Category: Uncategorized

Sheesh. What follows is the end of Chap. 8, and the end of what may be subtitled “Part One.” That may be, or not. From this point on the story takes a pretty sharp turn. All the hints about poor, poor Will’s past will start getting answered, and a bigger headache springs up. Life ain’t gonna get easier for him is about all I can say.

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“He’s an asshole,” Will offered.

Blom looked at him over the top of his glasses. “He’s not universally adored,” he countered. “He’s stubborn, tight-lipped and nobody that’s ever had dealings him has walked away with an invitation to dinner.”

“Alright, then,” Will said, and modified his appraisal of the neighbor to, “he’s a jerk.”

Blom sighed. “I guess most folks would be inclined to agree… and while I’m not partial to the term, you’re first assessment fits the picture in most folk’s eyes.”

Will pondered a moment before saying, “So I call him on it, sic the law on him for trespassing, and whatever else can slapped on him for sneaking a corn crop on somebody else’s land, and let the system sort it out. Hello, manure pile.”

Blom loosed another sigh, heavier than its predecessor. “Ah, well, if it were just that simple.”

“Come again?”

Blom shook his head. “It’s complicated.”

Will heard it as if Blom believed it explained everything. It did not. “Forgive me if I thought I was getting a clear picture of my predicament,” he said sourly. “Is it worth my asking for a little more clarification?”

Blom glanced toward the door. With the parking lot empty and no rescue in sight, he said, “Think about it, Willem. Arn’s a man who spent every minute of his life in the same county, the same town and under the same roof. You’re a fellow that showed up a few times as a schoolboy, but then disappeared for twenty years. Arn might never win any elections, and nobody’s going to suggest a parade in his honor any time soon, but he’s been around here since he slipped out of the womb. He’s been a neighbor and a citizen through some tough times, and suffered from them as much if not more as any man he’s been to church with—which is every week, by the way. You, on the other hand, just suddenly show up, and from the Cities, no less. You’re here to take over a piece of property that’s been abandoned, ignored and neglected. In the way folks around here view things, and this is more important, you can also add disrespected. No insult, and by no means any fault of your own, but I don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand that aspect of things.”

Will shrugged. “And . . .?”

He’s hometown, with the same dirt under his nails as everybody else. You’re a city slicker who, whether true or not, has a pile of money and doesn’t know a thing about hard work and the hazards of farming. You go straight to the courthouse with this, you’re just some rich kid with no callouses who showed up to shove us little people around.” Blom said. “Arn Mikkelson may be a jerk, but he’s our jerk.”

“Is that how you see it?”

Blom answered the nod with a shake of his head. “No. That’s not how I see it, but that’s how it’s going to be seen. What’s he’s doing is wrong. How he’s done it is wrong. You take a poll, and you’d be pleased to know everybody who’s ever scratched a living out of a patch of ground agrees with that. I’d go so far as to say dragging him away from his breakfast, throwing a rope over a tree and stringing him up in front of his kids wouldn’t be considered out of line. Except…”

“If I do it,” Will moaned. “I’m the outsider. I get it. So, what other course is there?”
“Path of least resistance sound appealing?” Blom offered.

“Would’ve been real appealing about five minutes ago,” Will answered.

“Ignore it.”

“What the fuck?”

Blom made it a point to frown before he spoke again. “Ignore it. Go on with what you’ve been doing. If he sees the house coming along, understands what’s going on over there, he’s got to catch on that he’s cheek by jowl to something that looks permanent. Just make it clear in every way you can that you’re not going anywhere soon.”

Will stared at him. . . . not going anywhere soon… That wasn’t a phrase he was ready to get comfortable with. He could put up with it, for now, if only to give Blom a chance toward helping him with a plan he could work with. “Have you got any suggestions as to how I can give him that impression?”

Blom shrugged. “Spend some time in town. Work around the house. Get out in the yard. Get yourself in a place where you can’t be missed, make sure he sees you, and as often as possible. Carry on like nothing’s wrong, settle in, and he might just realize he can’t get away with this any longer. It wouldn’t hurt to let other people understand you know what’s going on, but you’re a big enough man to let it play itself out, that you’re giving Arn some time to come to his senses. Get yourself acquainted, get yourself known.” Blom removed and folded his glasses, then pointed them at him. “Make some friends.”

