by David Downie
The question seemed topical. The conflicts of interest and ethics issues he had wrestled with and interpreted for decades on the public’s behalf were unsolvable if the law of the land was not respected, and if those like him, entrusted with its application, were driven to resign to avoid incarceration from trumped up allegations. Good Christians, were they? As his wife lay dying, and he had begun stepping away from the bench, they, whoever they were, began their campaign of mudslinging and disinformation, accusing him, denigrating him and his colleagues. The IRS inspectors had shown up, following tip-offs, they said. The planning commission had suddenly found the ten-year-old remodel of his house to be in violation of building codes. Burglars had broken in and trashed the place when he and Amy were at the hospital one afternoon. And then he had discovered, thanks to a tech-savvy friend, that his bedroom, office, and car were bugged, that his private world had been violated from top to bottom and sideways. As the weeks turned into months, and the hate mail and death threats piled up, several of his colleagues were jailed while most voluntarily resigned, took early retirement, or became rhinos, collaborating with the regime. For James, there had been too many factors to process at once. His resilience and nerve had failed when Amy had died in the midst of the ruins of his career. Clearly the time had come to pull back and rethink. It was a strategic retreat, a reset, not a defeat. He would make his return when the time was right.
As he rounded the blind gooseneck curve just north of the Eden Resort, the roar of an approaching vehicle shredded the silence. James turned in time to see a jacked-up SUV careening down the road, two of its oversize tires churning up dust along the shoulder. Jumping to safety, he tumbled down through a tangle of glowing crimson-colored poison oak. Catching his breath then feeling his pockets to make sure nothing had fallen out, he counted to ten, military-style, and began hauling himself back up to the highway. Pausing there to reconnoiter, he dusted himself off then continued south, swiveling his head every few seconds as he covered the remaining quarter mile to the Eden Resort in a matter of minutes.
Noticing several unfamiliar cars in the lot, James remembered the newly arriving guests Beverley had mentioned. He hurried down to the RV, eager to empty his pockets, splash water on his face and clean up, then write a diary entry and rest in silence—and think through this latest shot across his bow. Was it the usual reckless driving of a Carverville hick, he asked himself, or a deliberate attempt to run him down? Before he could unlock the rear door and climb inside his RV, he heard a familiar wheezing and shuffling.
“Ready for a second breakfast” Beverley asked brightly. “No, I am not the Wizard of Oz, they told me at Alioto’s Hardware, but even if they hadn’t told me, I could have guessed you’d already eaten at the diner.”
Glancing around like a trapped animal, James did not understand what she was talking about. “Alioto’s?” he asked. “What were you doing at the hardware store?”
“Getting supplies,” she said, catching her breath and extending something to him in her hand. “Here are your reading glasses. You left them behind, on the steps of your vehicle, when you skedaddled before dawn.” She savored his surprise. “So, here’s the scoop, Dr. Watson. The salesman who was sitting at the counter of the diner wearing an orange Alioto’s Hardware cap was finishing his breakfast when you came in, and he noticed you right away, but I’ll bet you didn’t notice or remember him, not even when you saw him again fifteen minutes later at Alioto’s Hardware, where he served you? He was right there at the diner when you picked up the newspaper, and then you showed up at Alioto’s flushed and flustered and acting suspiciously, like a shoplifter who’d made off with the goods. You also have not noticed there’s a piece of cinnamon roll stuck in your beard, and I happen to know the only place in town with a cinnamon roll like that is The Logjam Breakfast Diner Deli.”
James batted the half-inch morsel of pastry out of his beard, mortified to think he had been shopping at the hardware store and then walked through town looking like a hobo. “Good thing I just happened to go to Alioto’s to get that extension cord we talked about,” Beverley added with a crocodilian smile. “The Tom Cat was already looking for you, the lights swirling on his Blue Meanie-mobile.”
“Looking for me?”
