by Gwen Florio
Lola turned her attention to the fries, sweet potato, and obviously homemade, as was the tangy ketchup that accompanied them. “What was he doing out of the vehicle? That’s not exactly standard procedure.”
“I wouldn’t know what standard procedure is,” Dave parried.
You could ask, Lola thought. It’s what reporters do. She reminded herself that it would hardly serve her purposes to insult him. Then came close, anyway. “None of this was in the paper. So it’s just gossip, then.”
“Gossip, maybe.” He dunked a fry into the pleated paper container of ketchup. “Maybe more. It’ll never be in the paper because the editor didn’t think it needed to be. The idea was that Mike’s grandfather had suffered enough, losing him. Why make his shame public?”
“But what if that’s not how it happened?”
Dave’s shoulder lifted. “We’ll never know, will we? Besides, what if it’s something even worse? This seemed the best thing for all concerned.” He changed the subject. “You’re going to want to try the dessert.”
Margaret’s face lit up. Lola’s darkened. “We don’t do dessert.”
“You might change your mind. Look here.” He turned the menu toward her, pointing out the no-sugar, vegan-crust benefits of the pie. “It’s good. Really,” he said, an assurance accompanied by a look so simultaneously earnest and droll that Lola succumbed, admitting aloud after the first bite that he might just have been right. Dave touched his tongue to his upper lip to remove a crumb. Lola crossed her legs. She’d been away from Charlie—what, less than a week?—and here she was, going all swoony for a good-looking, barely-more-than-teenage guy in shorts. Dave wore a bracelet on his left wrist, a complicated affair of woven leather thongs and an occasional silver bead, the kind of thing no man wore unless a woman bought it for him. Lola pointed her fork at it. “Doesn’t that snag on things when you’re climbing?”
“How’d you know I climb?”
Lola sat her fork down and took his hand and turned it palm-up. Shame, shame, shame, her internal voice scolded. She ignored it. It had been a long time since she’d flirted with anyone. There was no harm in enjoying the feeling, she told herself, as long as flirtation was as far as it went. She traced his calluses with her thumb. “You didn’t get these pushing a pen across a notebook or banging away on a keyboard.”
He folded his hand around hers. “Why’s a reporter from Montana working on a story in Wyoming?”
“How’d you know—?” Lola stopped, nodding acknowledgment. He’d gone back to his desk and Googled her name the minute she’d introduced herself, exactly as she would have done if the roles had been reversed. “You got me,” she said. “But I’m not working on a story.”
“Then why?”
“Just curious,” she said. “I was at the airport when that guy killed himself in front of everyone. It got to me and I didn’t even know him. It has to affect the community. You must be working on something about that.”
Dave withdrew his hand. “No. Nothing more than what I’ve already written.”
Margaret fidgeted in her chair, her own sliver of pie, shaved from Lola’s piece, long gone. Her accusing look at Dave mirrored her mother’s, albeit for different reasons. Margaret just wanted to get out of the restaurant. But Lola had one more question.
“Why not? It’s such an obvious story.” So much for flirtation, she thought. Nothing killed an urge like the implication of incompetence or, at best, indifference. To his credit, Dave Sparks met her gaze directly. His eyes were clear and hazel and extravagantly lashed, a softness at odds with the rest of his lean, spare body. “I live here,” he said. “But I’m not from here. Just like you’re not from that town in Montana. You know the drill.”
Lola did indeed. Poking a stick into war wounds would stir up resentment. Locals would blame the paper in general and Dave in particular for airing whatever dirty laundry he might uncover. Advertisers might decide to spend their money elsewhere. All the old reasons. “If you’re going to stay in this business”—she spoke aloud despite herself—“you’ve got to grow a way thicker skin.”
“So noted.” He might not have been in the business long, but he’d already developed a practiced, professional smile, nothing like the endearingly crooked grin he’d turned upon her earlier. Just as well, thought Lola as she said goodbye. The last thing she needed was a distraction like Dave. Still, he’d been distracting enough that she’d finished her grocery shopping and was on her way back to the ranch, Margaret asleep in her booster seat, before her mind returned to the ominous phrase he’d shoehorned into their conversation about the rumors surrounding Mike’s death.