Will looked out the front windows. A few vehicles had pulled into the lot. He watched the people getting out; a few “townies”, another couple guys in bibs and battered caps.

He watched them all the way to the door, where they formed up on the walk and came in as a group. They’d arrived separately, but it was obvious they all knew each other. He wondered if how he’d be received by them, if he was just the type of guy they could rely on to put a difficult peer in his place.

When they came in, Will didn’t slink out of sight into an aisle. He stayed where he was, but still tried to appear inconspicuous. They entered chatting, then each offered a greeting to Blom, a wave or a quick “hello.” Will was noticed, and even got a couple nods, Then they broke apart, scattering themselves throughout the store, and he was alone with the shopkeeper again. He took a few steps toward the counter, close enough for a conversation in a lower tone.

Will had decided on how he needed to handle this. It was a decision he’d made while cowering behind a tree, and one he now knew he should have settled on and kept the shopkeeper out of it. He knew all that Blom had told him was true. His roots may not have been in Limburg County, but he understood the way of life a lot more than Blom had given him credit for. Ingratiating himself to the locals was no guarantee this Arn Mikkelson would sense a seismic societal shift, compelling him to come clean about his deplorable behavior. If he was already well established as a shitbird, what could compel him to alter his behavior in any accord of public opinion? If stealing a fraudulent crop off a stranger’s property—abandoned or not—was so heinous in the community eye, he wouldn’t have done it in the first place if that mattered to him. Blom said the man wasn’t universally adored. Will had no need to be, either. Being unpopular with the locals didn’t matter when compared to standing up for his grandparents.

“Thanks for the advice. All sound and sensible,” he told Blom. “But I think my best course of action is to just march over there and call him on it. If he owns up and comes clean, we can sort it out ourselves. If he wants to be an ass, deny it or make some argument, he can take his ass and his arguments to court. Short, sweet and simple.”

Blom fixed another look at him, this one more reminiscent of his grandfather. This time, Will couldn’t completely reject its effect.

“I’ll make one more plea for patience, Will. As I told you, it’s complicated.”

Will shrugged. “If I go after a jerk that flaunts respect for somebody else’s property, and that makes me a bad guy, so be it. Frankly, there’s nobody here I need to impress. If sticking up for my grandparents makes me some sort of arrogant, big city prick, screw ‘em.”

“Your grandparents are a big part of what makes this complicated.” Blom was back to looking at him over the top of his glasses.

Will wasn’t ready for that. “How so?”

“Have you ever seen an Imperial Ag sign?”

Will thought it a silly question. Imperial Agriculture owned half the farmland in the county. It had been that way since he was a kid. All he knew about the company was they weren’t very popular. “They’re all over the place. What’s that got to do with anything?”

Blom was looking past Will. A couple of the customers that had come in moments before were approaching the counter. Will stepped out of the way while Blom rang them up. Will didn’t even wait before the bell tinkle before he was back at the counter. “What does Imperial Ag have to do with anything? And how do Gran and Nan make anything complicated?”

Blom answered while poking buttons on the cash register. “Imperial Ag, your grandfolks, Arn Mikkelson, add ‘em all together and you’ve got complicated.” He pushed the cash drawer shut. “Very complicated. Are you up for a history lesson?”

Will had to hold his answer as the rest of the customers that had come in were ready to check out. As they were leaving, another one came in. This could go on all day. He didn’t need a history lesson. Before the newcomer could pull Bom’s attention away, he stepped close to the counter.

“History is history. Past is past.,” Will said. “Imperial Agriculture’s got nothing to do with me, whichever way that could possibly be. Whatever this Arn Mikkelson and my grandparents had going on, that’s past and that’s history. They’re dead, and what he’s pulling right now is an insult to them and their memory.”

Will was ready to turn and stalk off, but Blom froze him by saying. “Would part of ‘their memory’ include your grandmother’s funeral?”

It was a shot through his skull. Will was literally frozen where he stood. All of his righteous outrage evaporated, replaced the flood of guilt he first felt half his life ago,

“Half the county has a memory of that. About half the county were there.” Will heard.

“Arn Mikkelson included.”

Will started walking toward the door. He heard Blom’s voice behind him, rising with his steps. It became fuel, moving through the door at a trot, not listening, not looking back. He broke into a run in the parking lot, into the truck, out to the road.

