Just North of Nowhere

by Lawrence Santoro

  She opened the window all the way. Listened.

  Not a sound.

  Just a tube full of snores and dreams, for crineoutloud, something to trail away unheard to nothing. THAT's all it is, she thought, a big bright pipe loaded with dreams going somewhere… “and waking up where I ain’t,” she said, going, going…

  It wrinkled again.

  “Huh,” she said, “no it ain’t!”

  The thing was not going. The thing had stopped just shy of disappearing over West Bluff. It had hung there the best part of a minute.

  “Now that is different,” she said.

  The colors shifted hues backwards. The light reached back along its own trail glowing in the morning.

  “Right. Up where that fellow is, sun’s already over the edge of the world. Huh.”

  Next, the light did another thing unusual: it reached out of the sky and down to Bluffton, down through the second floor front window of Esther’s place above the restaurant, down to Esther. When it did, the damn thing started in on her like Marv used to when he was after something. With the thing in the sky, though, she didn’t come back! “You’re Goddamn right,” she would’ve said, had she said anything at all. She didn’t. It made sense, listening. That thing in the sky, just shy of the far bluff, over on the sunset side of town? It made sense and that was that. Pies or black sand beaches? To hell with both of them.

  Day was almost sorted out by the time Vinnie pulled up to the American House—Eats. He’d already heard: the Eats is shut! Someone had come running.

  The Sons of Norway had gotten there first. They came same as usual, a troop of them to have their breakfast. They got to the porch. Then, Uf-dah! Lights is out, door is closed!

  They tried it, gently.

  Locked.

  They looked in at the door, at each other, at the door again—some peered in the window. By then a couple guys from the stockyard had showed up, then another bunch from somewhere. Not talkative, the Sons stood aside and let the rest wonder it through.

  That note on the door window? “Uf-dah, anyone coulda wrote that there,” someone said. The Sons thought that way, too. None had said it. The plain fact was: no breakfast.

  A few more showed, Einar among them.

  “What? What’s’at?” he said.

  “Criminies,” Mondon from the yards said, “she ain’t a restrant no more!”

  “What d’ya mean? What’d’ya mean by that, for crineoutloud?” Einar said. “Here it is, for cripes!” He thumped his foot on the porch, three, four times. “We’re on her porch, for cripes sake. Place’s still here!” He dared anyone to argue them damn points! “Saying she ain’t a restaurant no more!” He would have hocked a good one for show but he knew what Esther would have done, catching him doing that!

  Sure, the building was there. Just as sure: no eggs, ham, grits, biscuits, bacon, no coffee nor sweet pie, nothing warm came from it. There was just the closed door—not even the CLOSED sign, for cry-eye – and the dark.

  More people showed. By then there were quite a few. There was milling and muttering and by then Vinnie was there and the sun was over the bluff and it was pretty much day and just the American House, the building. No Eats. Cripes.

  “Christ’s own dipstick, Vinnie,” Einar said, leaning on the prowler’s window, “what the hay you gonna do? Esther Whatchacaller’s gone missing or dead, right? Foul play for sure. FOUL play we all figure.”

  “You figure?”

  “Yeah, sure. Me and them. You betcha.” He thumbed over his shoulder in the direction of the mob and missed the squint in Vinnie’s eye. “Foul play or worse.”

  Vinnie was in no mood. In particular he was in no mood considering it was Einar leaning and figuring. Worse would have been if Karl Dorbler—particularly if Karl Dorbler—had come leaning on the prowler and figuring foul play for Vinnie to sort out. And Vinnie, sitting there without morning grunts and coffee!

  Peculiar, though.

  Vinnie shoved Einar out of the way with the car door and stepped into the street.

  Now, Vinnie’d been a cop all his life. Seemed like it, anyway. He'd seen things, pile-ups on County H, farm implement tragedies, that sort of thing. The worst had been the Friedlander back yard on Centennial – a dozen State Patrol and forensic sorts, milling in the morning mist and shadows, feet bagged and shuffling, everyone afraid to mess something, voices low, flashbulbs flicking.

