Chapter Nine, DONE.

The following should, ONE): redeem my failure as an “everyday” writer/poster and , TWO): PROVE I’m lousy at “everyday” posting. Good to know how your brain works, even though you knew it in the first place. Anyhow, what follows is looooong, of course bloated (firstdraft-roughdraft, firstdraft-roughdraft, firstdraft-roughdraft. . .) Weird thing, though, 95% of it was slapped down during a 5 day outa town trip and a funeral (not literally AT the funeral), written in stretches from ten minutes to a couple hours, all spontaneous and off the top o’ the ol’ noggin. Actually had no idea about including something like this when this book was forming up in my head. This, of course, doesn’t mean it will survive editing.  But, it’s here NOW, so there.

+   +   +

Will’s bemusement from his visit to the Mikkelson household was almost instantly resolved when he’d returned to the house. The pantry and the bathroom had been framed and sheetrocked. Taping was in progress and Maartens himself was hanging the cabinet framing. Will couldn’t remember a discussion regarding where the cabinets were to go, or how many of them he wanted, but after his first glimpse at the floor he conceded Maartens judgement was superior. He paused for a bit in the doorway. Maartens and his crew paid him scant attention.

Will crossed the stoop to the “campground,” ate a couple of cookies and decided there weren’t enough to share with anyone else. He parked himself on the floor and tried to think of something he needed to do. The banging a scraping from the other room made it hard to sit and think, and the only proper distraction he could conjure was going to the attic and rummaging through the trunks. He’d had enough drama for one day. He’d save that trip up the stairways for a thunderstorm. The two-stroke engine whine could be heard over the sounds in the kitchen. He hauled himself to his feet, ate another cookie, and headed outside.

Heat. Mid-May and the temperature had to be hovering near ninety degrees, and it wasn’t even noon. Spring happened fast in this part of the world, and Summer started almost right on top of it. Most of the time Will had spent on the farm had been between Memorial and Labor day. Thanksgiving and Christmas had been annual occasions but, unless his mother had suffered a rare bout of post Autumn equinox mania, his time in Limburg County had been during warm weather. He’d barely crossed the driveway before stopping to peel off his shirt. Walking toward the ground clearing crew he could already sense the threat of sunburn.

Will hung back as he entered the perimeter of their morning’s labor. The freshly cut undergrowth stood out sharply against what had been done previously. The tips of what had been cleared before had turned brown. Beyond that line was a clear plot of bright, almost fluorescent green. The distance from where he stood to the far east windbreak was over one hundred yards. There were three rows of overgrown and woefully untended apple trees. The space between the two rows farthest from the river had been cleared. The youngsters and the two adults were now working toward the house, between the last spaces between the trees and the twenty yards or so separating the orchard from the riverbank. The adult running the yard tractor and the brush deck was weaving back and forth between the last row of trees and the bank. The other grown up was wielding the brush cutting blade, worn in harness with the pole and working blade sticking out ahead of him from his belly. He was reaching under each tree as far as the branches allowed, cutting as close to the trunks as he could. The kids were paired up on either side of the last row. One had a rake, the other a pitchfork. While one raked up piles, the other took a took a pitchfork load, waddled to the rear of the pick up, and heaved it into the box. It looked like miserable work.

When Will arrived, he noticed the bed of the truck was almost full, and the pitchfork duo were walking at least one hundred steps to the truck. He stood in the same place, just watching. After about a half hour, he put his shirt back on. His shoulders had a slightly raw feeling as the fabric slid down his back. They’d made impressive progress in the short time he’d watched, to a point just over halfway from the far windbreak to the house. The truck bed was full. Will remained in his spot as the man at the helm of the mower stopped his winding circles, killed the motor and let the tractor and walked back to the truck. The kids stopped their raking and forking and hopped onto the green mound in the box. Will watched as the truck was fired to life, then backed in the direction of the riverbank. At the point where the ground began to slope into the direction of the Wahpekute, the boys leapt from the box, dropped the tailgate, and put the rakes and pitchforks to work at spreading the load over the top edges of the bank.