“What if it’s something even worse?”
EIGHT
Lola arranged the groceries on the kitchen counter with a sense of dread. She’d grabbed some of the items Charlie routinely brought home without giving much thought to the fact that she had only the vaguest notion how to prepare them.
They sat there—the mushrooms, the carrots, the lettuce, the tomatoes, the ground beef (extra lean, something Charlie always emphasized), the brown rice (again, Charlie’s insistence), the bananas and the cereal and the soy milk for Margaret, whose Indian heritage rendered regular cow’s milk intolerable. Bub plastered himself to her leg, alert to the fact that the appearance of food meant that some might find its way to the floor.
Margaret played in the cool shade of the porch, investing pieces of kindling filched from the box near the woodstove with names and personalities. Pal was MIA, as were the running shoes she usually kicked off just inside the front door. Lola turned her attention back to the food. It was late afternoon. Soon Margaret would be hungry again. Despite the café’s substantial sandwich, Lola already was. What in heaven’s name was she supposed to do with the things in front of her? She studied them awhile. Hamburgers, she decided. Despite the fact that she’d forgotten buns, or even bread. Rice. And a salad, even though she hadn’t bought any dressing. She mentally compiled a new shopping list. She tore the plastic wrap from the hamburger, washed her hands, and began shaping the meat into lumpy patties, recoiling from its clammy chill, relieved when Margaret’s summons interrupted her.
“Mommy, come see.”
She rinsed watery hamburger blood from her hands and stepped out onto the porch. Margaret was in the yard, crouched before a tall clump of sagebrush. Bub stood between her and the bushes, nose extended, tail stiff, body quivering. Lola shielded her eyes against the sun. She caught a blur of bright-colored movement along the road. Pal jogged toward them, nearing the end of one of those inexplicable runs.
“What is it?” Lola joined Margaret, the heat slamming her as soon as she left the porch, the same blast-furnace intensity that had marked summers in Kabul, once again resurrecting warring emotions of nostalgia and fear. She’d worked hard to put her years in Kabul behind her. But in this landscape that so resembled that of Afghanistan, the memories had begun to reassert themselves, pricking at her like a too-stiff tag on a new shirt.
“Listen.” Margaret stamped her foot.
Lola heard a dry rattle. She peered beneath the sagebrush. Saw fat coils, a raised, spadelike head. She snatched up Margaret and leapt back screaming in a single motion. Bub barked and bounded about. Pal charged up in a flurry of pounding footsteps and swirling dust.
“What’s going on?”
“Snake,” Lola gasped. Margaret squirmed in her grasp.
“Snake!” Margaret said in an entirely different tone.
“Snake.” The look Pal shot Lola’s way was pure disgust. “Another snake, I should have said.” She marched off toward the porch, dust clumping on the sweat running down her arms and legs. She returned with a shovel. “Stand back.”
Lola stepped away. Pal swung. It was Margaret’s turn to scream. “You killed it!”
Pal nudged the head, the fanged mouth slowly opening and closing, farther beneath the bush, then slid the sho
vel under the snake’s body and flung it away. A circling raven landed nearby. Bub shot past it and nosed about the still-writhing coils. The raven croaked at Bub and flapped its wings.
“Of course I killed it,” Pal said. “Just like I killed the last one, and just like I’m going to kill the next one. Otherwise, when we walk outside, they’ll be sinking their fangs in our ankles. What do you think about that?”
Margaret allowed as to how she didn’t think much of that at all.
“Besides,” said Pal, “there’s a present in it for you.” She walked over to the snake’s body, dragging the shovel behind her. She nudged Bub aside, and stood over the squirming remains. The shovel rose and fell again. She returned and held out her closed hands. “Pick.”
