Nobody ever counts on getting such a moment of revelation. That’s what makes it a revelation! Most of the time, we go our whole lives without any such windfall of grace and insight, dying as unaware as when we were born. And if such awakenings do come, we can never predict the circumstances surrounding them. I realized it was up to me to do something with this moment of clarity. But how?
One second, I was lying next to the whipsaw-emulating Sandralene, and the next instant I was on my feet, scrabbling for my clothes.
This was now Nellie’s cabin, too! Where the hell was she? Had she maybe quietly opened the door while Sandralene and I were going at it, taken in the scene, and slunk away?
After shucking on my clothes, I cracked open the cabin door onto the dawn-lit estate. Not a soul in sight.
I slipped out. Where could Nellie be? Where had she spent the night? Maybe she, too, had given in to temptation and found another partner. That orgiastic dancing would surely have inflamed any woman’s libido.
I thought of making my way back to the room I shared with Ray, and establishing an alibi for the night. But could I count on Ray backing up any story I manufactured? His sense of honesty was inhuman. Unlike the rest of us, he wasn’t primed to utter white lies in most circumstances—another reason why we were keeping him sequestered. Not just for his own safety, but also because he might let slip a whole host of inconvenient truths.
A mild burst of laughter, male and female, issued from the direction of the dining hall. I went to investigate the source.
Amid the debris of the concert, the members of the Lucky Graves Group sat around a table with steaming mugs of coffee and plates of breakfast food half demolished. With them were Nellie and our chef, Jenise Rezende. The musicians had stopped playing last night sometime after I left with Sandralene, and they were still decompressing, having gotten no more sleep than I had.
Nellie jumped up when she saw me. She had dark crescents under her eyes and was disheveled from the dancing, but showed no sign of participation in any other vigorous recreational activity. Without knowing it, she stood on higher moral ground than I could lay claim to.
“Ai, Glen, that champagne! It made me a little nuts. And then with the dancing! Well, sometimes you just gotta cut loose, verdade? I been working so hard, I needed that.”
She hugged me, and I had to pray that the liquor and my own sweat overwhelm the scent of Sandralene. “You got a little sleep, I hope? But how you like my dancing, huh? Was it everything I promised? It make you real com tesão, I bet!”
“Nellie, I … You mean so much to me.”
I meant it. But of course, that declaration, while true enough, left out a lot.
She kissed me, then turned back to the musicians. “Hey, how come you think these guys play batuque so good? They all been to Boa Vista! They know Jenise’s uncle there!”
I went over to the trio’s table. “Thanks for your sublime performance. Whatever Nellie agreed to pay you, I’m sure you deserve twice as much.”
Lothar grinned. “You want us back here, I’m gonna hold you to that, man.”
We shook hands all around, and then the group got all their gear packed away in the ramshackle van and drove off.
Jenise stood up and said, “We’re supposed to be serving breakfast starting at eight. Glen, do you think we could open an hour later? I need at least a few minutes’ sleep. And the cleanup is going to be immense.”
“Of course. Don’t kill yourself. I don’t think you’re going to get many early risers today. And if they show up, they can have some coffee and wait.”
Jenise gave a cavernous yawn and ambled off to the dormitory trailer.
Nellie said, “I gotta crash, too.”
“Just go lie down,” I said. “I got this.”
She kissed me again and went off to Sandy’s cabin, where we had just been screwing our brains out.
Somehow, my earlier epiphany upon hearing Sandralene’s words had given me an inexplicable reservoir of energy. I felt wired, but without any accompanying turbulence of thought.
I collapsed all the folding chairs and stacked them for return to storage. I pushed all the indoor tables and chairs into some approximation of their usual places, then got a push broom and swept all the detritus on the floor out onto the grass for pickup. I secured several big rubber bus tubs and loaded all the dirty dishes and glasses and flatware into them. But before I could carry them into the kitchen, where our expensive dishwashing machine lay waiting, all my strength suddenly dissipated. Good enough. When the staff arrived, they would find a lot less to do.