He drove, breath coming and leaving in raw wheezes, the feeling in his stomach exactly as it was two decades ago, coming home from a monthlong fog of mezcal, dope and self pity , to find out the only person left in the world that cared about him had died two days after he tried to disappear from the face of the earth.

+   +   +

The above was a god-awful grind for some reason. I probably put down over three thousand words, and hated every one of them…. and I might still hate what I put up right here. Can’t say yet…. but that’s what rough drafts are all about.

 

A week ago I had the phony belief that I was about to slip into cruise control and spend a month or so zipping along in overdrive. Fat frigging chance. But, that’s how these things go. Right at a moment you think you’ve got everything clear in your head, and then another angle pops into your skull, and you can’t take another step until you’ve worked it in– at least in a  form that will hold up through the first edit– and once again you’re slogging along. Feel sorry for me. So, what follows has taken up every hair pulling moment I’ve had, starting up after the third paragraph. 

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Blom removed his eyewear and fixed a look on him that reminded Will of Nan. That didn’t mean he was letting the man off the hook. “So, before we go on, I’m going to make sure we’re on the same page. My neighbor, Mister Arn Mikkelson, is growing corn on property formerly owned by my Gran and Nan which, by cruel trick-of-fate, is now owned by me?”

Blom pursed his lips and answered with a slow nod.

Will put his hands on his hips and nodded in return. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Blom was spared from answering by the jangle at the door. Will had no problem interpreting his expression as one of relief. Keeping his hands on his hips, he moved away from the counter a distance he believed polite enough to allow for private discourse.

The new arrival was dressed in the ubiquitous uniform of soil encrusted boots, bib overalls, and topped by a hat sporting the logo of a major farm implement corporation. The man had the bearing unique to a life tied to the land. Age indeterminate—the only estimate he could ever make as a kid was “old” — and moving as if every step he took was an assertion of his bond to the ground beneath his feet, he moved past Will as if he wasn’t there and planted his elbows on the counter.

While they talked, Will attempted to affect a posture that projected infinite patience, yet still send the message to Blom he was fuming. The conversation at the counter lasted for several minutes. He spent the entire time shifting his weight foot-to-foot, fusing his gaze to Blom’s thinning pate, making sure every gaze the shopkeeper flicked in his direction was met with righteous indignatiom. By the time the discussion wrapped up, his ankles were aching and his fierce scowl had become a myopic squint.

The farmer left Blom with a handshake and, “Next week, then, Bertie.”

“Loren will set up the delivery, should be there by Thursday.” The volume of Blom’s reply sounded as if the man was on the other side of the store instead of two feet away from him.

The departing client stopped in the middle of turning away from the counter, which put him face-to-face with Will. He looked at Will, tossed a puzzled glance back toward Blom, then back at Will. The look on his face was far more enigmatic than what could be attributed to stoicism born of a life built on hard labor and faith. Mixed in was a message of wary recognition layered with “people have their eyes on you.”

Will had the benefit of a lifetime of such moments. Rather than shrink back and assume a submissive, “message received” stance, he responded with a chin jut. “’T’sup?”

Other than a slight tightening of the expression, no response was offered. Both Will and Blom watched him walk out, not looking at each other until the ring of the bell faded to silence. Will turned to Blom, offering an over-broad smile. “I’d call it a draw.” Blom answered the grin and the comment with a scowl. “Where were we?”

“That, Mister Holliday,” Blom said tersely, “is your choice to make.”

Will dropped the smile and softened his approach. “I’m just looking for some advice on how to handle this, or if I should handle it at all.”

Blom relaxed and folded his arms across the counter. He was looking at the door. Will had no doubt the arrival of another person wouldn’t disappoint the man. With no one on the sidewalk, and no vehicles pulling into the lot, Blom turned to Will and said, “Nobody within thirty miles of here would blame you for dragging Arn Mikkelson through a proverbial manure pile. As nice as his family is, Arn wouldn’t be given a whole lot of credit for that on merit.”

“He’s an asshole,” Will offered.

Blom looked at him over the top of his glasses. “He’s not universally adored,” he countered. “He’s stubborn, tight-lipped and nobody that’s ever had dealings him has walked away with an invitation to dinner.”

“Alright, then,” Will said, and modified his appraisal of the neighbor to, “he’s a jerk.”

