Big Hungry: A Novel

by John Clausen

  Chapter 18

  After a few days of being dead, Furman Potter was finally getting the hang of it.

  He no longer flitted from location to location completely at the mercy of his varied whims. He had control. He could now think of places and situations without being immediately slammed into those places. It was, just as the Cowboy Angel had predicted, merely a matter of practice. Even better, the process of leaping through time and space no longer made him feel disoriented. In fact, he was really beginning to enjoy himself, so much so that he hoped the angel would postpone his departure for a long while. Like most everybody else, Furman wanted to go to Heaven (or whatever place was being prepared for him) but he didn’t want to give up on his new and very liberating deathstyle…not just yet anyway.

  As he gained expertise in being dead, he also became increasingly cautious. He had not forgotten the cosmic chemical-and-rotten-meat warning smell he’d experienced when he thought of peeping on poor old Lucille Nordstrom. Whenever he took a new trip – which he did several times each day – his plans always included a risk-assessment element. He found – again, just as the Cowboy Angel had promised – that he could travel almost anywhere and do whatever he wanted…as long as it wasn’t motivated by some prurient interest or unseemly selfishness. Anything that took unfair advantage of a living person, for example, would immediately generate a whiff of the warning smell. Anything that satisfied Furman’s unselfish curiosity, however, was perfectly okay with whomever or whatever was in charge of his fledgling afterlife. For the first time in a long while, he was feeling powerful…maybe even superior.

  There were, however, some moments of doubt. After Jonas had actually seen him in Nolen’s Bar, for example, Furman had been forced to reevaluate his situation. He was hoping that the Cowboy Angel would drop by and explain to him exactly why Jonas could see him, but so far that hadn’t happened. He thought perhaps that Jonas’ unstable mental condition was at the bottom of it. The fact that Furman’s afterlife body was considerably different from the one he had occupied at the time of his death also gave him pause. Somehow, Jonas had seen the new body complete with its taut musculature and blue glow and still recognized him as the Furman Potter he’d known before. This was strange indeed. Fortunately, Furman had become more accepting since he’d died. Everything was new and different…it really served no purpose to spend time wondering about such things. Any curious new phenomenon would soon become clear to him…or it wouldn’t. There was nothing he could do about it one way or another. Still, he found it somehow satisfying to hang out with Jonas. Furman had never been a chatty sort of man in his life, but now he felt the need for human contact…even if the human in question was a few mental bricks short of a full load.

  Furman was also experiencing new powers of observation. He was able to see what some living humans claim to see and sometimes refer to as auras. He’d look at the people in a crowd, for instance, and see some of them sporting a pinkish glow. Others had a dark brown element surrounding them. And once in a while he’d see a beautiful purple color pulsing around a person’s body. Charlie Taylor had one of those purple auras, which made Furman think that such a color must indicate a person of high morals and exceptional courage. Ben Mooney, on the other hand, had a bright red cloud around his whole body that boiled and sputtered around his head. Furman stayed away from anyone with a color even close to Mooney’s.

  Furman had been sitting in the waiting room at Porterville Hospital talking nonsense with Jonas when Eugene Hornsby and Odell Scrum were discussing Harlen Ackerman’s condition. He was shocked and repulsed to see an inky black halo oozing around Scrum’s head and swirling like smoke around his body. Having lived his whole life in the northern reaches of the country’s tornado alley, Furman knew the look of extremely bad weather…and the attorney looked as bad as any he’d ever seen.

  “Maybe it’s because he’s a lawyer,” he said to Jonas.

  “Bill, Bill…to Bunker Hill,” Jonas replied. “A dollar a day. A dollar a day.”

  Nobody in the waiting room paid much attention to Jonas’ observation. He’d said those very words to the nurse on duty when he first came in. Unfamiliar with Jonas’ outbursts, she had assumed he was looking for a patient by the name of Bill.

  “Do you know his last name?” she asked politely.

  “Bill Langer,” Jonas had shouted, snapping a salute in honor of the long-dead Mr. Langer, who had been a politician during Jonas’ distant youth.

  When she looked up to explain that no patient by that name had been admitted, Jonas was already sitting near the far corner of the room muttering to himself, rubbing his right hand over the bristly stubble on his chin, and glaring at her while chewing on his lower lip.

  Furman had observed the whole interchange. For the first time, he realized that Jonas had no colored aura at all. Instead, the area around his head and body shimmered slightly…like heat waves in the distance or perhaps a mirage.

  When Scrum and his hideous aura left the room, Furman transported himself into Harlen Ackerman’s room. He studied the unconscious man from several angles. From above, the millionaire looked almost like a child. From beside the bed, he looked old and quite vulnerable. Furman detected a sputtering green light around Harlen’s face. He had no feeling as to the meaning of that color. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt relieved that Ackerman’s color was not the same as Scrum’s. The vulnerability and the uncertain light made Furman feel vaguely protective of the man in the bed. He was pondering what made him react that way when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to see the Cowboy Angel.