I returned to my room. Ray Zerkin was sleeping like a baby. Without the eyeglasses, his face looked even younger. I had a shower, and the hot water invigorated me again. I still couldn’t sleep, so I got my clothes back on and headed out the door.
On the edge of the manicured lawn (the industrial riding mower that handyman Bethinho Fonseca drove had chewed up three thousand dollars of Uncle Ralph’s line of credit), I found the start of one of the trails favored by hikers. My all-consuming focus on our scam had never left me any time to venture far off the property in all the weeks we had been here. But now, somehow, I felt I could.
The well-marked path led through meadows fragrant with late-season wildflowers, shadowy alleys of birches, a small rocky brook. Eventually, the trail began to ascend, and I found myself climbing a low hill.
The crest was bare granite. I had a view mostly of treetops, a slice of Nutbush Lake, and a few of the lodge buildings. Here and there, the stone bulk of the hill broke through the skin of dirt and grass, like cobbler peeking out between sections of crust. I dropped down onto a smooth stretch of rock already warmed by the sun. Still hypersensitive, I felt a deep connection, through the boulder, to this whole eternal globe spinning ceaselessly through space.
When I awoke, the sun was a bit past the zenith. If I had dreamed of anything, nothing remained with me.
42
I had to hand it to Nancarrow. For the rest of Saturday, after I returned from my walk, he convincingly played the part of a lazy, happy tourist swept up in a “shipboard romance.” His patience was exemplary and galling. He gave no sign that he was visiting this place with any ulterior motive. And all I wanted was for him to make the next move so we could proceed toward the endgame.
Any lofty certainty I had felt after my magical sense of oneness with my own destiny had evaporated. No handy animal spirit guide shored me up. I was just my own shaky self once more, with no resources beyond what I had cultivated inside me. Not even Stan was around to reassure me. My ass was hanging out in the breeze all alone.
Arriving back at the lodge in the early afternoon, I found all evidence of last night’s festivities cleaned up and the whole place humming along on an even keel, as it had ever since we opened. I could not fault the zeal and ability of the Caboverdeans whom Nellie had directed me to hire. Her boasting about their work ethic had been totally justified. Every one of them seemed almost as dedicated as she was to making this place successful. The lodge’s legacy must still reverberate throughout their community, and their appreciation for a paycheck in tough times remained undimmed.
I tried not to think about how we were going to pull the rug out from under all this.
Families frolicked on the beach. A volleyball net had been erected on one stretch of lawn, and a friendly game with three players on a side was under way. Diners came and went from the hall. Some cars bearing day-trippers arrived, each a potential word-of-mouth advertiser to encourage future overnighters.
I encountered Nancarrow and Vee returning from a swim. Rushlow and Digweed were nowhere to be seen, and I surmised that they and their boss now deemed this place safe, allowing the strong-arm boys a little R&R.
Nancarrow’s gym-honed muscles and studio tan made me feel like a sack of oatmeal. Vee’s white-and-black bathing suit featured an abstract pattern resembling sedimentary strata
in a cliff face. An ostensibly demure one-piece, the almost backless suit was cut away totally on both sides above her hips, while the small swatches designed to cover her breasts were joined in back and yoked in front by a slender shoelace whose knot looked ridiculously easy to undo. Her water-slicked hair, pasted to her head, revealed the elegant lines of her jaw and neck.
Nancarrow seemed none the worse for last night’s extensive imbibing. “Glen, let me congratulate you again!” he said. “That was a splendid affair last night. You and your assistant have a natural flair for entertaining. It seems to me that if you had some capital to expand, you could really turn this place into something big.”
I tried to sound both flattered at his interest and mildly offended. “Well, sure, but money’s always the obstacle, right? I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but we’re in pretty deep to a local bank already. Keeps me up nights, worrying if we can make a go of the place.”
Midway between lake and lodge, Nancarrow turned slowly and ostentatiously in a circle, making a show of appraising his surroundings. “You know what, Glen? I think I might be able to offer you some advice. As I said, I’ve tried my hand at a fair number of ventures, with some small successes. Let’s make some time to talk.”