Blom sighed. “I guess most folks would be inclined to agree… and while I’m not partial to the term, you’re first assessment fits the picture in most folk’s eyes.”

So, it moves the tale forward, but not in a way I’d thought things would go just a short month ago. Curses. That said, I hope it moves things along as well for those who’ve been reading this on a regular basis. Tell me if it doesn’t, but it won’t change anything for now. Oh…. DENISE: You’ll have to wait a couple thousand words to find out why the banker reacted as he did to the mention of “Nan.” The wait will be well worth it, though…

 

Whew. It’s been a looooong and not always pleasant couple of weeks– which had nothing to do with this little project. Anyhoo, hope the last entry was a nice stopgap, diverson, whatever it was. It’ll be back, and shortly, in a much modified form. I’ll save any further blabber for the end of this.

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Once Will crossed the railroad tracks, he entered Venlo at an idle. The town was in full Spring mode. The trees were leafed fully, the flower baskets hung from the lampposts, the fountain was flowing. As it had been for three generations, and as it would be for generations to come. A quiet representation of hometown pride combined with solid values passed on and adhered to in small town America. It was a sight Will hadn’t seen in over twenty years, and he didn’t give a shit. The gnawing in his abdomen had something to do with it, he told himself, but the events of the last twenty-four-hours was the more likely culprit. He parked at the café right in front of the windows.

Inviting stares, speculation, idle chatter and—he hoped at the very least—suspicion and –even better—consternation, he took a rag from his glovebox before exiting the cab. As his feet hit the street, he kept his fatuous sunglasses aimed at the windows. After snapping the rag in the air a few times, he stopped at the fender, leaned in, blew a heavy breath on the paint, and made several circular wipes with the rag. After another snap, he tucked it into his back pocket. Before he proceeded into the diner, he raised his shades and checked his reflection in the fender.

Will entered with a jaunty swagger and took a seat at the counter, square in the middle. The obvious lack of attention he was getting as he took his seat assured him it was a satisfactory performance. When the coffee cup was placed in front of him, he was once again face-to-face with Wendy.

“Long time, no see,” she said. As she filled the cup, she added. “Did you win the lottery, or just get released from the looney bin?” The smile she offered wasn’t one that could be interpreted as enjoyment of a shared joke. “Or are you just happy you’ve got dry feet?”

Will couldn’t conjure a response.

“’Number one’, again?”

Will just nodded. The rag in his back pocket felt like a lump of coal.

“Over easy, bacon, pumpernickel?”

Will uttered a barely audible, “Yes, please.” He then went to work at pretending there was something fascinating about his coffee.

Will fended off his creeping embarrassment by ploughing through his meal. He assented to every coffee refill with a thumbs up, but otherwise kept his fork moving and his jaws chewing. Finishing, he tucked at ten under the edge of the plate, and escaped with a wave and a trot to his vehicle. He drove around the block, and parked after crossing Main Street in the lot behind the bank.

Parked, and well out of sight from the diner, Will sat behind the steering wheel. The bank wouldn’t be open for a good half hour. There was no goof-balling his way out of anything in this place. There was no flying under the radar, either. Old habits, as reliable as they may have been, were nothing to fall back on. Not here. He sat, looking through the windshield into the backyards abutting the end of the parking lot. Seen once, then out of sight for two months, and his feet were still wet. Hollywood had it all wrong. Disappearing in a small town in fly-over country was always a bad plan. Going unnoticed was a choice made by other people. Trying to behave in a manner that would discourage attention was a surefire way of getting it. He took another quick glance at his watch. His choice, now, was to be the weirdo who sits in parking lots, the oddball that drives aimlessly around, or the creepy fellow who wanders through town. He sighed and looked in the direction of the park. This wasn’t the day to be the strange guy who hangs around on the bench. He sighed again before opening the door. Creepy fellow it would be. A walk might just clear his head.

