Author: mad reaper

All my whining and agonizing of the last few weeks has proven a great big “all for naught.” The devious Arn Mikkelson and his lovely family have wormed their way back in. Couldn’t turn him loose after all. Another thing was, I had never conceived of Loren Ouillette as a point of conflict, and it just doesn’t fit. I can’t make it fit. I don’t want it to fit. So, the sharecropping landthief returns… and without as much background to this point to give those who’ve been following much to go on. Tough luck. It’ll get fixed in the first real edit, and I’m just going to carry on as is.

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Chapter Thirteen

Will paused as he bounced out the back door. He took a couple of jogging strides across the end of the driveway, turned, and jogged backwards a few more strides. The roof was nearly complete, with about five sections of green steel to be placed toward the rear. It looked fantastic. Fuckin’ Maartens . . . At that thought, Will caught sight of the man. He gave the contractor a quick wave and half-jogged, half-walked up the drive to the county road.

The sky was a shattering blue, cloudless with a gradual darkening toward the West. At the crest of the driveway that horizon appeared a thousand miles away. The sun had scarcely cracked the horizon in the East, but the heat it promised was already evident on Will’s skin. Instead of swing left or right at the county road, he stopped. The field directly opposite the driveway was twice as deep as the Rijsbergen property, stretching away from the road for at least a mile. Soybeans, it appeared. They hadn’t matured to the point that they covered the entire field, and dark strips of soil stood out in contrast to the rows of bright green. The windbreak at the far end was, at this distance, just a strip of brighter green with the trunks of the Pin Oaks and Cottonwoods just dark highlights. He lifted his eyes to the clear, clean sky, a boundless dome of impenetrable azure. He tried to imagine this sky one hundred fifty years ago, over an ocean of unbroken prairie grass, four feet high and already burning to brown under the early summer sun, narrowing to an unbroken, three hundred and sixty degree razor thin division between blue and yellow, and had a better understanding of how many pioneer wives went insane. He started churning his legs, and broke left.

Sticking to the gravel shoulder, Will was setting an early pace as he almost cleared the west field. He coughed a couple of times and launched a gob at Arn Mikkelson’s illicit corn crop. It fell well short of the burgeoning plants, now unmistakably corn and just showing tassels. He tried working up another to deposit in the man’s driveway, but couldn’t bring up enough phlegm. Fucker.

Will had broken that first plateau and let his stride out. He was still waiting on his lungs but, per usual, they’d be their own stubborn selves and not relax for another mile and a half. Even at this point, he knew it was going to be a good day. Perhaps he’d push it to nine miles.

The running and golf were passions, but not born of an organic process of self-discovery, but by the value they had first and foremost as diversions, distractions. The golf was a result of mere locale. Will had grown up in a house that abutted a golf course. Escape was a matter of crossing a fence. The running was just an obvious means of getting away. The escape they provided would be forever qualified and quantified as that it came from an outside purpose, generated by an exterior purpose. One way or the other, and no matter how he looked at it, Mom got the credit.

Just passing the spot where he’d left the road in search of dead cattle, Will felt the expansion in his chest and the air coming in a rush. A few hundred yards more and he could stretch his legs and slip into the hypnosis that would carry him for as long he was willing to go. The mild euphoria, that “runner’s high”, had ever been an illusion in Will’s case. There was always something in his head, something he could not set aside.

“Run, Billie. Run, run, run. The thing is, Billie, and in case you didn’t hear, the world is round. Run, run, run, no matter how far, someday you’re going to find yourself right back where you started. There’s no getting away from that.”

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And then there’s dear old Mom. Often hinted at, teasers laid out all over the place, and we are now moving to a spot where we’ll all get to know her. Hang on, folks.

The rain rolled on. Will took a shower and, a couple hours later, another. The novelty of hot water had long gone, but he had no other means of killing time. If he could have found a way to kick his bowels and bladder into action, he’d have done so. The myriad cups of coffee had helped a bit, but now his stomach was starting to protest. It was the first time since he’d left the Cities that he missed having a stereo or television. He had a couple of books, but they had been favorites, and there wasn’t one of them he’d read at least half a dozen times.

