Moving along
Will was parked in a far corner of Blom’s lot, a place that couldn’t be seen from the counter. Conspicuous by inconspicuousness, but he had to settle for it. He’d been there since five minutes before the place opened, but the place was busy. There were four vehicles in the lot when he’d showed up, and several more had pulled in to replace those that left. He sat nursing a fair amount of trepidation. Watching customers enter and exit, his trepidation was infused with a strange mixed of assurance—assurance that not one of those people entering Blom’s franchise hadn’t come their looking for his advice, and none of them leaving were propelled by some grotesque reminder of their wretched past.
That shit has to stop, Will told himself. Bertie hadn’t made Mom crazy, and he didn’t pack me off to Mexico knowing Nan was going to die in a week. Will might not bear any responsibly for having been born into a fucked-up relationship, but those outside of it he’d fucked up on his own. If he were to have any chance of enjoying the rest of his life as an indolent, self-indulgent millionaire, that was going to have to change. Bertie was all he had out here in pastoral purgatory. He was also sick to death of everything being such a puzzle. If he didn’t put himself in front of the only person he had that he could trust for a straight answer, he’d be spending his time in the campground finding a way to put himself at fault for all of it.
Will found a break at last. He waited until the car had pulled out of the lot before he exited the truck. He walked to the door, still wondering what the bet approach would be. Bertie looked up from the desk. Before Will could muster a contrite method of greeting him, Blom pulled his glasses from his head and leaned toward him.
“Good God! Did you sleep in a bag of cats?”
Will pretended to ignore the question but, upon hearing it, he was immediately reminded that he was scored from one end to the other. The flame was rekindled and he was instantly itching all over. Trying not to twitch, he walked up to the counter and said, “I think I’m ready for that history lesson.”
Blom was still staring at the shallow, welted incisions criss-crossing Will’s arms and face. He put his glasses on and stared some more.
“Condicio Fubarus,” Will said.
Blom took his eyes off the scratches and looked Will in the eye. “Pardon?”
“A rare skin condition,” Will told him. “It flares up on occasion. It’s genetic, my father’s side.”
Blom responded with a vague nod, took another glance at the thin lines of scabs covering Will’s forearms, said, “That looks miserable,” and asked, “What can I help you with?”
“You offered me a history lesson the last time I skulked out of here. I think I need to hear it.”
Blom’s forehead wrinkled. “What did you do?”
“Well,” Will started. The scratches were making it clear they wouldn’t be ignored. He rolled his shoulders a couple of times before saying, “I went next door and had a brief chinwag with the neighbor.”
Blom’s eyebrows shot up. “Mikkelson’s? You talked to Arn?”
Will shook his head. “His wife.”
“How’d that go?”
“She told me she was going to call the Sheriff’s Office on me for trespassing, then handed me a bag of cookies.”
Blom looked down at the counter for a moment, then said. “I suppose that’s about as good as could be expected.” He nodded, still looking down, and added, “The ‘trespassing’ bit wasn’t her idea, I assure you.”
“That’s what I kinda figured,” Will said. “Would she have? I didn’t stick around to find out.”
Blom looked up again, and winced. He was again looking at linear scabs, this time at Will’s cheeks. “No,” he said, finding his way back to Will’s eyes. “But you did her a favor in skedaddling. This ‘trespassing’ nonsense wasn’t her idea.”
“I figured that,” Will said. “She was pretty uncomfortable as it was. I didn’t want to push it.”
“What kind of cookies?”
“Pardon?”
“Cookies,” Blom repeated. “What kind were they?”
“Sugar cookies,” Will answered, “Sort of like ‘snickerdoodles.’”
Blom was nodding, looking off in a wistful manner. “The woman can bake, that’s for sure.” He looked back to Will. “Next time you decide to torment her, try and time it for when she’s making bread. You’ll be in for a real treat.”
“I wasn’t over there to fucking ‘torment’ her,” Will said. He felt like he was wearing a hair shirt. “I went there to see her husband. When he wasn’t around I asked when it would be possible to talk to him.”
“Which would be sometime around the end of November,” Blom told him. “Well, at least now he knows the ball is in his court, so to speak.”
Will found that confusing. “How in Christ’s name could he not know the ‘ball was in his court’ a month ago?” From the corner of his eye, he caught Loren Ouillette coming out the end of an aisle. He stopped when he saw Will, noticed he was talking to Blom and started heading back out of sight. “Hey,” Will called to him. “I need a word or two before I’m out of here.”
The man hesitated, looked at Will, narrowed his eyes and then sauntered toward the counter. Will turned back to Blom. “He might not have noticed me, at first, but once Maartens got his show going, he had to know somebody was going to be around the property for a while.”
“He knew it when the driveway was redone.”
Both Will and Blom turned toward Ouillette. The man shrugged. He was looking at Will and his puzzling wounds, but made no other comment.
Will decided he and Ouillette would have to share more than a word once he was finished with Blom. He looked back to Bertie and repeated his question.
“There’s no doubt he was aware something was going on,” Blom said. “And I’m sure he knew it right from the start. But…” he let it trail off.
“I’m no expert in agriculture,” Will huffed, “and I’ll admit I wasn’t paying a hell of a lot of attention to anything outside the house when I first got here, but I know well enough there weren’t any crops going into the ground anywhere around here when I showed up.”
Blom agreed.
“Then why would he plant one knowing something was going on next door?”
“We touched on this last time you were here,” Blom told him. “I tried to explain further, but you decided to bid me a fond farewell before I could get any further.” Will was tried to formulate and apology, but Blom waved it off. “We were discussing the fact that Arn’s . . .” he paused, trying to conjure a word.
“An asshole.”
Will and Blom both turned to look at Ouillette. All they got was another shrug.
“However you want to put it.” Blom said, shooting Ouillette a look. Back to Will, he said, “Obstinate, is what I was looking for.”