“It seems you pocketed a precious document at the diner,” she ironized, touching her pearl necklace. “Now, I’m sure you didn’t steal that newspaper on purpose, any more than you left your reading glasses behind on purpose, and that’s what I told Tom, you’re distracted, a kind of mad-professor type. I told a fib and said I’d asked you to get me a copy of The Lighthouse plus that electrical cord because you were going to help me in the garden today, so young Tom backed off when I also told him I’d go up to the diner and explain and pay for the paper if that’s what they really wanted.”
James searched for words. “But it’s—it’s three days old,” he stammered, waving it in front of her, “it’s creased and greasy, and I left the waitress a $3.00 tip on a bill of $8.00, and the paper only costs $1.50.”
Beverley shook her head, commiserating. “I’m not sure where you’ve been the last few years, Your Honor,” she said. “In Carverville, that waitress has no say, the owner watched it all in real time on a screen in the back room, and the Tom Cat just happened to be coming in right then for breakfast and wanted to see the paper. Good thing Harvey wasn’t with him. Harvey is always down at the new HQ in South Carverville. He is not known for leniency. Just so you know, the newspaper only comes out once a week these days, not much call for it anymore, so a three-day-old copy is coveted by the local intellectuals. The editor also happens to be the mayor of Carverville.”
“Clem Kelley?”
“That’s right, Napoleon Kelley we call him. A mean little cuss if ever there was one. You know him?”
James subsided onto the stairs of the RV and shut his eyes. The vision of the hurtling SUV on stilts that had nearly run him over on the highway filled his consciousness, but he dared not bring it up with her. “Thank you, Beverley,” he said in a hollow voice, swamped by a wave of exhaustion. He took several deep breaths and tried to put the morning’s incidents out of mind.
“Don’t mention it,” she said. “Just watch your step. We’re in an unincorporated area here, but there’s a camera on every light pole in town, and in all the businesses and offices, and believe me, you are noticed in your Gandalf disguise when you walk like a madman from the harbor across town and down alleys and dirt roads only local teenagers use, as the Tom Cat put it. They may not know who you are yet, but they sure have you on the radar, everyone in town does. You know what the Tom Cat said to me? He said, ‘We saw the RV was gone, we saw it go down the highway south last night, so we thought he’d left Carverville. Is he a guest of yours?’ And I said, ‘Why, yes, he is, he’s a kind soul who likes gardening so he’s helping me out for a while, he did ROTC, and he was a great hog hunter and fisherman when young, he’s one of us, don’t worry.’ And you know what that Tom Cat did? He winked his eye like a dirty old man, the way he did yesterday in the parking lot, lowering his sunglasses.” She paused and sucked her lower lip. “If you stay much longer you’re going to have to register with the authorities, you know that, that’s federal law, it’s everywhere, the thirty-day limit. You can pack your pistol anywhere and kill just about anyone you please, but you can’t stay put without telling the man.”
James got to his feet and began pulling out the tools he had bought at the hardware store. “Where’s Taz,” he snapped, regretting the impatience in his voice. “We should get going.” Wandering from the RV across the overgrown parking area into the shack, he cleared a space on a rough wooden bench, tossed the newspaper into a corner, laid out the tools, and picked up the chainsaw, carrying it like a wounded animal.
A bloodhound with the scent, Beverley tracked his every step. “He’s late, that little scooter contraption of his ran out of juice.” she laughed. “We had another blackout last night all over town, I’m sure you didn’t notic
e down here with your generator, so his scooter didn’t get charged up. His grandmother is dropping him off right about now. Like I said yesterday, he does not have a car or a license, he claims the DMV discriminates against him, and he may be right, in fact I know he’s right. On the other hand, he is so clumsy . . .”
She cocked her head then dipped it with satisfaction, hearing the distant slamming of car doors. Grabbing James by the sleeve and pulling him into the garden, she shouted into the wind toward the parking lot. “Come on down here, both of you! We’re in the shack.” She turned to James and grinned. “Something tells me Grandma Glinda would like to meet you,” she said, “Taz has been telling her about you, I guess. I’ll find out soon enough over cards.”
James stood rigid and silent until Beverley let go of his sleeve. He tried to back away but she reached out and snagged him again. At the top of the hill, half masked by the vegetation, stood Taz, his grandmother by his side. She was a slight woman, bundled up in winter clothes. Peering down at Beverley, she glanced at James, waved and walked swiftly back to her car.