Will made a sandwich. He ate a sandwich. He looked out the back door a dozen times. No sign of a let up. He quashed the urge to dash to his truck and head to the Muni. There was a genuine risk of getting shitfaced, and what that would result in was nothing he wanted to consider, much less risk. He added a second beer to the one he’d had with the bacon lettuce and tomato. Finally, at last accepting there was no other means available to put off what he’d been avoiding for weeks. He left the kitchen and plodded up the steps, on his way the attic.

It was dark. What light made its way through the plastic was barely enough to illuminate the stairway. It didn’t improve a great deal when his head cleared the floor level, but once Will’s eyes adjusted, he could see well enough. The attic had lost much of its mystique due to Maartens’ efforts. There were no cobwebs or dust. The lights that used to dangle from the ceiling had made it eerier. The yellowish light from the forty watt bulbs could never reach the corners, and the, to Will as a boy, had always triggered thoughts of dead relatives. That smell was gone, too. The new decking laid over the roof boards had replaced the mustiness with the faint aroma of fresh lumber. He tried with a deep sniff to trigger a remnant memory, but new wood was all he could smell. There wasn’t even a hint of bat poop. His mother’s stories of a crazy Uncle having been locked up here for years hadn’t helped much. The odd scatterings of old furniture and boxes of books and photo albums did little to dispel a young boy’s trepidation.

Most of the old furniture was gone. What had been there weren’t treasured antiques. Most of it had been well worn chairs and sofas from the late thirties and early forties, standard, functional homeware straight from Sears and Montgomery Wards. Threadbare but functional, the upholstery worn beyond Nan’s toleration, but suitable enough for handing down to someone in need. His grandparents were solid pragmatists. They furnished according to need, not fashion. And what had crowded the third floor wouldn’t have been in line with Ken Maartens’ vision of historically appropriate. But it was gone. All that remained were a set of four solid but plain oak chairs and folding wooden table. The rest of it had to have been moved out, along with the main house furnishings after his grandmother had died. Will could only think that had been the work of his father. There would have been no sorting for treasures or parceling out to specific friends.

Nan had outlived her family, and his grandfather was the last Limburg Rijsbergen in Minnesota. Those that had left did little to keep in touch, and he’d been the youngest. Will had heard mention of great uncles and aunts, nieces and nephews, scattered around the northwestern United States, but as far as Will understood, there hadn’t been much maintaining of family ties once Gran’s brother had made to the South Dakota border. He imagined his father had simply hired somebody to clean out the house, unload the contents however they could, and nail the doors shut. Will knew for a fact that Nan’s funeral was the last trip he’d made west of the Minneapolis suburbs. Will had found that a hard thing to resent when it came to his dad. At least the old man had made it to the funeral.

Without the furniture, all that was there was an irregular stack of sharp angles, tucked tightly beneath a blue plastic tarp, the same stuff that covered the roof. It was held in place by a netting of crisscrossed bungee cords. Will had it uncovered in scarcely a minute, unhooking the straps and leaving them where they dropped. When the tarp was balled up and tossed toward a corner, he was standing over a couple of steamer trunks, atop of which were piled several taped heavy cardboard boxes, some crates, and in the middle of that stack, a small cedar chest this size of an infant’s casket. Fitting, he thought, as the image flashed in his head.

Will stared down at it, for how long he wasn’t sure. It was nestled between a pair of crates, which through the slats he could make out picture frames. At any other time, he’d have taken some pleasure, perhaps even relief, in that not all memory had been dumped and discarded. Memory had dragged him up here, at last, but it was not fond reminiscence. What was inside that simple but elegant hinged box had dragged him up the steps, but at the same time had kept him camped out on the main floor. It was what had made his heart sink at Maartens’ mention of “crates and boxes.” He’d been holding out some hope that this had been carried from the house, the chest sold after its contents had been dumped and either burned or sent to some landfill. This whole thing would have been simple, if that had been the case. Fix it all up, sell it, and live the rest of his life spending daddy’s money in a way that would aggravate him most. Simple.

