“That’s not much, is it?”
“No. It’s not much, and I could be doing more. But you’re leading up to something here, aren’t you? I can feel it.”
Amused at her own transparency, she laughed. “Am I that obvious?”
“Maybe not to someone else, Tip. But we go back a ways, don’t we?”
“We certainly do, Mitch. Would you like more coffee?”
“Yeah, I’ll have another cup.”
She refilled his cup and came back a moment later. “So, what are your plans, Mitch…from here on out?”
Sipping the coffee, he smiled to himself. He remembered only too keenly the first time it had happened, how he had succumbed to her fervor. Despite his initial reluctance, she had convinced him to attend a meeting concerning ways of ministering to Portland’s homeless population. Admittedly, it had seemed a worthwhile cause, and her solution (though partial, at best), to buy a “mercy van,” using church donations, had been within the realm of actually making a difference. And he had endorsed it with the plaudits one usually reserves for those occasions when to do otherwise would be boorish. Beyond handing out small change once in a while, he had never been particularly troubled by the homeless; they were someone else’s obligation. But he did welcome the chance to socialize. In fact, later on, thinking about it, he realized that his primary motivation for getting involved centered on just that reason.
As a fledgling writer, his life had become circumscribed by four walls and a window that overlooked a section of the city with a view of a pyramidal, snow-capped mountain in the distance. Apart from any satisfaction he derived from writing, the routine he had imposed upon himself had become stale in the ways most people take for granted. He simply didn’t get out and about much. He stayed too often to himself and missed out on those things that are needed to round out a person. Time spent with friends, romance, a healthy dose of travel, recreational activities, and so on, even family—all those things had suffered, and as a result he sometimes experienced a paucity of spirit that called for a specific antidote—spending more time with others.
As it happened, being with Heidi and her crew of volunteers had given him just that opportunity. Even distributing baloney sandwiches, chicken soup, used army blankets, fresh socks, wool caps, and other donated clothing one or two evenings a week and then sitting around afterwards, discussing how they might expand their efforts and reach more of the needy, had done much to offset the imbalance. Even if only in a small way it had provided him with regular social contact. What’s more, it had not detracted, as he had feared it might, from devoting time and energy to his own interest. He found he could write just as well, and, as someone discovering the benefits of a hot tub or a Swedish sauna, he came to appreciate the restorative effect. But he also came to appreciate something else.
Heidi was not a person easily resisted. She had a magnetic intensity, the kind one associates with the charisma of an Aimee Semple McPherson or an Elizabeth Clare Prophet exhorting her devotees to follow her into the hills to escape the impending collapse of civilization. She represented a female in the throes of a passionate clarion call to muster support for a favorite cause, and anyone weakened by susceptibility and caught in the line of fire more likely than not succumbed. Her persuasive power resided not only in the righteousness of whatever belief she espoused but as well in the vulnerability of her listener. Mitch had been vulnerable then; he would not be now.
He shrugged off the question by repeating his intention to play it by ear. He had nothing special or specific lined up for himself. His dad had left him with the means to pursue whatever independent course he chose. For the time being, he would reestablish himself here in Portland, getting an apartment and renewing friendships and acquaintances. But otherwise, he wanted to stay free and uncommitted. Perhaps start another novel, loosen up the engine of creativity, and get back into the lifestyle. Europe had been educational, as well as fun. But now he needed to get serious. The years passed too quickly to put off any longer the urge to do something meaningful.
Heidi understood all that and, indeed, sympathized with his sentiments. But she had own take on it. “That means you’ll have some free time, then, doesn’t it, Mitch?”
“I don’t know yet, Tip. I’ll have some free time, of course; I always have had. But once I establish a routine for myself, I’m not so sure that I will. It all has to play itself out first.”
“I wouldn’t want you to rush it, Mitch. But let me throw out a suggestion. Okay?”
“Nothing wrong with suggestions, Tip. That’s what suggestion boxes are for.”
