This was a total pain, and it shows. Loooong, jumpy, clunky and everything I really don’t like, even in a first draft. Gotta just let it go and get on to the next chapter, which had better go a lot smoother. It needs a knife right now, but I’m sick of being bogged down.
+ + +
“Understood. But, as it stands, I insist.” Will’s teeth were drying with the grin he’d locked onto his face. He ran his tongue over them as he produced his checkbook.
“No need.”
“But, I insist, as I’ve made clear.” Using a thigh as a desktop, he bent over and began to write.
“Put that fuckin’ thing back in your pocket.”
Will lifted his head. They’d both swapped out the smiles for glares. Before Will could construct a snarky retort, Blom interrupted. “What in Hell is going on here?”
Will couldn’t decide if it was the genuine demand in the merchant’s voice, or the fact that, however mild, the man employed a four-letter word. Regardless, it made him stop writing. He was also suddenly aware of the degree of belligerence that had developed.
“Just trying to show my appreciation, Bertie.” He was speaking to Blom, but looking at Ouillette.
“And I was just trying to get the message to our new friend, here,” Ouillette said, “that a ‘Thank You’ isn’t qualified by a dollar amount.” He rested an elbow on the counter and added, “Especially if the favor being acknowledged wasn’t being done for the guy with the checkbook.”
Will was confused, but when he looked to Blom for a clue, it was evident he wasn’t in the same state as Will. He looked back at Ouillette, trying to neutralize any expression of confusion or irritation.
“I didn’t send the boys out there on your account,” he said evenly. “They got credit for a few hours of community service, yes, but I wasn’t doing it for them, either. I was doing it for your grandmother.”
That was a stunner. Will again looked at Blom. Nope. No stun there. If there was anything showing on the man’s face Will could translate, it was an expression of complete comprehension tinged with a hint of sadness. Will couldn’t determine whether this was directed at him, in response for what Ouillette had said, or both. Shit.
“I’m going to take a leap,” Will told Ouillette, “and assume you spent some time out there when Nan was alive.”
“I did.”
When? Why? But Ouillette wasn’t elaborating. Will tried narrowing his eyes, as if a squint would somehow subliminally squeeze more of an answer out of Ouillette. It had no effect. He relaxed his face. He didn’t need this to turn into an argument. He’d decided to settle for what little Ouillette offered, let it sink in, and decide later if was anything he needed—or even wanted– to know about. “So that’s how they knew to clear out the orchard.”
“I suppose.”
Suppose, shit. Drop it. Will took a glance toward the parking lot. No help from the locals, there. He turned back toward the pair at the counter. Blom’s appearance of calm couldn’t be worse, Ouillette’s righteous impatience was irritating. He decided on another tack. “What’s the deal with your guy Bourke?”
Ouillette responded as if Will had asked if was raining. He gave a slight shake of his head and answered, “There’s no ‘deal.’ He just hates white people.” He smiled. “I, on the other hand, am more selective.”
Will returned the smile with the same sincerity as the one offered.
“How’s that kitchen looking?”
Both Will and Ouillette turned to Blom. He was wearing a smile as well, a strained one. “Must be about finished,” he said. “That’s got to make the place more livable.”
“Yeah, sure is,” Will said. “It’s nice to have a yard to walk around in as well.” He was looking at Blom when he spoke, but he had Ouillette in the corner of his eye. The man just shook his head.
Blom frowned in response. “Put your checkbook away,” he told Will. He then looked to Ouillette. “And you can say ‘you’re welcome’ and then let’s be done with this nonsense.”
Will looked at Ouillette, who raised his eyebrows. “Thanks again,” Will said, and slipped the checkbook into his back pocket.
“You’re welcome,” Ouillette said. “And if you’ve got any more general labor coming up as this project of yours goes on, I’d appreciate your letting me know.” He turned away, but then added. “We can work out the terms beforehand.” He looked back to Blom. “I’ve got stuff to do.” He shot glance back at Will before walking away.
Will looked at Blom, who was sitting at the counter and looking back at Will as if he was a kid who’d come home from the store with a stolen candy bar. He stayed quiet, but kept his eyes on Will.
The benign stare-down seemed like it would stretch on for minutes when Will broke down and asked, “What?”
“Are you dead set on making life around here as hard as possible?”
Will hadn’t expected anything like that. He was assuming Blom would be making some apology on Ouillette’s behalf, or something along that order, or at least offer some explanation of how his grandmother was tied into this. “What the hell?”
“Come in here like you’re grateful, and then make like you’re holding some sort of sideways interrogation. When you don’t understand what you’re hearing, you get huffy and then try to throw money at the man. You ever wonder that you might have gotten a straight answer if you’d come at hime straight?” Blom shook his head. “Acting like some grown up brat who can behave and think anyway he wants just because he’s rich.”