Will was breathing heavy as he reached into the stack, caught the handles at each end, and lifted it out of the center of the stack. He carried it a few feet from the pile and set it on the floor. He dropped down in front of it, chest still heaving. The hope that all that was inside it was baby clothes and a few mementos was dashed the instant he hefted it. It was too heavy for that. It was full of paper, had always been. More and more, year by year, diaries, journals, wire bound notebooks. The documentation of a life too short in years and too long in living it, the thoughts and dreams of a pubescent young lady to the rants and delusions of a mad housewife.

“Why are we going to Gran and Nan’s?”

“To start a new chapter, Willy-Billie-silly boy.”

“But I’ve got school for three more days.”

“And now you don’t. Any other kid would call himself lucky, little Billie, to have his mom carry him away to the country for a little rest and relaxation. Mom needs to pick back up where she just left off. And Gran and Nan need to see their only grandchild.”

“Dad’s going to be mad, again, mom. We can go Saturday, or even Friday night.”

“I’d tell you ‘fuck Dad’, Billie, but that’s supposed to be my job. But it’s been a long time since he’s let me do my job. He’s afraid you’ll wind up with a little brother or sister. If he doesn’t want you to have a little brother or sister, and he won’t let me fuck him, there’s no point in waiting until the weekend. So, we’re leaving, and leaving now, so that means Daddy-o is just going to have to fuck himself.”

Staring again. Will reached to the box, flicked at the hasp that hung from the lid, watched it drop back over the eye. If only this thing had a lock, and the key had been lost. With a sign, he stood, lifted the simple but elegant chest, and made his way back downstairs.

+   +   +

Back at it and don’t feel any imminent slow down looming. So, there.

 

 

Returned, refreshed, and back inna groove, man…

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Chapter Twelve

Will woke up to noise. It wasn’t the infernal growl of the boom truck Maartens had hired to load material to the roof, or the banging of hammers, sharp reports of nailguns, or the shouts, curses and endless ragging of workmen. It was a roar, dull and steady, like sitting in a vehicle at a rail crossing while a train rumbled past. It was dark as well. Will checked his phone and discovered it was almost mid-morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t awoken within a half hour of either side of side of sunrise. Though his windows were still opaque rectangles of thick polyethelene, they could still provide a visual answer to the cause of the noise. Thick rivulets of water showed through clear enough. It was raining. Raining like hell. The heavy plastic bulged and luffed with the storm’s accompanying gusts.

Will rolled out of bed. The campground was no more. The parlor now had more in common with a dorm room. The tent was down, packaged up and moved into the living room, joining the camp stove and lantern. The dust was no longer an ever-present irritant. Diligent sweeping had gotten what could be swept up out of the house, and several wet moppings had taken care of the rest. The chunks of plaster no longer dropped from the floors and ceiling, and what was left clung fast to the lath. It would take the sledge or the prybar to tear it loose. His air mattress had finally sprung a leak. He replaced it with a cheap foam mattress. The light was now provided with a funky looking brass pedestal lamp he discovered in a Venlo shop that was more junk emporium than antique store. He haggled with the owner and got it for half the price it was listed at. He was working on changing his spending habits. Better to be perceived as a stingy rich bastard than a spoiled boy trying to buy friends.

The main floor was not fully electrified, but Maartens had a guy rewire it, and all of the outlets and switches were in place. The power company had finally gotten to work, but had yet to connect him. He was still reliant on the generator/battery hook-up. The utility crew’s arrival had instigated a battle, with Will the losing end when they would not bury the feed lines. Maartens had been a surprise ally in this fight. He supported Will’s reasons, but when the argument was raised that this would be the only residence, not just on this particular grid but in the entire county with undergound electricity, he couldn’t find a reasonable counter. They wouldn’t even compromise in sinking the cables once they were halfway to the house from the road. “We don’t have the proper conduit,” was the explanation. Will had his doubts, made them clear, but even his offer of buying “the proper conduit” wasn’t accepted. Maartens’s support was rooted in, Will believed, that not having visible power lines was more historically appropriate. He did come out on top in a single skirmish, however.