The mower-operator/truck driver took a lean against the front fender, lit a cigarette, and watched the kids. The man with the brush saw kept at it, catching up to where the mower had gotten ahead of him. Will took it as a cue to move. When he was about fifty feet away from the truck, he called out. The man looked up, took a final drag from his cigarette, and flicked it toward the river. He raised a hand in response. When Will was within twenty feet of the vehicle, the man called, “You must be Mister Holliday.”

Will sighed. It was a term he’d heard more in the last two months than he had over the last two decades. He thought about getting one of those stickers he’d been forced to wear at those compulsory forensics conferences. “Hello! My Name Is: Will.” He’d never bothered to add his last name.

“Guilty,” Will called back. He moved close enough where neither of them would need to shout. “And you are?”

“Dennis,” the man shouted. He moved away from the truck, extending his hand as he moved toward Will. “Dennis Marchand,” he called, with no drop in volume.

For a moment Will was taken aback. He was no more than five feet away. In his peripheral vision, he noticed the kids had taken a break from clearing out the box of the truck. All shirtless, and coated head to foot by an impressive layer of dead vegetation, they were standing at the end of the box, grinning. Their smiles broadened as Dennis Marchand took his hand and bellowed “I was hoping we’d catch up with you before we finished up around here.”

Will turned back to the man, put on a smile not so different than those displayed by the teenagers, and shook his hand. Over Dennis’s shoulder, Will caught one of the boys pointing to his ear, then to a point out into the orchard. Not bothering with discretion, he turned. His eyes found the lawn tractor. Dennis Marchand was not wearing ear protection.

“I wanted to thank you personally,” Dennis blared, “it was nice to get the boys away from the facility and pick up some hours at the same time. Thank you very much.”

Will looked to the kids for some help, but upon hearing what had been shouted, they’d immediately gotten their shovels and pitchforks moving. His eyes settled back on Dennis. “Hours?”

It was clear Marchand couldn’t understand him. Will tried again, broadly mouthing “hours.”

Marchand nodded. “Community service,” he barked.

Will was trying to figure if some sort of sign language would be a better option when he was spared. The other guy had appeared. He had a pair of sound muffling headgear draped around his neck. He shrugged out of the brush cutter. “Don Bourke,” he said. He shook Will’s hand. “Save Our Native Sons.” He looked past Will and Marchand and said, “Water break. Two bottles each.” The boys set their tools down and went to the cab of the truck.

Will took the man in. Tall, lean, sharp eyed and possessing none of the effusive amiability displayed by the deafened Marchand. His hair was waist length and hung over his shoulders in a pair of tight braids. Though coated with macerated vegetation, the tattoos that covered his arms from his wrists to the shoulders were quite visible. And, to Will’s surprise, many easily recognizable. His years at the Medical Examiner had provided him with a few peripheral skills. Most of the artwork on the man’s arms were prison tats.

“What can we do for you?”

Will’s gaze was diverted from the Bourke’s forearms. Bourke was staring at him, lips tight.

Will met it with a smile. He waved arm, encompassing the orchard. “It looks like you’ve done more than enough.”

“Just doing the job we were given by Mister Ouillette.”

“Pretty big job,” Will said. “And a job well done.”

All Bourke offered was a curt nod.

Will waited for more, but Bourke seemed content to glower at him instead. He tried a different tack. “I never discussed this with Loren,” Will told him. “Could you fill me in?”

Bourke didn’t react. Marchand, however, seemed to have recovered some use of his ears.

“He got us these hours for the program,” Marchand piped in. “We sure appreciate it.”

Will’s eyes had still been on Bourke. He responded to Marchand’s offering with a mild, derisive snort. Will turned to the mower operator. “What program and how many hours?”

“Save Our Native Sons!” Marchand said at a level two notches lower than a shout. “It’s a program for at risk Indian youth. Somes on probation, and others tryin’ t’keep off it.” He presented Will with a huge smile, displaying as many gaps as teeth. Those that remained, however, Will found to be in marvelous shape. “We are always trying to find community service hours, ‘specially if they’re related to a trade or a skill.”

Will glanced at the kids, who’d finished their water break and were pushing the last of the mown scraps from the back of the truck. He wondered how much time a kid would have to spend at the end of a rake or a pitchfork before he could consider himself proficient enough to call it a trade. “What about cost?” Will didn’t have to look at Bourke. He could almost feel the air between them tighten up.