Margaret’s gaze moved from Pal’s hands to her face and back again. Lola sighed. Margaret was like her father in that regard, considering all the options, taking forever to make a choice. Which, Lola had to admit, was usually correct.
“That one.” Margaret pointed with certainty to Pal’s left hand. Pal uncurled her fingers. The snake’s rattles lay across her palm. Margaret lifted them with thumb and forefinger, held them beside her ear, and shook them. “Put me down.”
“Please,” Lola reminded her.
“Uh-huh,” said Margaret. “Put me down.”
Margaret called to Bub and they scampered away with her new toy. The porch door banged shut behind Pal. Lola took a long look around to make sure no more snakes lurked, then followed Pal into the house to once again confront the issue of dinner.
A half-hour later, three people sat at the table in silence, moving food around on their plates, Pal’s usual modus operandi when it came to meals. This evening, it was Lola’s and Margaret’s as well. The burgers lay charred and black on their plates, the cut pieces oozing red. Bare lettuce leaves found their way to the edge of the thick crockery plates and floated off onto the table, where hands nudged them beneath the plates’ edges. As though she wouldn’t find them there later, Lola thought. Even she had to admit the meal was damn near inedible. She’d also forgotten to buy the ketchup and mustard that might have made the burgers palatable. The rice would have been a welcome addition, but the burgers were already sizzling in the pan by the time Lola realized the rice needed nearly an hour’s preparation.
“Not a cook,” Pal said. It wasn’t a question.
“No.”
“She looks healthy enough.” Pal nodded toward Margaret.
“Her father cooks.”
“I miss Daddy.” Margaret sounded more angry than sorrowful.
“Me, too.” Lola heard the echoing emotion in her own voice. Why had Charlie been so insistent that they go on this vacation that was turning out to be anything but? At least back in Magpie, they could have eaten in the café. Slept in their own beds at night. Walked outside without fear of being set upon by poisonous reptiles. Maybe she could have persuaded her editor to a wink-and-nod arrangement to work on a couple of long-term projects while she was off—knowing, even as the thought occurred to her, that was why Charlie had wanted her out of town. She collected their plates, scooping up the stray leaves of lettuce, and scraping the contents onto a single plate, which she set on the floor for Bub. He took a single sniff and turned an incredulous gaze upon her before setting dutifully upon it, probably afraid if he turned down an offering of leftovers, there might never be another.
“Tomorrow night will be better,” she promised. Even though she wasn’t sure how. “What would you like to eat?” Maybe if she started planning now.
“Ravioli is fine with me,” Pal said.
“No,” Lola and Margaret chorused.
“Whatever, then.”
Margaret spoke into the silence. “Chicken.”
Chicken, thought Lola. They ate a lot of it at home. How hard could it be?
“I’ll call Delbert, ask him to pick some up,” Pal offered. “He usually goes to the convenience store before he comes up here for breakfast. Maybe he’ll bring us some more doughnuts, too.” She looked at Margaret as she said it. If the woman had anything regarding a soft spot, Lola thought, it was for Margaret, as improbable as that might seem. Lola wondered if she could somehow use that to get more information out of Pal. Her stomach growled. Food was the more immediate issue. But having Delbert stop at the convenience store was no solution. If it were anything like other reservation stores she’d been in, the only available chicken would be fried, with the added insult of being wildly overpriced.
“Never mind about calling Delbert,” she said. “I’ve got to go into town again tomorrow. I’ll pick up the chicken myself. Along with everything else I forgot today.”
Pal made a show of yawning and stretching. In a few minutes, she would retreat to the bedroom, passing unobtrusively by the cupboards, making a quick grab for the bottle she’d shield with her body as she left the room. Lola knew Jan would expect her to discourage Pal from drinking. A worthy goal. But not on this night. The last thing Lola needed from Pal was any uncomfortable questions as to why she’d head back into town herself rather than have Delbert pick up the groceries for her. While the Last Word’s archives had been of limited help, the daily paper had informed her that two men who’d been arrested in the bar fight had bonded out of jail. Lola had every intention of tracking them down the next day and talking to them about whatever the hell had happened to their unit in Afghanistan.