  “Are you here for him?” Furman asked.

  “Don’t know yet. Just checking in right now.”

  “Thought you’d know.”

  “I know what you mean. Seems like we would, but that’s not how it works. Too hard to keep track of every little thing that happens. Most folks think everything happens for a specific reason…but to tell you the truth, sometimes things just happen on their own. Usually works out for the best, though, so that’s something at least.”

  “Think he’s going to die?” Furman asked, looking toward Ackerman’s bed.

  “Prob’ly not right now. See that sputtery light? He’s been goin’ in and out like that since he was brought in…but the green’s a good color and it seems a little stronger to me. Hard to say, though. I’ll check back later.”

  Furman wanted to ask the angel how much longer he’d be waiting to move on, but when he looked back from the bed, the angel was gone. When he went back to the waiting room, Jonas had left as well. It occurred to him that he’d forgotten to ask the angel why Jonas could see him.

  Chapter 19

  Any intelligent, attractive woman working in a male-dominated field like electronic journalism hears an enormous number and variety of pickup lines. In the few years since she had gotten her start as an on-air personality, Claire Norgard thought she’d heard all of them.

  There was the time in that crummy little bar in Placerville, California, not far from Calaveras County where she was covering the Jumping Frog contest. A grisly, disheveled Unibomber lookalike sidled up to her and said, “Earth woman, come spawn with me.”

  Another would-be conqueror in a Greenwich Village bar had asked to borrow her Visine because she was “a sight for sore eyes.” At a Vikings game not long ago, one of the beer vendors told her she looked like his third wife. “My God,” she said, “How many times have you been married?”

  “Twice,” he replied and gave her his phone number written on piece of a waxed-paper beer cup.

  Jerry Guthrie, however, had topped them all. Claire had been sitting in the Sportsmen’s Café having coffee and a pastry when he sat down and said, “I think you ought to come and look at my chickens.”

  “Your chickens?”

  “Yep…I have some exemplary chickens. Your Tulleyville experience would not be complete without a visit to the Guthrie chicken ranch. I’ll even drive.”

  He stood up and nodded
at the door. “Come on.”

  To her own amazement, she got up and followed him to his car.

  In 20 minutes, they were tearing down Big Hungry Road, leaving a rooster tail of dust behind them. She was becoming slightly apprehensive by the time they reached Guthrie’s black mailbox. He slid to a halt and grabbed a handful of mail out of the box before turning up the driveway.

  Teddy was dancing like a gypsy at the sight of Guthrie’s car.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Guthrie told her as the dog stuck his head through her open window. “He’s very friendly. Aren’t you, Ted?”

  The dog ran around to Guthrie’s side of the car and sat down. “He’s waiting for his little puppy treat,” Guthrie explained. He reached into a sack on the back seat and pulled out a two-foot-long beef bone. The dog took it politely from his hand and trotted to the porch.

  “I can hardly wait to see the size of your chickens if that’s what you call a puppy,” Claire said, climbing carefully out of the car.

  “They’re all over the place,” he said, “but I’m afraid they’re all ordinary size…gorgeous, stunningly beautiful perhaps, but normal size. Let’s have some coffee and I’ll give you the tour.”

  A half hour later, they were standing with coffee mugs in hand looking at Guthrie’s small band of horses. “They’re not as good looking as the chickens, are they?” he asked.

  “You do know that you’re obsessed with chickens, don’t you?”

  “You think I have a thing for chickens, just try to grab one when Teddy’s around. He loves his chickens. Haven’t lost a single one since I got him…and we’re surrounded by all kinds of varmints. Safest chickens in Wallace County.”

  “Well, I know that’s a big load off my mind.”

  “Yep…mine, too.”

  Guthrie squatted on his heals and put a piece of grass in his mouth. He looked up at Claire. “You want to stay here with me tonight?”

  “What?”

  “I like you. I thought you might like to stay here and experience a North Dakota country morning. I’ll make pancakes…and eggs. God knows I’ve got plenty of eggs.”

  “Nice try, Guthrie, but I think you better take me back to civilization.”

  “Well, now…that’s kind of disappointing.”

  “You’ll get over it. Disappointment can be good for your character.”

  “Yep,” said Guthrie. “I guess I can cling to that. At least that’s something.”

  It was early evening when Guthrie dropped Claire off at her car in the Sportsmen’s Café parking lot.

  “Thanks for the chicken tour. In all my travels I’ve never seen finer barnyard fowl…and it was worth the trip just to see Teddy and not be eaten.”

  “Our pleasure, Claire…say, how about going to the lutefisk and lefsa supper with me tomorrow night?”

  “The what?”

  “Lutefisk and lefsa. It’s a cultural thing. In its own way probably as significant as the Guthrie chickens. Besides, if you go it might help me deal with these feelings of rejection.”

  “What’s a lutefisk?”