“Oh,” Marchand yelped. “There’s no cost, Mister Holliday.”

“Will.”

“Mister Will—”

Will felt the temperature drop from somewhere in Bourke’s direction.

“No,” Will corrected. “Will Holliday. Just call me Will.”

“Oh, thank you, Mister Holliday—”

“Will.”

“Okay, Will.” Marchand flashed him another picket fence grin. “It’s volunteer. There ain’t no cost to you.”

Will paused to look around. More questions. He could understand the house clean-up. Mowing the edges of the driveway, and along the shoulder on the county road. That didn’t take any knowledge regarding the specifics of the property. He could even see that including the perimeter around the house could be decided on without ever seeing the place wouldn’t take much imagination. But, there was no way including the space of the orchard, south of the barnyard to the river, could be included without having some familiarity with the place—without having some specific knowledge. Will looked past the stern pillar of Don Bourke toward his collapsing barn. There, at the north edge of the orchard, a line of steel stakes was clearly visible, and at the very edge of the shorn vegetation. The old barbed wire fence. On the other side, the untouched growth rose at least a foot above them. No way could they have been seen prior to razing what had been growing out of control on this side.

Will dropped his gaze, focusing on Don Bourke. “How much of this was included in the ‘hours’ ordered by Loren?”

“The rest of this lot. Once it’s cut, we’re out of hours.” The last word slid out as if it was printed on a razor blade.

Will gave him a nod and turned to Dennis Marchand. “I need to make a call to Ouillette. What’s the chance at letting the youngsters have a crack at running the mower and the buzz saw to finish up this patch?”

Dennis Marchand’s answer was a nod in Bourke’s direction. Will followed it. Bourke’s expression had turned from stern to quizzical. “What for?”
“Break of the monotony,” was Will’s answer. “Give ‘em a shot at running some equipment. Might push them ahead in the marketable skill department.”

“Don’t have insurance for that,” was Bourke’s ready answer.

“I do,” Will answered. He did, in fact, and had the paperwork to prove it. In all the years of abandonment and neglect, the taxes had been paid and a liability policy kept current. “Got every possible incident imaginable covered. Death, dismemberment and even divorce—” Bourke recovered his scowl at Marchand’s chuckle—“and if , God forbid, disaster strikes and the policy doesn’t handle all contingencies and consequences, I can promise you there isn’t a lawyer in the country who wouldn’t be delighted at a slam dunk chance to sue my ass into bankruptcy.”

The “no” was almost out of Bourke’s mouth when Marchand said, “Michael and Verne are old enough. They all been askin’ for a chance to do a little more.”

Will looked toward the boys. They’d finished emptying the box and were sitting in the shade of the truck. Two of them, the bigger of the foursome, had perked up.

“We’ve only got one set of ear covers,” was Bourke’s counter.

Will looked toward the house. “If I fix that problem, do the lads get a break from raking and pitching?” He didn’t wait for an answer, either from Bourke or Marchand. He started toward the house at a trot. He briefly interrupted Maartens, who was already hanging the cabinet doors, and took his direction to find ear protection in the parked trailer. He was back with the group in the field less than ten minutes. To his surprise, Bourke took the headgear from him, waved one of the kids over, and began setting him up with the brush saw. Will didn’t hang around. He headed back to the house with a wave.

Will went to the other side of the house and flopped down in the shade. His announcement to call Loren Ouillette had been a fabrication. The only manner of contacting the man would be to call Blom’s, and that was something he wasn’t sure he wanted to do ever again, much less the same day he’d walked out in utter shame. It was unavoidable, of course, even if his only pretense was to speak with Ouillette. He couldn’t let such work go without compensation, “program” or not. That the man had taken it upon himself to dole out such an assignment without talking to Will first was something he’d firmly decided not to make an issue. There was also the evidence that made it undeniably clear Loren Ouillette had more knowledge of this place than either he or Blom had let on to.

Will had been back in Limburg County for less than twenty-four hours, and in that short time, the pile of shit he’d thought he’d stepped into that wet night in March appeared to have quadrupled in size. It had certainly far outstripped the task of putting a tumble-down pile of bricks back in order.