“Well, this one isn’t going into a box, Mitch. It’s going right in your lap.”
“Okay, try me. I’m game.”
Heidi leaned forward in her chair. She rested her elbows on her knees and folded her hands together. Pausing for effect, she said: “Direct action, Mitch, the kind that goes directly to the heart of the matter—you know what that means, don’t you?”
“Huh, yeah, I guess.”
“Well, that’s what we’re into now…”
“Really?”
“Yes. You see…”
Over the next fifteen minutes, she told him about the group’s latest escapade. It had involved a foray into the industrial heart of a city responsible for more than its share of air pollution throughout the twentieth century. The pollution had come from power plants and steel mills and had spread over a wide section of the East Coast, and probably elsewhere. The group’s intention had not been to expose the source of the pollution or its lingering effects; both were well enough known and understood already. Rather, symbolically, it aspired to demonstrate a simple fact—the ubiquity of smokestacks, whether defunct or in use, had to be curtailed.
“Do you see what I’m getting at?” she said, finishing up. “We’re taking the bull by the horns here, Mitch…taking activism to a new level, beyond simple street protest and letters-to-the-editor. We’re engaging in acts of civil disobedience meant to spark widespread, immediate awareness. And what we did in Cleveland is only the first of many acts. There’ll be more to follow.”
Mitch looked at his friend, a woman he had known going on ten years. They had first met at a car wash she and her little band of activists had organized to raise money for one of their causes; he couldn’t remember which. On the surface, she had not changed much. The years had treated her well. The spark of effervescence that had captivated him in the beginning had not diminished. Her dark, slightly Mediterranean eyes still glowed like two watermelon seeds polished to a high sheen with gun oil. And the Spanish-black hair still fell carelessly down along her cheeks and onto her shoulders, accentuating an oval prettiness. A slight matronly pouch had formed under her chin and a complement of incipient crow’s-feet bespoke a certain passage of years; but otherwise she could easily have returned to her high school alma mater and, without arousing much notice, posed convincingly as a senior. Along with the spring in her step and the swing of her shoulders, she exuded a definite youthfulness; as much as for her intelligence, her optimism, and her convictions, Mitch admired for her that. Yet none of it hid the fact that an interior sea change had taken place. He couldn’t help but notice her compressed way of speaking now, as though biting down on each word to emphasize determination, even anger. She was not the old Heidi, who seemed to take things in stride, believing that the world would eventually be a better place, if only people cared more.
Had he used tobacco in any form, whether chewing or smoking it, he might have resorted to the classic ploy of filling a pipe, lighting a cigarette, or biting off a plug of snuff to give himself time to conjure up a neutral response. But he used the unfinished portion of his coffee instead.
Lifting the mug to his lips, he swallowed off a portion, then set the mug on a nearby table. Fastidiously, gaining an extra moment in which to think of something appropriate, he slid it farther onto the table, away from the edge.
Finally, looking at Heidi, he said, “My goodness, Tip, who woul
d have thought? I mean, you’ve really gone big time, haven’t you? I’ve been gone a year, a year and a half, and my girl has turned into a revolutionary of sorts. But what’s next on your agenda? How far are you gonna take this?”
Heidi laughed. Whatever irony might have been there, she either missed it or ignored it. But feeling reassured, she said, “We’re still waiting to know about Cleveland. So far, nobody’s heard anything. Rick hasn’t contacted us, but we think that’s a good sign. It means he’s still out there, doing his own thing somewhere down in Arizona. To be on the safe side, though, we’re going to wait awhile longer before we take on anything else.”
“You’re really gonna keep up with all this, then? Is that it?”
“Of course, Mitch. You know me, it runs in my blood. And as long as there aren’t any setbacks.”
“What about the others? How do they feel about it? Scruples? Reservations? Second thoughts?”