When the final pole was placed, there was a yard light at the top of it. Will asked one of the lineman to take it down. The man refused, arguing it was on his work order. Will tried to politely convince him to disregard it by saying he didn’t give a fuck about any work order, and “take the goddamn thing down.” He was told that it wouldn’t come down until he had a word with his supervisor, a gentleman Will had gotten sick of talking to throughout the entire subterranean cable disagreement. He was also informed it was common knowledge that the Sheriff’s Office wanted a yard light on the property of every rural home, and it that it was a “safety issue.”

“I’ve met with the Sheriff personally,” Will answered. “He didn’t say anything about requiring a yard light.”

The lineman told him he was sticking to his guns on this one.

At the mention of guns, Will offered to go into town, buy a rifle, and shoot the light off.

the top of the pole. Then he would be open to discussion with both the power company’s supervisor and the Sheriff. Maartens had witnessed this exchange as well, but didn’t offer any opinions in the dispute. He walked away at Will’s threat to purchase a firearm.

The lineman finally consented to removing the yard light, but not without making it clear it would be done under protest, and it would be brought to his supervisor’s attention. Will told the man he had his full support in that decision. “But,” Will heard as a final word in the discussion, “if the Sheriff wants it back up, I can promise it’ll go back up. That’ll be coming straight out of your pocket.” Will assured him the responsibility was all his, and whatever consequences should ensue he would humbly suffer them.

Will hated yard lights. He’d only been exposed to one in his entire life, and it was on this property. It had been in the back of the house, and actually very close to where the new power pole was placed. The room he stayed in during his visits—“his room”—had been at the rear of the house, on the other side of the bathroom as his mother’s. The light, a large, buzzing globe from within a tube of mercury vapor blazed with the intensity of nuclear fission. It was set at a height more or less even with the second floor windows. Even with the shade down and the wispy, curtains pulled, the light that bored into the room was bright enough to read by.

The supervisor never came back. Neither did the Sheriff, though Will sweated it out for over a week, not so much at the idea of being compelled to install a hated means of exterior illumination, but that he’d have to sit through another sales pitch for the coroner job.

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Whew! Good to get back into the “zone.” And, now, a word from our sponsor: https://www.amazon.com/Lunacy-Death-perspective-developed-investigation-ebook/dp/B079DWFH9T/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1540002696&sr=8-1&keywords=lunacy+and+death+book

Hello, faithful followers. An update. What have I written since my last offering? Nothin’, zip, notadamnthing… S’okay. I’m back at it tomorrow. As I’ve mentioned before, this is a half-way point. A deviance in plot, any deviance at all from the initial plan, is a speed bump the size of Mt. McKinley at this stage. It’s a serious derailment. However, it is not fatal, or a novel killer. It could be, but in this case it is not. However, churning through things after such a decision is difficult. One reason is you can’t stop thinking of what you have to change in what you’ve already written. You have to go back and pull it out. It’s like weeding Creeping Charlie or clover out of your lawn, you spend all day chasing runners. Then, you have take what’s been laid out in your head for oh-so-many-months and discard it. Not an easy thing. Then you sit and question whether or not throwing it out is a good thing. I will confess, I did it, but I’m still not sure it was the correct move.

As it is, I’ll churn on as if it’s a done deal. If it doesn’t feel right, I can always slide it back in again… HEY! That’s half the fun! Whatever I do, and whichever way this story goes, I’ve no choice but to let it drag me where it will.

As the last entry stands, I’m not real happy with it. It can sit, however, until I come around again for the first big edit. I’m grinding my teeth over what I left out– the “farm first aid” Will left behind, and getting off track with his miserable scratches, but I can recover that with that aforementioned edit. (An aside: At this point, a part of me is screaming to STOP with adding more chapters, go back and edit what I’ve got, and will therefore have a clearer view of the finish. That POV has a LOT of merit. At this point, I’m going to tell that voice in the back of my head to shut-up for now, and see how loud it might get in the next month. Could happen.)

Soooooo…. As of tomorrow morning, I will move on. Thanks to those who’ve hung around to this point.

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.

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“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.