“Think of that,” Beverley clucked, “she’s as shy as you are. Who would’ve guessed?”
Taz stepped up on cue, his recurrent goofiness stretching his rubbery face, his eyes bulging and glued to the screen of his two smartphones. Sub-base drum music thumped out of the buds stuck into his large ears.
“I just got a message,” he shouted as if deaf, “the drone is arriving early, at 12:34 P.M. and fifteen seconds, with an average error of within thirty seconds. Cool!”
“Bad timing,” Beverley observed, “that’s right in the middle of our lunch.”
“Great,” James grunted, removing his windbreaker and rolling up the sleeves of his gray cotton sweatshirt. He paused to look it over, realizing he was about to sacrifice the garment to engine oil and grime. Stepping back into the shack, he was followed by Taz and Beverley. “Did you know we could have phoned Alioto’s or gone in yesterday and had the rebuild kit today for the same price you paid?” he asked.
“Alioto’s?” Taz shook his head and plucked out the earbuds. “Why do that?”
James and Beverley exchanged looks. “Use it or lose it,” she said.
“One day you might understand,” James added, “but it will be too late, you might miss having an actual real-life store like Alioto’s.”
Taz shrugged. “I don’t think so,” he said, “the drone doesn’t call me names behind my back.”
Beverley raised her eyebrows. “The drone shows up at lunch,” she grumbled, “and that’s possibly worse. You two want some breakfast?”
“Let’s skip it,” James said. “How about a break at ten o’clock instead? Once we’ve achieved something and stopped the palaver?”
Stung to the quick, Beverley said she would be leaving them, she had to put coffee, orange juice, and rolls out for the guests, and straighten up the rooms for their second night’s stay. After a quick round of negotiations, she let Taz keep his favorite smartphone, the one with the dragon motif on the black housing, in case a message about the drone delivery came in, or if they needed tech assistance. “Can’t you tell that darned drone to come a little later,” she shouted back at them, turning around partway up the slope. “I made tarte aux pommes for dessert . . .” Receiving no answer, she wheezed her way out of view.
His mind was a cloud of gnats or butterflies swarming on buddleias. Buzzing, James felt he was in ten places at once, thinking about the newspaper, its editor, Clem, the incident at the hardware store, the reckless SUV, Maggie, the drone, the engine of the vintage McCulloch, and getting the hell out of Carverville before it was too late. Arranging the tools on the bench like the scalpels, forceps, and scissors in an operating room, he wiped the saw body clean, eased out the screws from the housing, and removed the old chain. Taz held up his phone and announced he was making a video, in case they forgot how to put it together again.
Probing the guts of the hard-driven machine, James unplugged, unscrewed, loosened, wiped, and slid parts in and out of place, stopping several times to remove oil from his hands, put on then take off his reading glasses, and continue the procedure.
“Now, would you like to help me remove the piston?” he asked with a sigh of relief.
Taz seemed surprised. Lashing his head back and forth in something like horror, he held the smartphone up, an amulet. “I don’t see why we should both get, like, dirty,” he reasoned, “besides once you pull that out, and dismantle it, everything is done, right? Then we need the kit. That’s what it said online . . .”
James pursed his lips until they formed the stemless top of a bell pepper. “Ever heard the expression ‘hands-on’?” Returning to the engine, he tinkered then fumbled, dropping the piston pin and watching helplessly as the main bearing fell and rolled across the dirty floor, lodging under a coil of rusty barbed wire. About to curse, he restrained himself by counting to three, military-style. “Okay, now we need some solvent, and you’re going to have to lay that phone down and get dirty helping me put those parts back on the bench.”