  And the smell, Vinnie remembered. The place and time had a smell. The torn open and scooped out corpse of the Friedlander girl had let a stink of emptied bowel and let-go piss mixed with blood, mud and the copper touch of adrenalin that joined the smell on the tongue. A reek of pain and caution that was, Vinnie thought.

  Here? He took a few sniffs. Nothing, he realized. Strange, just not Friedlander strange.

  The front of the American House, the porch, steps, the street around, looked, cripes, like what a crime scene ought to! People milling. Standing apart. Talking quiet. Afraid to touch, watching where they stepped like a dance. And, yeah, something smelled peculiar. Vinnie sniffed again.

  First: Sweaty Norwegian. Then: shit and blood (cow, maybe, maybe pig, breezing down Slaughterhouse from the yards or maybe off some‘the guys from the yards, here to breakfast). Higher in the air was a smell of turned dirt. Amish lands up the bluffs past Dorbler’s Folly. From down low and not too-far away was stink of the Kiddorf Banks. That too. That’s Bluffton. Morning scent. Usual.

  Still. Something. Something else, something different.

  Took Vinnie some standing and scratching but he got it. Missing something, is what he got.

  What?

  Well, sure you big lug! This morning’s absent the scent of pie! He damn near smacked his own forehead for dumbassedness.

  The note taped to the inside glass of the door was hand-lettered and neat:

  “Gone. Don't worry yourselfs. And DON’T (underlined three sharp times) mess the place too much!”

  “That look to be Esther's hand to you?” Einar said, his face leaning next to Vinnie’s.

  It did but Vinnie didn’t answer. He opened the door with his passkey.

  Okay, he thought, remembering the Book of Daddy, first impression: this place is…

  He couldn't think what.

  “Different…”

  Yes, sure. But, cripes, different how? Okay. The obvious: it’s dark. Yeah! Usually it was white, bright. Cripes, filled with damn light, sure. Electric, sun, fluorescence! Usually it was open, for cripes’ sake! And, as previously noted, the absent smell of morning pie—and frying ham, bacon grease, other breakfast smells, griddling cakes and spuds and ham and grits boiling and other food all day, and coffee—coffee always.

  Even absent the smells, just being in the place was making Vinnie drool.

  Whatchacallit? That’s conditioning. The screech of the screen door, his foot crossing the threshold: that was enough… He hungered.

  So, first impression: The place is empty. No! He changed his mind. The place is hanging fire. It’s stalled, is what!

  He closed the door on Einar, a dozen Norwegians, the stockmen, others, and Karl Dengler – Karl Dengler finally! Cripes! They bobbed and weaved at the glass. Vinnie threw the latch and locked himself into the quiet dark.

  “Doff that Smokey, for cripes’s sake Vinnie! You’re in polite company!”

  He could hear her, could hear his coffee cup clink on the counter…

  Vinnie took off the hat, wiped the sweat off his pate, flipped the light switch with his pen…

  Nothing.

  Juice cut at the breakers, he figured. That’s good. Maybe good. Esther, if she’d gone off – off on her own for a while – she’d trip the breakers. Yup. That’s a second thing. A probable second thing.

  Behind the counter, everywhere he could see, everything was put away, cleaned and ready. When the place was in the rush, things flew or were dropped where a busy hand could reach and know where the damn thing was.

  “Working hands shouldn't have to thi
nk!” Esther’d said that. Right there, other side of the Dutch door to the kitchen.

  Where now she ain't!

  What light there was in the kitchen squeaked through the back door window – curtained and closed—and through the four panes – shuttered and latched—above the sink. Vinnie slipped the Maglight from his belt loop. The beam rolled over knives, steels and holders, flippers, burger presses and whisks, glasses, cups, mixers, pots, pans, monkey dishes, saucers, pads, plates, brushes and bowls, stowed, and as noted, all of it clean, neat, empty, waiting. Nothing bubbled, nothing griddled.

  Thing three: No sign of violence. The clean-up was Esther’s. It had her logic…

  Just above Vinnie’s line of sight, for just a half-second, a thing flopped across the ceiling where the light wasn't. When he put the light there, there was nothing: wood lath under generations of white paint. Shadows! he thought. Those of course, of course there were those: hanging fluorescents, ceiling fan and chain. Huh. The fan was still. Vinnie’d never seen that. Winter, summer, whenever, the blades turned, always, stirring air and odor. Black dust streaked back from the leading edges of the blades.