I wanted to take a moment to whine about how killing a subplot, which was supposed to make things easier, can be a wretched thing to do to yourself. I decided to save my bitching for a later day, like for the one that I finally wrap up this goddawful chapter.

+   +   +

“Uncle Loren’s in the back, Mister Blom.” He turned to Will, “Hi!”

“Go fetch him for me, will you Jared. Mister Holliday needs a word with him.”

The boy gave a quick wave and dashed back into the aisle.

“And have him grab a jar of that Corona ointment, if he would” he called after the boy, “and a roll of Vet-wrap.” He turned back to Will. “That boy’s priceless. Saved me a few hundred bucks on an intercom.”

Will smiled at him and looked away. He tried to appear nonchalant as he ran a hand up and down over a forearm, trying not to put his fingernails to work. When Ouillette appeared, he was carrying a pint sized plastic jar and a roll of what looked like purple crepe paper. He glanced at Will, gave him a nod, and did a double-take worthy of a Laurel and Hardy film, locking his eyes on Will and his random pattern of rents and gouges. “Ouch,” he said.

“I’ve had worse,” Will said.

Ouillette turned to Blom. “Did he come here looking for this?” He held the cellophane wrapped roll and the jar up to Blom.

“My suggestion, Loren, thank you. Whether he accepts it or not has yet to be determined.”

“Cheaper than a co-pay . . .” Will heard from Ouillette. He set the items on the counter.

“That all?”

“No,” Blom told him. “Mister Holliday is here looking for a word with you.” He pointed to Will.

Ouillette turned to Will, making no attempt to hide the amusement in his expression. “What can I do for you?”

Will had decided his appearance as a man who’d been living on grubs and berries and living in a ditch did not put him the kind of position to be a man who could demand answers. He also considered his inquiries would be related to a situation that appeared to be nothing more than a tremendous favor.

“Um… I wanted to thank you for the guys you sent out,” Will said.

Ouillette’s response was a curt nod.

“They got a helluva lot done.”

Another nod.

Will swallowed. Trying to squeeze any information out of this guy through a casual conversation was going to be chore. He had a sold feeling that was how Ouillette wanted it.

“How’d they end up there in the first place?”

Ouillette directed one of his nods at Blom. “You came to Bertie with a big project. He asked me my opinion on a couple of things. You needed labor, I have access to an organization eager to provide it.”

“What’s the going price of that labor?” Will asked, “We never had a chance to discuss it.”

Something that could have passed for a “knowing smile” crossed Ouillette’s face. It was momentary, but Will caught it. He also got the feeling he was meant to notice it. “The price is the opportunity to be of service to the community.”

“Not much ‘community’ six miles down the county road,” Will said.

The smile/smirk flashed again. “Well, we’re all part of the community, aren’t we?”

Will returned it. “As much as we’re willing to be, I suppose.” He let it hang for a moment, then added, “Or as much as we’re allowed to be.”

Blom, who’d been making a show of not paying attention, was now paying attention.

“Maybe you should have said something before you sent the boys out there, Loren.”

“I’d gotten the impression Mister Holliday was . . . indisposed at the time,” Ouillette answered.

Blom appeared flustered, as if he’d found himself in the position of a man who’d suddenly become stuck with being the voice of reason in a burgeoning bar fight. Will entertained the thought of moving the conversation to a location out of his earshot. He hadn’t been sure of what to expect out of Ouillette, but had in no way believed it would be as sour as things were shaping up to be. He was trying to come up with some sort of innocuous comment, something that might lighten things up a bit. Ouillette beat him to it, sort of.

“I’m sorry, Mister Holliday. I might have overstepped my bounds.”

Will matched smile for smile. “By no means, Mister Ouillette. I’m simply here to express my gratitude.” He swung his arms wide and offered a short bow, then added, “And to proffer a donation to the as-to-this-point unacknowledged organization that performed this labor in the name of community service.”

“That would be unnecessary.”

“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.

+   +   +

So… well, like I said, maybe next time I’ll be able to indulge my whining.