Nancarrow encircled Vee’s waist with one arm, and she nestled enthusiastically into his slimy embrace. Her face showed nothing but the adoration of money and status and good times that motivated any shortsighted striver who had come up the hard way. I marveled again at her acting talent. The mask was perfect. Wearing a shield against all humanity for so many years had obviously rendered her capable of the most convincing charade. I wondered whether I had even seen her true self that night of the party, when we screwed under the dark canopy of the big beech tree.
“But we won’t talk business now,” Nancarrow continued. “I promised the lovely Miss Pomestu a hearty meal after our swim. Plus, there’s still champagne on ice. And afterward, imagine, she threatened to—and I quote—‘whip my ass at badminton.’ But first, to counteract those brisk lake waters of yours, a nice, long hot shower.”
Nancarrow was not so smarmy as to wink, but he didn’t need to. The implication that he would be slithering all over Vee in the same shower stall did not fly over my head.
I wondered whether there was some way to sabotage the pipes to his unit alone. Where was Elbert Tighe when I needed him?
As the pair moved away, Vee looked back over her shoulder and said, “Oh, Mr. McClinton? Could you please have housekeeping change the sheets in my room? They’ve seen a lot of use.”
I had to turn away before giving a combined chuckle and pained grunt. But the women in my life were not done with me.
I encountered Sandralene in a totally unnatural position.
Rather than reclining like a big lazy animal, half naked and soaking up the sun, she was dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, sitting upright in her lawn chair and reading a book.
I looked at the cover, expecting some piece of fluff, but was surprised to see that she was well into one of Vee’s Italian novels.
She seemed genuinely absorbed, and I had to stand by the chair for half a minute till she registered my presence.
“Oh, Glen, hello. It’s nice to see you. How are you after your busy night?”
My knees went semiliquid. “I’m fine. Wonderful, in fact. And you?”
“I always try to feel good, Glen.”
I cast an eye at the book. “Are you enjoying that?”
Her face, as guileless as Vee’s was calculated, showed mixed puzzlement and dedication to soldier on. “I don’t totally get it, but I’m thinking I should try. And it’s good to have things to talk about when you’re with people. I notice you like to talk about all sorts of things.”
“Yes, sure, when I’m not otherwise busy.”
Sandralene’s laugh belled out big and hearty. “Actions speak louder than words, my friend.”
I left her with lines of concentration furrowing her brow.
* * *
Nellie sat behind her office divider. I hadn’t seen her since she went back to her cabin for a morning nap, and I was a little worried that maybe something in the room would have alerted her to my overnight presence there with Sandy. But her happy embrace told me she had discerned nothing of the sort.
“Glen, you should see the take from last night! We made such a profit! We have to do this every weekend!”
“You don’t think we’ll saturate the market and run out of customers?”
“Who doesn’t like to have a good time every single weekend? But when the cold weather comes, we can’t use outdoor seating no more. And the hall will only fit so many. Glen, do you think we can build on to that room? I know we just finished one renovation, but I don’t see any other way to handle everyone who might want to come.”
If I had been running this place for real, of course I would have hesitated and said I needed to study the matter. But out of guilt at my infidelity, and because I would soon be seeing Bigelow Junction Motor Lodge for the last time in my rearview mirror, I said, “Nellie, I don’t see how we can not do it!”
My reward came in the usual smoking-hot currency.
I puttered around for the rest of the afternoon, until about five. I couldn’t rush Nancarrow. I just had to be patient. Luckily, the lodge presented no end of chores to keep me busy.
Around five, an unexpected visitor arrived, in the person of Sheriff Broadstairs.
He crossed the lawn toward me with his usual gait: not exactly a swagger, but a kind of take-charge stride that brooked no interference.
“McClinton, I heard you had a hell of a shindig out here last night. Did you get all the proper licenses?”
My heart sank into my shoes. Was this how we would get tripped up?