“Hey,” Will protested, “I haven’t told anybody I’m rich.”
“You don’t have to. It’s been made pretty clear, even in the short time you’ve been here.”
“How so?”
“Think. You’re not a certifiable idiot, are you? You drive a spankin’ new pickup that’s obviously got no use but for transportation. The few times you’ve been seen around town you act like there’s a spotlight following your every move. There isn’t a person in town that’s invited into Ed Witsel’s office at the bank every time he drops in. And there hasn’t been a tip over ten per cent left at the diner over the last ten decades by anybody who lives around here. Plus, you’ve given a blank check to Ken Maartens to do whatever he wants with a house nobody could ever afford. This sort of stuff might not show up in the local paper, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t news.”
Will huffed a moment, then said, “I didn’t ask to be rich, and I sure as fuck wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
“And life would go on in Venlo as it has for the past hundred fifty years,” Blom said.
Will didn’t fail to notice the faint mockery. For a moment, he believed he could learn to dislike Bertie Blom. “Hey,” he said, sensing an opportunity that was perhaps not enough to change the subject, but perhaps alter its course a bit. “Now that you mention Ed Witsel, did he have some kind of issue with Nan?”
Blom’s face reddened. He took his eyes off Will, glancing at the door as if he were wishing somebody was on the way into the store. There was not. He turned back toward Will, but wouldn’t look straight at him. “They had some issues,” he offered. He was quick to add, “Nothing that had much of a history, and it all got worked out.” He said it as if it would be enough to kill the subject.
They might not have been lifelong acquaintances, but Will thought, surely, that wouldn’t be enough to get him to drop it. “Worked out what issue.?”
Blom was acting as if he were seated under a two hundred watt light bulb. “I’m not really . . . It was a trivial thing. Long over and done.”
“I don’t know about that,” Will said. “The last time I was ‘invited’ into his office, I mentioned Nan and he acted like I’d dropped a turd in his lap.”
“It might just have been a surprise reminder, or something like that,” Blom said, not at all convincing. “Maybe it was something he had on his mind already, an entirely different thing altogether and it just struck him at that moment.”
“She called him a cocksucker.” The voice came out of nowhere, disembodied and floating out over them as if it came from the ceiling. It was a moment before Will recognized it as Ouillette, calling out from an aisle or two away. “And it got worked out when she closed her accounts and moved them to a bank in Maastricht.”
Astonished, Will repeated it. “’Cocksucker’?”
Blom was even redder, but silent.
“Cock,” again rose over them. “Sucker.”
“That’ll be enough, Loren.” It was a shout, and did nothing to lessen Blom’s raging blush.
Will was smiling for real now. He couldn’t imagine that word coming from his grandmother under any circumstance. Once it appeared Blom had settled himself somewhat, he ventured to ask, “Did she really call him that?”
“Yes,” Blom admitted, looking down. “I’m not sure she really understood what it meant.”
Ouillette’s voice drifted over them again. “The hell she didn’t.” He was back, standing just far enough out of an aisle for both Will and Blom to see him.
“Cocksucker,” Will repeated. “Why did . . .”
“It was thirty years ago,” Blom said. He didn’t have his composure back, but his mortification had shifted to consternation. “And you weren’t even there, Loren.”
“I heard plenty about it,” Ouillette argued. “And straight from the source, if you want me to be honest.”
Will wasn’t about to be diverted this time. “What,” he interrupted, “did the guy do to inspire that kind of language out of Nan?”
“It’s a fact,” Ouillette offered.
“Loren!” Blom had spun on his stool so abruptly that Will feared he’d drop out of sight behind the counter. “You’ve got no proof of that, and it’s not anybody’s business in the first place.”
“Nobody cares about what the man does for kicks,” Ouillette said. “And his living with that Jeffrey guy for twenty years was hardly a way of keeping anything a secret. I heard they’re married.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Blom said.
“They wear rings now, if you hadn’t noticed,” Ouillette countered. “And they don’t show up to places in separate cars any more, either. Roommates my ass.”
Blom waved a hand toward his assistant and turned to Will. “It was back in the eighties, during all the farm foreclosures. It got to the point where we had to have a town meeting at the courthouse before somebody got shot. Witsel hadn’t been at the bank more than a year. I think he was a loan officer at the time. They sent him—or offered him up, I suppose— to stand up in front an upset and outraged community, hoping somehow he could convince people it wasn’t the bank’s fault everybody had gone broke. It only took a minute for the whole deal to turn into a brouhaha. Somewhere in the midst of all the shouting and threats, he accused a few people of being unable to be honest with themselves when it came to where the fault lay.”
He finished at that, as if it explained everything. To Will, it did not.
“Gran and Nan weren’t under any threat of foreclosure,” Will said. “I’d have heard about that.”