  What smell looks like, he thought, smell caught drifting.

  He cranked the beam wide and eased it across the room, area by area. He took in each spot, catalogued its contents like Daddy Sheriff taught him, surveying a scene. Nothing moved but shadows.

  Thing Four: Nothing wrong here.

  “Except the whole damn thing!” he said.

  The exception to one damn thing popped into his head! He opened the refrigerator. A swirl of baking powdered stale warm air and the ghost of grub long gone breathed over him. No light, no cold. No food.

  Food?

  Thing Four updated: Where’s the food?

  He shone the light out the back window: Trash cans were empty, upside downed, lids to the side, waiting. And nothing showing. She disposed of nothing.

  “What? Did she eat it all…?”

  Past the black bulk of the Viking stove, the doorway to the stairs to Esther's apartment stood open.

  Thing Five: Stair door open? Esther kept it shut, coming and going, liked keeping the restaurant out of where she lived. She’d said that, too.

  The steps curved round in the tight place left for them at the back end of the building.

  The place had been built when…? Turn of the old century. Some Olaf from the old country, built it by hand and eye and forgot till the last minute to put in the steps. Vinnie could hear him, see him: a slap on his forehead and “Uf-dah! Py yimminie, gotta have steps up, ain't?!”

  The Swede’s tightly winding last minute steps creaked under Vinnie’s weight and the steps up closed around him.

  Like snaking up a chimney for cripes’ sake.

  Cop that he was, Vinnie felt like a burglar tip-toeing into Esther’s home, flashing light where he’d never been invited.

  The top door was open, too. He entered a long narrow room. The roof sloped down one side leaving a short wall to run the length. On the other side, a wall went to the center peak of the roof. Beyond it was a room in deep shade. Vinnie's light flicked through the doorway: sink, stove, small fridge.

  Unused, he figured, she eats from the menu below…

  “Why not? Best grunts in town…” he was feeling hungry.

  In the living room: an electric heater in the far corner. Near it, a sofa – a sleeper maybe – was backed against one wall, across from it, another.

  Two sofas, he thought, didn’t see her for two sofa’s worth of entertaining… A coffee table sat between the sofas, an unfinished jigsaw puzzle spread across the tabletop. He cocked his head to see: A beach. Palm tress.

  Next to Vinnie, was a desk. He played the light over it: adding machine, telephone, papers piled neatly, bills to one side, receipts on the other, nooks and crannies with letters, notes, stamps, other bills, more receipts.

  “Left in good order,” he said.

  Kept in order, more likely, he though.

  Left.

  “That’s it,” he said. Left. She’d said as much in the note. Thing… “What is it now…?” Thing Five? Six? Whatever thing it is, the thing is Esther left.

  Across the space were two doors. One: Bathroom. The usual stuff… He leaned in…

  …something niggled, then jolted him. Stuff’s all here. Regular stuff AND the stuff you take: toothbrush—in the holder by the sink—paste, comb, all there. His light ran across the bottles, jars, pills, tubes… All them things women use? They’re still here.

  The other door: Bedroom.

  On the far side of the room, the window was open. The curtains rolled in the morning breeze. On Esther's double bed—made neat, tight—the mattress showed a dent. “Huh.” She sleeps to the right. Big bed and she stays to that one narrow spot…

  On the table next to the bed, a picture. Vinnie shone the light on it: a young Esther and a man, a little older, a tall man with a big smile and a pocket full of pens.

  That’s whatshisname. Martin? Wilmer? Him. The husband. Came here with her then died right away! Remember him… Kind of remember him… The picture and a little table lamp and that was it by the bed. Nothing else. Huh. Light sleeper…

  The windows on the far side of the room overlooked Commonwealth. The curtains still rolled and folded open, back and back on themselves. The porch roof sloped away below the sill. The morning crowd waited below.

  Vinnie wanted to yell down to them: Go on home. Go eat in your own damn kitchens. Go back to bed, for cripes's sake!