 

 

Well, well. I guess it was the right decision. Shot outa me like fecal matter through a large aquatic animal with a bad temper. Anyhow, this is a quick read. Just putting this up because I was so delighted at how quickly my brain got back into gear. More tomorrow, probably. Oh! Hello again, Ireland! 

 

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 greet 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. Blom’s inquiry stirred his wounds to life and he was suddenly burning all over. He needed to talk to Ouillette and had no idea of how best to approach the man. He wasn’t comfortable with the unexpected—and unsolicited—assistance. There was a lot more going on there than simply finding chores for delinquents. It was bad enough he looked like he’d been dragged through barbed wire. Conducting a calm and aloof investigation wasn’t going to be easy if all he wanted to do was claw at himself.

When Will made it to the counter, Blom’s glasses were back on. The shopkeeper was shaking his head.

“Is Loren around?

Blom’s head stayed in motion.

“I don’t get an answer until you do, is that it?”

Blom stopped shaking his head and focused on Will’s fresh scabs.

“He’s here . . .” Bertie narrowed his eyes, zeroing in on a particularly nasty rip that extended from Will’s right earlobe nearly to his chin. His looking at it tripled its itch factor. “… but may not be open to conversation without assurance than your condition isn’t the result of some horrible contagion.”

“I was exploring my holdings and ran into some blackberry brush,” Will explained.

“At a full sprint, by the looks of it.” Blom finally made eye contact. “It’s a little early for berries,” he said. “But thorns are always in season.” He turned on his stool and called, “Loren?”

It was a summons scarcely louder than conversational, but the response was almost instantaneous. The respondent, however, wasn’t Ouillette, but his jittery nephew. He popped out from and aisle and moved at a half-trot, half-skip toward the counter, scabbard bouncing at his hip.

“Uncle Loren’s in the back, Mister Blom.” He turned to Will, “Hi!”

“Go fetch him for me, will you Jared. Mister Holliday needs a word with him.”

The boy gave a quick wave and dashed back into the aisle.

“And have him grab a jar of udder balm or teat cream, if he would… and some of that leg wrap they use on calves and lambs.” He turned back to Will, fighting a grin. “That boy’s priceless. Saved me a few hundred bucks on an intercom.”

 

Much, much, much better. Fear not, however, Arn Mikkelson– wife and kids included– was granted a stay of execution. He will be appearing in the next book (didn’t think I was stopping with this one, did you?) but will bear little resemblance to the man I was struggling to introduce in this one. Cool!

After a week’s worth of tooth grinding, a couple of thousand discarded words, and inaction on this very site, I’ve been compelled to make the difficult decision to drop the “sharecropper” plot line to this tale. It wasn’t an easy decision to make, and it was integral to Will’s story at the conception of this story. It was a HUGE factor when the book first sprouted in my head. Arn Mikkelson has been sent to novel secondary character purgatory. He may well come back in the SECOND INSTALLMENT of this tale of rural Minnesota and all of its charm but, for now and essentially for certain, he and his talented wife and lovely children  have ceased to exist. Vanished. Were never here. Such is the process.

This was not a decision I came to lightly. I had some fun stuff planned for this subplot. Alas, it was clogging up the narrative. Just one too many subplots, and it ultimately wasn’t going to have any direct impact on this novel’s outcome. It actually threatened to become a wee bit to sentimental… didn’t want that.

So, all said about him and what may have motivated him and what strange story was beneath it all is… gone. Forget everything I ever said about him.

That said, I’m in the process of a reset. Wordcount wise, I’ve crossed the midpoint, but it’s anything but downhill from here. At 50, 000 words, I’m a good 5000 to 7500 more than I want to have. I’ve got at least that many, probably more, to put down before I have what I’ll consider a proper first draft. Then the axe comes out, then the butcher knives, the scissors, the razor blade and, at last, the scalpel.

I’ve got a couple of subplots already rearing their ugly heads, and the land dispute was just adding up to too many goodies in the trick or treat bag.

Sooooooo, I’m downshifting a bit, trying to reset the brain. I could be putting up the next segment as early as Saturday or Sunday, because my head is already feeling a lot less crowded. Keep your eyes peeled.

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.”