Heidi dismissed the suggestion with a wave of her hand. “They’re all on board. They might have had some doubts at first, but they’ve seen what can be accomplished. We just have to be careful, that’s all.”
“Yeah, I would imagine that would be a primary consideration.”
“But, look, Mitch, why don’t you come to dinner next week? Everybody’ll be here. It’ll give you a chance to meet them all and to see for yourself what a strong commitment they’ve all made.”
“You wouldn’t be trying to recruit me, would you, Tip?”
“I’d be a liar if I said no.” She laughed. “But I’ll settle for moral support.”
“I’ve always been with you there, Tip; you know that. But, yeah, dinner sounds fun.
“Do you want me to bring anything?”
“Just yourself.”
Mitch started to get up to leave but caught sight of Jennifer, Heidi’s little daughter, coming down the basement steps.
“Well, look who’s here,” he said.
Her dark curls disheveled and rubbing her eyes sleepily, the little girl came partway into the room but stopped when she saw Mitch.
“It’s Jennifer, back from the land of Nod,” Heidi said. “Did you have a nice nap, honey?”
Without replying, Jennifer walked over to her mother and leaned against her knee. Cocking her head to one side, she looked inquisitively at Mitch.
Caressing her daughter’s hair, Heidi said, “You remember Mitch, don’t you? He’s the nice man who used to come to the house.”
Jennifer smiled shyly, then turned away.
“I suppose I should get her something to eat. Would you like to stick around, Mitch?”
“I really oughta be going. I still have to find an apartment.”
“But you will be here next week?”
“You bet!”
“We’ll all look forward to seeing you.”
“Great!”
Heidi walked him back upstairs.
They stood in the doorway. Savoring the warmth of two friends reunited after a long absence, they embraced. Then, as he crossed the porch and went down the front steps, Heidi held the door for him.
“Don’t forget next week,” she called.
“I promise.”
6
The black Caprice turned the corner and cruised down a paved street that ran out its length after two blocks and became, instead, a pockmarked dirt road ending, after a short distance, at an iron guard-rail with a red-lettered NO TRESPASSING sign on it. Beyond the guardrail lay a thick forest inhabited by raccoons, a few deer, skunks, possums, a cougar that occasionally fed on local pets, and a family of red foxes. Located in an unincorporated area of Multnomah County, at the base of the foothills on the way to Mt. Hood, it was also the rumored home of a bearded Vietnam veteran and one dazed and beaded sixties-era hippie who lived in a tree house twenty feet above the forest floor.
Rick’s house, being on the same dirt road and a few yards from the guardrail, had the honor of being the nearest civilized dwelling, and of all the houses in the neighborhood the one most likely to be visited by garbage-can-marauding raccoons and the pet-loving cougar. Rick himself did not have a pet, but the raccoons could be a nuisance, and the prowling cougar often used his backyard as a transit point when moving from one house to the next. Being entirely unpredictable in its habits and behavior, it had startled him more than once, and, setting his garbage out in the early morning, Rick had taken to wearing a sidearm.
The Caprice turned into his driveway and stopped close behind the Volkswagen van backed halfway into the open garage of the split-level clapboard house.
Bill Hammerstein and his partner, Tom McCullers, got out. Over the roof of the Caprice, Bill said, “Let’s do a split-up. You can never tell about a fucker like this.”
With Bill going up one side of the van and Tom the other, the two agents entered the garage.
Rick, wearing a pair of mechanic’s overalls, looked up. He had an open can of Budweiser in one hand and a socket wrench in the other. The Volkswagen’s engine compartment had been propped open with a broom handle, and a mechanic’s light illuminated its interior. Rockabilly music blared from a boom box on a nearby workbench, and a six-pack of Budweiser, minus two cans, sat next to it.
Bill walked over and turned down the music.
Rick looked from one man to the other.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “you’re either here to sell me something or you represent Publisher’s Clearing House. Which is it? Either I’m a big winner or I need a new insurance policy.”