NINE
Tyson Graff must have moved the instant the photographer snapped the photo that accompanied the enlistment story, his head a blur atop an angular frame. So his face was new to Lola, a freckled square beneath gingery curls already challenging the remnants of his military buzz cut. But the rangy body had filled out since that post-graduation portrait; muscle, mostly, but the beginnings of a gut, too.
Lola shook a doughy hand, reminding herself that the average MRE contained 1,250 calories, and that it wasn’t unheard of for soldiers to consume more than one per sitting. More to the point, the food at the bases was just as heavy on starches and fried crap as anything offered on the reservations. Tyson had been easy to find. He worked in Thirty’s hardware store, a fact divulged in the story about his release. The store’s owner had stood up in court and offered to hire him on the spot. “We all know what these boys have been through over there,” he said. “Well, we don’t. But that’s the point, isn’t it? They’ve got some big adjustments to make, being back home. We’re all here to help them out. There won’t be any more problems.” No such offer, Lola noted, had been made to Tommy McSpadden, the soldier who’d joined Tyson in the bar fight.
Lola stood with Tyson in the hardware store’s cool dimness, in an aisle lined with bins of nails and screws, their metallic, oily scent mingling with that of the varnish on the wooden floorboards and the sweet saltiness emanating from a popcorn machine by the front door. “Is there anywhere private we can talk?” she said. “If you’re not busy, that is.”
That last, a formality. She and Tyson were alone in the store but for the owner, who cast dark looks their way from his position by the front door. Margaret turned a winsome smile upon the man and his expression softened. Lola hadn’t been wild about dragging Margaret back to town with her, but the notion of leaving her at the ranch with Pal was unthinkable. She hadn’t considered that Margaret’s presence might lessen people’s resistance to a stranger asking questions. Tyson raised his voice. “Okay if I take a smoke break?”
The owner nodded, once, the warning in his eyes clear. Tyson was not to say anything untoward to this strange woman from out of town. And Lola was not to stir up any trouble. Tyson led her to a back door that opened into an earlier era. Many of Thirty’s storefronts sported updated facades, and wrought-iron lampposts with hanging flower baskets lined the sidewalks, evidence of the coal and oil money that had washed westward from the mines and oil fields on Wyoming’s eastern border. But progress had yet to wrap itself around the building
s’ backsides, all rough bricks adorned by ghostly painted signs from a bygone era, advertising saddleries, dry goods, farm implements. Lola retreated, wedging herself into the few inches of shade afforded by the store’s back wall. It wasn’t much of an improvement. The bricks radiated heat. Dust hung like a veil. Lola licked lips gone dry and cracked. She loved the crisp, dry air of the West, but Wyoming took desiccation to a new level, extracting moisture with ruthless efficiency. Tyson stood in the full sun, not even breaking a sweat, grinning at her discomfiture. Lola remembered how long it had taken her to acclimate to Afghanistan’s savage heat, and how quickly she’d lost that resistance upon returning stateside. Give Tyson a month and he’d lose that cocky smile.
“What’s this about?” he said.
Nothing shut people down faster, especially people who’d recently tangled with the law, than knowing they were talking with a reporter. Lola would have been required to let him know as much, if she’d actually been working on a story, but on this day she could tell herself in all honesty that she wasn’t. Yet.
“I’m just down here on vacation. A friend of mine back in Montana has a cousin, Palomino Jones, who served over there with you. Her cousin is worried about her. She wanted me to check around with her friends, make sure everything’s fine.” Again, it was almost true. Jan hadn’t said anything about talking with Pal’s friends. But it was a logical move, Lola reassured herself.
Tyson dropped the cigarette into the dust of the alley and turned his heel atop it.
“Pal Jones, huh? Know her?”
“Met her. Briefly.” Again, true. Every encounter with Pal was brief. “Interesting woman,” Lola hedged.