“No,” Blom agreed, “but I can say with certainty their heads weren’t that far above water either, and I know that was something you’d never have heard about. But, a lot of friends and neighbors were so far under they weren’t ever coming back up. Witsel had lived in Venlo all his short life but’d never spent a minute on a tractor. When he called into question the honesty and integrity of his own people, your grandmother didn’t take very kindly to it.”
“She didn’t call him a cocksucker in front of a crowd just to teach him some manners,” Will said.
Blom winced at hearing the word again.
“She said it,” Ouillette interjected, “because it’s a fact.”
“Loren . . .”
It was Ouillette’s turn to wave Blom off. He looked at Will. “How well did you know your grandmother?”
Will decided against taking offense. This was too much fun. “Well enough to know she didn’t use that kind of language. And well enough to know if she said something like that, she meant it and believed it as God’s honest truth.”
Ouillette turned back to Blom. “There ya go.” He turned back to Will. “Careful you don’t make going into his office a regular thing. People might get to talking.” He turned back into his aisle and was out of sight.
Blom looked exhausted. He heaved a deep sigh when Will moved close to the counter. He looked at Will over the tops of his glasses and said, “Are your needs satisfied for the day? Are there any more pots you’d like to stir?”
“I didn’t get a spoonful out of the one I’d come in here to stir.”
Blom made a noise in the back of his throat. He looked up at the ceiling before saying, “The favor Loren was talking about is a good one, Willem. It’s not something that’s mine to discuss, so I’m obliged to leave it to you to figure out getting it out of him.” Will nodded, but before he could say anything, Blom added, “If you do have such a burning need to hear about it, try to be a little more diplomatic.”
“How was I undiplomatic?” Will asked, but he was in the process of conceding that he’d come at the man from left field. He didn’t like being wrong, even if the only one he had to admit it to was himself. “Does this have anything to do with what you were telling me before?”
“You mean what I was trying to tell you before,” Blom retorted. “People around here are starting to think of you as some sort of screwball.”
That’s nothing new, Will thought, then decided to say it. “I’ve always been looked at as a screwball,” he said. “It’s been that way since I can remember. I didn’t like it, but there was no way of getting out of it, either. I didn’t have any choice.”
“Well, now you do.”
That came as a surprise. Will had never looked at it that way.
“It doesn’t help, either, that every time you’re in a place you seem to be up to some screwy thing,” Blom said. “And if there’s a group of people around you, you act like the only person in the room worth paying attention to is you. Then you drop some cash—too much—and head for the door. You’ve been doing it here, for crying out loud.”
“I’ve only been to the diner a couple of times.”
“A couple of times doing anything in this neck of the woods is a pattern. From that pattern a screwball is made.”
It was Will’s turn to sigh. He thought for a moment, then said, “I’m a fish out of water here, Bertie.”
“Of course you are,” Blom agreed. “And there’s nothing wrong with it. We’ve got a surplus of screwballs, I can tell you that, but they’re all home-grown. Some of them are well liked, even, but not one of them showed up from Minneapolis with a big bank account. If you just try to fade into the picture, you might find life will be more comfortable.”
“Saint Paul,” Will corrected. “Has anybody come right out and said I’m a screwball?”
Blom looked away, again to the parking lot. “Well . . . not in so many words.”
“But someone has.”
Blom was literally save by the bell. Will turned to a customer coming in, thought he might be faintly recognizable, either from here or the diner. “Was it him?” he asked Blom.
“Shush.”
Will stepped back and aside as Bertie Blom conversed with his customer. He tried to sort out what had gone on, and what it meant. He had a higher profile than he’d already feared, it seemed. And the goofball act, his one morning indulgence, appeared to have worked all too well. Ah well . . . There were steps he could take. Being thought of as a whackjob was fine, if that’s a far as it went. Being confronted on it was a different story. Will wasn’t ready to relive those days when he was forced to explain himself to any asshole that demanded it. This time you’ve got a choice.
Will ran back over his exchange with Ouillette. He could get that sorted out. He’d gone through most of his life without getting satisfactory answers. At the same time he’d caught himself reaching back for his checkbook. It had been almost instinctive, and it hadn’t been very long for that behavior to become automatic. He’d completed the check to Save Our Native Sons before “putting that fuckin’ thing” back in his pocket. His intention was to slip it to Bertie and ask him to give it to Ouillette if it appeared he’d cooled down enough to take a donation. That shit has to stop, too. He eased it back into his pocket.
Bertie was wrapping up with his patron. He’d wanted to poke around with the Sheriff as his subject but, stealing the shopkeeper’s words, realized he’d probably stirred up enough pots for one day. Rather than wait for a formal goodbye, he just waved until Blom gave him a nod and made for the door. He was off to the diner, for a breakfast he didn’t need, and enough coffee to stretch past his last bite, and maybe carry into a casual conversation with whomever might have a little time on their hands as well.
I shan’t keep you any longer.