The two agents chuckled.
“I can tell right now, Rick,” Bill said, “that we’re gonna have a lotta laughs, a whole barrel of laughs.”
“Yeah,” Tom joined in, “we’re gonna have our own little laugh fest. But we gotta get the serious stuff outta the way first. I’m Special Agent Tom McCullers with the FBI, and this here’s my partner, Bill Hammerstein. We wanna ask you a few questions, Rick…civil-like, of course.”
Rick wiped his hands on a rag. “Sure,” he said. “You wanna come inside? I’ll make a pot of coffee…unless you’d rather have a beer?”
“We got our own coffee at the office, Rick, and neither one of us drinks Budweiser. But what we’d like you to do is take a little ride with us. We’d like to have a nice conversation with you.”
“You mean, as in I’m being arrested?”
“Nah, nothing like that, Rick. That’s all passé. Nowadays, we prefer to keep everything nice between us. It’s all part of a recent campaign to create a new image for ourselves. We used to just beat the shit outta guys like you, work up a little sweat using your head as a punching bag. Now we take you down to the office and give you coffee and donuts. It makes for much better public relations.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah…they been givin’ us classes in how to be nice guys. What do you think so far?”
“I’m thoroughly taken in. I just hope it’s somethin’ that catches on.”
The two agents grinned at each other.
“So, we can get started anytime, then, huh?”
“Yeah, we’re ready to leave whenever you are, Rick.”
Rick looked down at his overalls and grease-stained Reeboks.
“Do I look presentable enough? I could shower and change clothes.”
“We got lots of nice clothing, Rick, compliments of the government, if we need it. But don’t worry…you look just fine. And we’re gonna take you in through the garage, anyway.”
“You gonna read me my rights first?”
“Rights? Like I said, Rick, we’re not here to arrest you. We just wanna get to know ya, have a friendly little chat. Trust me, you got nothin’ to worry about,” Agent Hammerstein reassured him.
“Yeah, Rick, depending on how it goes, we could get to be real good buddies. We might even have a few beers together, take in a football game, maybe have ya over for a barbecue.”
“Gee, that’d be nice. I’d really look forward to that.”
“Well, after you, buddy…”
&nbs
p; Rick shrugged.
With an agent to either side, he walked out to the Caprice. As he got into the backseat, Bill held the door for him.
“We’ll have you home in time for dinner, Rick,” Tom said, starting the car and looking back at him in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah, that’s a promise, Rick. If you got a hot date tonight, you won’t even hafta call your girlfriend and tell her you’re gonna be late.”
“Man, you guys are just bein’ too nice. You almost got me tearin’ up here.”
“We’re just a couple of big teddy bears, Rick. And, as you get to know us better, you’ll see just how deep nice goes.”
§ § § § § §
Windows of reinforced frosted glass provided the room with a modicum of daylight. A ceiling panel of three florescent bulbs burned overhead and accentuated the bare aspect of the room. A table and four chairs sat in the middle, and an oversized mirror spanned a wall opposite the window.
Bill Hammerstein sat on one side of the table and his partner sat at one end. Rick sat across from Bill, with his hands folded together, and looked on as the two agents sipped coffee from Styrofoam cups and ate a powdered donut apiece. A cup of coffee was at Rick’s elbow, but he ignored it.
“Go on, have a donut,” Bill said, pushing the box across the table.
“Yeah, humor us, Rick…we’re trying to be nice here.”
“I gotta watch my weight, guys, really. Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Sure, go ahead,” Bill said and opened a manila file folder containing a thick packet of papers. He picked up the top one and read through it quickly. “It says here you’re a vet, honorably discharged. That right?”
Rick slipped his Zippo lighter back into his overalls and blew a stream of smoke away from the two agents. He dismissed the question with a shrug: “Must be true if it’s there. Government never lies.”
The Distant Echo of a Bright Sunny Day Page 5