Unable to see in the dark recesses of the shack, James snagged a finger on the barbed wire and jerked his hand back in pain, smashing his funny bone on a leg of the bench. He was about to suck the finger clean until he saw how filthy it was. As he and Taz crawled around on hands and knees, bumping into each other, Beverley bustled in with a tray calling, “Coffee break.” She watched them and began to cackle. Standing up, Taz beat the dust and dirt off his overalls and observed James filling a cracked blue plastic bucket with gasoline, then lowering the engine parts into it to soak. “That took you just over an hour,” Beverley remarked, “oh, and you’re bleeding like a stuck pig.” She cackled again and handed James a clean paper towel. “Will you ever get it back together?”
Shrugging, James squeezed blood out of the cut on his finger and washed his hands in the gasoline, wincing involuntarily. “Will the parts actually arrive?”
“We can track the drone,” Taz said, stroking and tapping as he backed away to the door of the shack for better connectivity.
“It’s a crazy waste of energy, if you ask me,” James grumbled.
“There’s no driving into town to buy the parts,” Taz countered. “So, you don’t burn gas or waste time.”
“But you’d be going into town sooner or later anyway, and you could always walk or use your electric scooter or a bike, you know, one of those two-wheeled contraptions that you power with your own little legs.”
Taz considered this and seemed unperturbed, holding up his smartphone and pointing to the screen. “I downloaded the owner’s manual for the saw and it says we should be able to break down the engine and rebuild it in about an hour.”
“Right,” said James with an ironic snort. “Except that it’s been over forty years since we touched one and our fingers and eyes are not what they used to be.”
“And your assistant is a voyeur and electronic onanist, allergic to sweat,” Beverley added. “I’ve never met a Gen Z–Millennial hybrid type who wasn’t. Google it, Taz, since you have that blasted thing in your hand anyway. ‘V-o-y-e-u-r’ and ‘o-n-a-n-i-s-m.’”
Taz tapped then blushed. “I’m not a voyeur, I mean, I, like, don’t watch . . . and I, I don’t do that, either . . .”
“Check the definition of ‘figurative,’” James snapped, “or look up ‘irony’ or ‘tease’ instead, and if you still don’t get it try ‘sense of humor.’”
“We don’t get the same jokes.” Beverley sighed, pouring the coffee and taking a slug. “It’s like the music. We don’t know the same songs.”
“That’s not true,” Taz objected, swiping at his screen. He held up an earbud for Beverley but she recoiled with disgust, so he unplugged the cable and turned up the volume. “Come on . . .” roared out of the tiny speaker. James and Beverley’s faces lit up. She began shaking her shoulders and singing. Taz joined in, dancing and wiggling like no teenage boy James had ever known.
“Vive la différen
ce,” Beverley shouted, wheezing and out of breath.
“It was Grandma’s LP,” Taz said when the song was over. “I transferred all her vinyl LPs to my phone, it’s, like, really cool. She’s still got an awesome stereo from, like, I don’t know, 1980 or something.”
“Prehistory,” Beverley quipped.
James smiled despite himself and shrugged the tension out of his shoulders. “Who on Earth could have imagined,” he muttered, walking out of the shack back into the garden and burying his face in the buddleia’s blossoms. “Let’s make some cuttings before lunch.”
TEN
She had prepared the blanquette de veau using “the authentic and original” Paris recipe, she said, meaning the tiniest pinch of flour and no cream, slow-cooking the hunks of tender veal with plenty of homemade veal broth. Taz was still licking his lips as they hurried downhill across the garden and filed onto the wooden landing atop the stairs to the beach. Leaning with one hand each on the rickety banister, Beverley and James shaded their eyes, staring south over the sand and surf while Taz, stroking the screen of his phone, announced excitedly that the drone was 2.8 miles south and about to fly over the Yono River. Holding the phone at arm’s length, he turned his back to the beach and began talking like a reporter. “Selfie video with drone,” he intoned, speaking loudly and clearly at the smartphone while sweeping it to get a panoramic view, “with Beverley and James.”
“Don’t put me in it,” Beverley scolded, fingering her pearls and trying to shield her face. “My hair is a mess.”
“I’ll send it to Grandma and she can show it at your bridge club.” Taz snickered.
“You’ll do no such thing!” Beverley exclaimed, holding up her hands. “It isn’t a bridge club anyway, we play cribbage and poker. Turn that thing off, will you?”