underwear and often wearing little more than flip-flops as they lived within their various homes. Now she was wearing a pair of Jame’s blue corduroy pants, one of his white sweatshirts, and even socks: gag.
She opened a kitchen cabinet and waited for him to say something.
“Hello,” she said. She turned and sure enough, he was viewing her rear as she stood on tiptoes with the cabinet door in her fingers. She grinned and looked away and hoped he did the same.
Jame felt his cheeks flush at having been caught.
“What kind?” he asked.
“I get choices? Oh, that makes me happy.”
“There’s no fresh fruit, but—”
“No matter. Got an idea.”
Jame opened a lower cabinet.
“We’re gonna bake a coffin,” Wiki sounded pleased.
“Huh?”
“That’s what pies were first called. Means basket.”
“Really? My dad cans fall apples. Will an apple coffin do?”
Wiki offered Jame an expression he had not seen from her before—a child’s full smile below her lovely wide eyes. He could not restrain his responding grin.
“Pie makes you very happy,” he said.
“Oh yes.”
Jame set two large mason jars of apples on the counter.
“Those are jars,” she sounded confused.
“Right, canning doesn’t use cans.”
Wiki shook her head, dispersing confusion.
“Okay. We’ll fill a casket with apples from a metal jar.”
“It’s not a—”
Wiki giggled. Jame sucked a breath, liking the sound.
“Want an apron?” he asked, taking one from the pantry door.
“Oh yes, please. Gotta spare?”
Jame handed her one of his two aprons. He pulled his on and watched her do the same. Wiki spun around in the narrow kitchen, “Tie me?”
Jame loved the feel of her back against his knuckles as he slowly tied the two cloth draws. He tied a bow, leaned closer, and breathed in.
“Cinnamon?” he said softly, expecting the scent of his shampoo in her hair.
“Sure, if you like,” Wiki replied, thinking pie ingredients.
Jame wanted to step closer, but he knew better.
“We get to mix things and then use a rolling pin and all?”
“Yes, we do,” he shook his head to clear it.
“I get to crack some eggs?” Wiki asked.
“Yes. Use the bowl on the left side of the sink.”
Plying the dough was the best part; their flour-dusted hands and fingers bumping as they kneaded and formed the inside of the pie pan. They worked in silence, watching their hands and their progress, their foreheads almost touching.
Jame opened the first jar of apples.
“Oh, I wanna,” Wiki said.
He handed her the jar and watched her pour carefully. She looked so happy as the syrupy apple slices filled the dough. He opened the second jar for her. She was equally delighted.
“We get to make the crosses with those?” She pointed to the strips of dough they had sliced after she worked the rolling pin.
“Yes, crosses.”
Wiki nodded her head, vigorously.
“My nose,” she asked. “Please.”
Wiki was looking up from their handiwork. Jame saw the white dusting. He took the cloth from beside the sink. She closed her eyes, and he tapped slowly and delicately, taking in her beautiful face. He also wiped the flour from her chin. She looked schoolgirl-patient as he dabbed nonexistent flour from her smooth pale cheek.
He wanted to lean in, knowing it would be wrong. Her eyes remained closed, her smile slightly crooked. He wanted to kiss her, breath her, breath that new cinnamon scent in her hair.
Wiki opened her eyes and saw his longing.
“Thank you,” she said in raspy soft voice. “Oven time?” she added, turning away.
Wiki raised the pie and held it out to him. Jame turned from her and opened the oven door. “I preheated it,” he explained, not knowing what else to say.
Wiki slid the pie in on the rack, and Jame closed the over door. He set the stovetop timer. “Now we wait.”
“Oh what a delight. I baked a pie!”
They wash their hands in the sink, Wiki left the kitchen and circled to her couch. She moved to his bed, lowered to her haunches before it, and touched the books on his nightstand.
“Like steampunk?” she asked, her head tilted to read the titles. “I’ve read some. Too dense and thick, but the blend of old and new machines makes me think.”
Jame stepped beside her. He thought of sitting on his bed, but didn’t.
“Who’s you favorite?” Wiki asked, his small finger tracing the titles of the novels.
Acts of fools, his dad sometimes said. Jame wanted to, needed to say, “I love you.” How he held that in, he didn’t understand, the restraint feeling like some flavor of acceptance. Some taste of maturity that he might feel better about—in the future.
“China Miéville,” he answered.
“Haven’t read her. Nice name.”
“China is a he.”
“Really?” She sounded pleased. “Even nicer name for a guy.”
She looked over her shoulder to Jame with her warm sleepy eyes.
“I’ve got something to deal with,” she said, standing. “I borrowed a notebook from your desk, and an envelope. Hope t
hat’s okay.”
“Yes, sure.”
Wiki sat on the couch, raised her knees, and opened the notebook on them. She began to write.
Jame decided to go to bed.
Wiki wrote while he climbed under the covers. He would have liked to strip, but didn’t. He glanced at Wiki.
She was focused—her blonde hair draped around her pale face and slightly warmed from the couch side lamp.
Jame tried to read—attempting to be interested in the novel. After five minutes, he gave up and turned off the lamp, not sure if he’d find sleep, but willing to try.
Wiki began to physically react to what she was writing. Her pen worked fiercely, pausing only briefly from time to time. She wrote hotly and fluidly. Anger tightened her face. When she was done, her last expression was a grimace that pulled back her lips, revealing her teeth.
There was warm fall apple pie for breakfast, with coffee cups of milk. Jame and Wiki didn’t talk much, even after Wiki figured out how to operate the espresso maker. Jame picked out clean clothes for the day and went out into the front room to change, deciding not to shower. Returning to the lake-view room, he found Wiki in the kitchen and watched her solve the cinnamon mystery; she had the spice bottle open and was tracing the tan powder along her throat with a fingertip. She poured a dusting onto her finger and worked it back into her hair.
“Are we going soon?” she asked.
“You want to get cleaned up first?” He looked to the shower.
“Naw. I did borrow a change of clothes. Ready to go when you are.”