  Then thing six – or whatever it was – hit him: The window was open, wide open. Ain’t like her, go away, leave the window… He looked toward the bluff. Nothing. Spring. Morning was here for real, now, the sun was up, the sky was blue.

  The closet door was open. The light swept through: Nothing missing, nothing he could see, nothing obvious. In back: shoes, boxes of shoes, wrapped up closet-things and an empty place between. Esther had gotten up, pulled out a suitcase – or something – something that had sat, unused for…

  Well, hell, Vinnie thought, Esther never went anywhere, not in my memory. She hadn’t since he was a little shit when she came here with her – what the hell was his name? – husband, and he died and she took over to run the Eats. And made it into something! Cripes, no. She’d barely left town, since the last owner left. Someone name of Tim Something, or Something Tim, family of the old Swede who built the joint and forgot the stairs till the last minute. Not since Tim whatever then, not for a day, never had the place been shut. Not since Esther took it on. Huh.

  Well, that it? he wondered. Esther go off by herself for a bit? What'd they call it? Sabbatical.

  He stood at the window again. The milling in the street was the same. Day had advanced… He looked at his watch. …sixteen minutes. Sun shadows pulled across the street. The mob had grown, had come to a rolling boil.

  Desperate, he thought.

  Truth was, Vinnie was a little that way, too. Hungry maybe. That or something. Something else.

  Preliminary conclusion: ain’t a restaurant here any more. “Hell, the place is gone,” he said.

  Chapter 25

  WE ARE BECOME OUR RESTING PLACE

  ...then Eagle Feather Proud was running. His head cracked, a solid hit, and shoved him, as always, into day. The rock, hurled to kill, broke feather and head. As always, something like thunder threw him into the run. Something like lightning kicked his next step. The ones that followed were less of a surprise. The steps he'd taken were already as the stars in the sky but the beating heart of that morning took him into the living world and day was on. He was running. As always

  Sometimes he'd run to the library. He’d watch the lady who dusted or starred at glass. She couldn't see Feather Proud. Now she saw little but dust and the glass pictures she touched with care. He peered over her shoulder. The pictures made no sense to him and it was too quiet in the big room filled with books where she sat so he never stayed long. But he liked to look at her. Her face made him
smile.

  Sometimes he ran by the White building. If she took time to look, the woman would wave. He almost never waved back. He’d liked the food she’d given him, “grunts” she called them, when he moved snow for her. A good trade, a good memory. He wanted to keep it. So many he could not.

  Sometimes Feather found the loneliness of morning so beautiful, so beautiful all he could do was run and run until the memory of the People filled him and night took him, sudden, to wherever he went when the world slept.

  Sometimes he wondered: “Am I a ghost dreaming I'm a man? If so, let me wake and discover what death is.” Sometimes he thought, “Am I a man, dreaming I'm a ghost? If so, that's enough! Wake up!” He didn't. He did neither, wake nor die. Another morning came and there he was, running up the river, running for help. And sometimes the mornings were so beautiful.

  The Creature with the heart of a killer sat by the water. She sat upstream from where the bridge stepped across the river. She’d sat the night long. She looked at the sky and judged it was after full night. Morning and soon he’d be awake.

  Across the Rolling River was the man who slept. The smell of his fire drifted across the stream. He snored. Breath and sound. The sound of his breath tickled her and her mouth crackled in a, what was it? Smile. She had no breath. She tried now to breathe like him. She rustled, crackled, creaked, stretched, layers of bark peeled from the branch of her spine and her bindings bit, then hurt. The hurt was like a knife, or as though a bullet had nicked the heart and lodged somewhere leaving her alive, in pain. Somewhere, some part of her that she couldn’t name, hurt.

  Bullet? A memory of bullets flooded her. Recall arose from the heart she carried and the pain it held cut at her. At first, she liked the hurt, drew deep breaths and let the cold calculation of it tear through her ribs. The rusted edges of old keys, curled tin, bent strap iron, all the metal she carried grated against the cracked leather, rotting rope, knotted cloth and thong that laced her up. She explored it all. She touched her chest near the heart, felt the places where the pain was. The pain eased, settled, then vanished.