Will wandered away from the truck, heading toward the east side of town, avoiding crossing Main Street and the diner. He slowed his pace when he hit the cross street and turned north. A curious thought crossed his mind: as many times he’d been in this town, he’d never actually strolled through it. The extent of his visits had been limited exclusively to Blom’s and Main Street. His grandparents had not been social animals. By the time Will was around, they were the only Rijsbergen’s left in the county. The others, grandaunts and uncles, had moved on to other parts of the country, Oregon or California. Their departures had also exponentially reduced the power and influence of the name as well. Will’s mother was their only child, and the last Rijsbergen born in Limburg County, which effectively ended the name and the legacy as well. The thought grew sour. She had left as well, but had managed to stay perched on her rocker until she was out of the childhood home. Or so he’d been allowed to believe… and now that thought took over. Jesus Christ…

Will stopped walking and found himself standing in front of a beautifully painted and immaculately preserved Queen Anne. Ken Maartens? popped into his skull, immediately joined by and what’s hiding in your closets? “Or attic…” Will turned back toward the bank. If the doors were still locked when he got there, he couldn’t see how he’d be perceived as any more odd or “different” than he probably already was if he waited out the minutes before it opened by curling up in the entryway.

Will didn’t have to wait at the doors long. His dash in, dash out plan was foiled once inside, of course. He’d just come in to get his new checkbook, but he wasn’t allowed to depart with just that. The manager had some information for him. Will didn’t set foot outside until he had a new stack of paperwork and knowledge of his latest balance. Will didn’t commit the new figure to memory, but his stint at the casino had been well covered, apparently by the stock market and, with some very rough mental math, he could have have built a second house of similar dimensions and material to have cut into what he’d already had in the bank.

There had been other “business” discussed, but Will’s brain couldn’t keep up with the banker’s spiel. Other accounts had been added at the bank, over and above his personal savings and checking. These accounts were apparently those that his father’s accountant had told him it would take an act of God to access. Nevertheless, they were still his and his alone. However—and also apparently– he’d signed at least a modicum of supervision and even a smaller degree of control of these accounts to the First Farmer’s Bank of Venlo. All he could remember doing was handing over a packet provided by his father’s accountant to the manager of the Venlo bank. That accountant had recommended he read over this wad of information. Will had been assured him it was all very simple, that the portfolio was still being managed by his firm—unless Will had other plans. Will hadn’t, not at that moment, anyway. However, the accountant went on, if Will had no objections to a small fee, a local bank of his choosing could be involved. The would serve as his primary contact and be immediately available to Will should such an occasion arise that compelled Will to drop everything and go have a look at his money—which was pretty much the way Will had interpreted it. That paperwork hadn’t come out of the envelope between the office in Minneapolis and the first visit he’d made to First Farmer’s of Venlo. Once on the manager’s desk, he’d signed everything provided by his father’s—and now presumably his, as he’d decided to not make any changes – money manager, comfortably assured he was making the right decision by not having to make any decision at all. In his absence all of his account information and a good portion of its liquid worth had found its way into the boonies.

After welcoming him in, the manager had personally presented Will with his new checkbook, sheathed in a new leather wallet– “Our gift for doing business with us!”—a copy of his latest statement, offered a cup of coffee and then he was led into the manager’s office.

Will allowed himself to be steered in. He was clutching his new checkbook and trying to balance his coffee in one hand and preoccupied with the statement in his other. It wasn’t the numbers he was looking at that dropped him into a fog of passive pre-occupation. He saw them well enough, but they didn’t represent anything Will could translate into dollars and cents. Tahiti, he thought. Why dump money into a wreck filled with wretched memories? Barbados. Some puny island. A place surrounded by nothing but seawater and coral, ground not even a coconut could stab a root into… Let some fucker sneak a corn crop outa that . . .

“Mister Holliday?”

Will was jolted out of sea air and back into a stuffy, Midwestern office. He looked at the manager and blinked.

“I’m sorry, Mister Holliday. I’m probably boring you with banker’s chatter. I just wanted to assure you that I’m familiar with the firm you’ve put in charge of your estate. While we by no means can boast the same degree of reputation, I can promise you we work just as hard here, and we’re eager to prove it to you.”

“Sure,” answered Will. He nodded dumbly, then found his voice again. “You don’t have to throw a sales pitch my way. I had all the faith in the world in you before I ever stepped through the door.” That triggered a smile from the manager. Will had hoped to bolster it by adding, “From everything I’d ever heard from my grandmother, I knew my assets were in great hands.” Will, despite his dull witted state, couldn’t miss the tightening at the edges of the smile, or the fleeting, downward glance. The manager managed to push a quick “Thank you” through what had now threatened to turn into a grimace.