  “Maybe better if you don’t know too much. It’s a Norwegian fish dish. Very popular around here. Lefsa is sort of like a fat tortilla slathered with butter and sprinkled with sugar. You’ll love it. It’s over at the Lutheran church. You’ll be completely safe…and you’ll be with a local celebrity so you’ll get treated like the prom queen. I’ll meet you here about seven o’clock and we’ll go. Wear a clean shirt…I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

  The next evening, Guthrie was the very soul of chivalry…opening doors, holding chairs, introducing Claire to everybody they met at the Lutheran church. The Lutheran ladies were serving the lutefisk and lefsa to a sizable crowd assembled in the church basement. Lutefisk, Claire found out, looked like fish Jello and smelled like a science experiment gone terribly wrong. Standing in line to be served, she also noticed gelatin-mold salads with carrots and fruit cocktail caught in suspension.

  She remembered similar banquets from her childhood in Sleepy Eye, but had somehow escaped any lutefisk involvement…until now.

  “How can you eat stuff like this?” she muttered to Guthrie. “There isn’t a single green thing on my plate.”

  “Nonsense,” Guthrie whispered, pointing to the plastic flatware she’d picked up. “Your fork is green.”

  Back at their table, Claire dug her spoon into the lutefisk and lifted it toward her face. Unfortunately, her nose was in the same vicinity as her mouth.

  “Guthrie,” she growled, “they ought to have special zoning requirements for this stuff. Downright toxic. You actually going to eat this mess?”

  “Yep…don’t want to offend the Lutherans. Think I’m going for seconds.”

  Claire stared incredulously at his empty plate as he stood up and walked over to the serving line. She thought briefly about kissing a man who had lutefisk breath. Across the table from her sat the round-faced Chinese man she’d met at the Tulleyville Grill. He was smiling widely at her between huge mouthfuls of lutefisk.

  “Very good,” he said, gesturing toward his plate. “Very good.”

  She and Guthrie managed to leave the lutefisk supper fairly early. Claire had avoided actually eating any of the slippery fare. As they headed for Guthrie’s car they noticed that someone had stuffed handbills under most of the windshield wipers in the parking lot. The handbill was a red 8 ½-by-11-inch paper with large black type. Claire peeled the sheet from under Guthrie’s windshield and read it to him.

  Dam the River and Die!

  Help stop the rich out of state vultures from daming

  the Big Hungry River and ruining life

  here plus wrecking the cemetery.

  Take action and stop this tragedy.

  “What do you make of this?” she asked.

  “They could use an editor.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t expect a news reader to catch it, but the word ‘damming’ has a double ‘m’ and they didn’t really sign it or tell anybody what action to take…and a little punctuation would be nice. Not much of a manifesto, if you ask me. Still, I suppose it’s a start…even if it is a bonehead start. Wonder what’s next. I’m kind of proud of them for getting this far.”

  “You know these guys?”

  “Yep, this would no doubt be the famous River Rat gang…out to protect the sanctity of the Big Hungry River way of life and the cemetery. Which, by the way they spelled right.”

  “Spelled what right?”

  “Cemetery.”

  Claire had read Guthrie’s piece on his recent kidnapping, but she still made him tell the whole story. By the time he’d finished, they were at the Norske Motel where Claire was staying.

  “Well, Guthrie,” she said, sticking out her hand. “Once again, you’ve dazzled me with culture. I can’t thank you enough. I’d kiss you, but I’m thinking you probably have a bad case of lutefisk breath. Maybe another time.”

  She got out of the car and leaned back through Guthrie’s window to give him a quick peck on the forehead. “See you around campus.”

  Guthrie sat in his car until he saw the lights in her room come on. Then he drove quickly out of the parking lot and headed for Nolen’s Bar to wash the lutefisk taste out of his mouth.

  As he suspected, the bar was full of like-minded individuals, many of whom carried a copy of the River Rats flyer.

  The general consensus of opinion was that maybe, just maybe the River Rats – whom everyone knew because of Guthrie’s story, even though they hadn’t signed the flyer – had been responsible for the shooting of Harlen Ackerman. Several of the drinkers still favored Ben Mooney as the triggerman, while another contingent thought Mooney and the River Rats were in it together. Johnny Sorenson – Pooch Eye Ziegler’s sidekick and drinking buddy – held the unique idea that the shooting had something to do with UFOs and maybe crop circles, although he couldn’t point out any specific reason why he thought along those lines.

  At an
y rate, the bar crowd was in full voice when Guthrie arrived. They parted to let him get directly to the bar. He ordered his usual can of Schlitz and looked around at the crowd, which had quieted considerably since his arrival. They seemed to be waiting for him to make a pronouncement.

  He took a long pull at the can of beer, set it carefully on the bar, and turned toward his fellow drinkers.

  “You wanna know what I think?”

  The crowd chorused their desire to hear his thoughts.

  “After considerable thought and painstaking research, I have come to the undeniable conclusion…that lutefisk tastes like shit.”

  He downed the rest of his beer to the hoots and catcalls of his companions.