Seeing my dismay, Broadstairs laughed uproariously. “Son of a bitch! Did I scare you, or what? Did you forget, my friend, that you are sitting on unincorporated land? Centerdale’s got no jurisdiction here. You can run a strip joint for all I can say about it. Not that it would be the smartest idea. There’s ways your neighbors can express an opinion that don’t rightly follow the law books. Am I making sense?”
I was so relieved that we had not tripped up, I didn’t even mind Broadstairs’ blunt intimidation. “Absolutely.”
“Now, to the real reason for my visit. I understand those two hunter guys are back. They after bear or moose? Because they only had licenses for turkey, deer, and geese, as I recall.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about them. They’re not hunting anything other than quail this time.”
Broadstairs’ puzzlement lasted only a second before he grinned. “I see. Nice work if you can get it. Still, maybe I oughta just check in with them anyways.”
I didn’t want to draw attention to Nancarrow’s presence, but felt I should mention it, given that the sheriff would inevitably find out. “They’re here with their boss. Some guy named Nancarrow.”
“He a hunter, too?”
“More or less the same as his underlings.”
“Y’know,” Broadstairs observed, “lots a times those kinda guys end up the hunted.”
From the sheriff’s lips to God’s ear, I hoped.
43
Toting me along as his passport, Sheriff Broadstairs found Digweed and Rushlow in the kitchen. They had been fishing and caught a good stringer of yellow perch. Now they had sweet-talked Jenise and her staff into cleaning and even preparing the fish for their exclusive supper. The way a couple of our female kitchen employees hung close by the two thugs informed me plainly enough how they had spent their night.
“Nice catch, gentlemen,” Broadstairs said with apparent jollity. “Good thing those babies are in season for licensed fishermen.”
Digweed frowned, highlighting the pale scars more clearly against his dark skin. Rushlow began to stammer. “Well, now, you
see—”
Broadstairs interrupted. “I only wish I could’ve gone fishing today and had similar luck, for I surely do favor me some perch. I find it best rolled in cornmeal and fried in a hot skillet—cast iron, of course. Mighty good eating.”
It seemed to take all Digweed’s self-control to project polite and spontaneous generosity.
“Sheriff, we’d be happy if you’d take a few for yourself.”
“Why, that’s awfully kind of you fellas.”
Digweed appropriated a big sheet of aluminum foil and began piling scaled and gutted perch on it. With every fish, he would look to Broadstairs for the nod that this was enough. By the time he finally got it, there was just one perch apiece left for him and Rushlow.
Carrying the package under one arm, Sheriff Broadstairs tipped his anomalous bush hat and strolled off with me.
The muted swearing emanating from the kitchen was almost musical.
* * *
Once Broadstairs drove off, I went back to my cabin to check in on Ray and freshen up for dinner. In the gloom of the drawn window shades, his face glowed eerily in the radiance of his iPad. The illumination showed no color, just shades of gray, making me curious. He was sitting upright on the edge of his bed while tinny play-by-play emerged from the speakers.
Ray paused the video. “Are you familiar with this YouTube channel, Mr. Glen? It’s called Major League Baseball Classics. I am a subscriber. They feature nothing but old games. Right now, I’m watching game six of the 1952 World Series. Yankees versus the Brooklyn Dodgers. This was before they became the Los Angeles Dodgers, you know.”
I sat down on the bed beside Ray, and he resumed the program. The video was hypnotic. The frequent panoramas of the crowd, which appeared to be 90 percent suited white males. The breezy homespun chatter of the announcers, and their genuine excitement at the high points of the game. The leisurely daytime holiday ambience and the deliberate slowness and skills of the nonshowboating players.
Maybe I was still extra sensitive from my earlier epiphany. Maybe it was just fatigue and the darkened room. But whatever the cause, I felt cast back almost bodily to a time long before I was born, into a world that, whatever complicated realities it might have manifested to the citizens of that era, seemed simpler and more clear-cut, less harsh and mean, closer to some essential rhythm of life and civilization. I found myself yearning to escape this day and age—not just my present circumstances, but the whole matrix out of which my messed-up duties and schemes had arisen.
The Big Get-Even Page 20