Rather than attempt to figure this new twist, Will took it as a great cue for his departure. “I’ll be seein’ you,” he said, practically leaping to his feet. “Been a great pleasure and keep up the great work. I’ll be seeing you.” He pushed the checkbook into his back pocket and took up his statement and slipped his papers into his latest manila envelope. He made for the door without waiting for the manager to get it for him.

The man had recovered from whatever bomb Will had dropped on him enough to get out of his chair and circle the desk. He caught the doorknob before Will could grab it. “Allow me…”

Will pushed through the door before the man could fully open it. “We’ll have to get together soon,” he heard behind him. He could hear the heals clicking behind him has he strode to the main door. “Go over some of the finer details…”

“I’ll get back to you in a day or so. Have a lot going on today,” Will answered over his shoulder. He wanted out of town. Pay Blom, find out what he could about the goings on in the west field, and spend the rest of the day fretting over when Maartens was going to make it possible for him to pee indoors.

The clicking caught up to him as Will pulled the big brass main door open. The manager was right in step with him as Will walked into sunshine. Will fell he had no choice but to stop.

“I won’t hold you up but another minute, Mister Holliday.”

Will found himself looking at the windows of the diner, just kitty corner from where they both stood.

“We’ve just a few details we shouldn’t leave undiscussed.
Will turned to look the banker directly eye to eye. He suddenly missed his sunglasses.

“Sure,” he agreed. Whatever he’d said to crimp the man’d disposition moments ago showed no residual effect. Will wondered it that was indication enough he might better move his affairs into Maastricht. He let the thought pass, but promised himself he wouldn’t let it fade completely out. “Like I said, a day or two. I’m kind of swamped right now.”

Will was surprised when he felt his hand being gripped. When the banker shook it, he looked away, and found they were being watched by several people who were just stepping out of the diner. Christ. He’d certainly had the microscope centered over his head now.

“Day or two,” he repeated, twisting his hand free. He trotted the three steps to the sidewalk and turned toward his truck. He left, unable not to think of the man’s reaction to Will’s mention of his grandmother. Now he had two answers he’d have to sneak out of Blom somehow.

+ + +

Probably a whopping great number of typos above. Sorta spewed it out. So… Strange things happening on this site. Views went through the roof over the last two weeks, and two weeks while I was mostly gummed up with “life” crap. Time at the keyboard was pretty grim as well, as I’ve previously mentioned over the last couple of posts. Anyway, I’m grateful, but no less confused. Also confusing: Damn near a record for views in a two-week stretch (maybe because I haven’t put up anything that could be considered “new”) and not a single comment. Not even a “you suck” or “better not quit the day job.” Not that such sentiments would be motivational, but hearing nothing after so much unexpected (BUT WELCOME!) attention leaves me a bit bewildered. Guess it’s best not to gripe.

HOWEVER. For those new to this page/blog/dingy corner of the interwebs, — God knows there has to be a few who’ve not been here before, just by the numbers, I fell compelled to say this has not always been the focus of this blog. There’s some holdovers from before May of this years, but the main focus of it is no longer in public view. This was a choice made for me, if I wanted the book that was a result of those previous two years to be sold on Amazon. If you really felt you’ve missed out, it’s for sale there– and it’s CHEAP: https://www.amazon.com/Lunacy-Death-perspective-developed-investigation-ebook/dp/B079DWFH9T/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1533015822&sr=8-1&keywords=lunacy+and+death+book

 

Catch you all in a few days…. it just gets weirder…

Okay… the following is actually going to be the end of Chapter Eight. It’s also over four years old. This was written before the blog was even in existence, and before about 70% of what’s been posted previously. Those who’ve following closely (THANK YOU AGAIN!) are going to notice some big differences. The place isn’t in as bad  shape as you’ve come to understand. It also hadn’t been as many years since Will had been there.  “Offstage” things were even more different. Four (even more) years ago,  I wasn’t very clear on how Will would get “down on the farm”, I just knew I had to get him there. When first written, he’d known he’d owned the place as far back as when he was still in high school. His relationship with his father was still awful, but not as bitter as it’s now been made. Bertie Blom was in existence, but even older than he is in this current manifestation. He also had a different name, and had been in fact a former suitor of Will’s grandmother. Ken Maartens didn’t exist, and Will’s meeting of Deputy Poechman was far different and under vastly different conditions, than what was put up a couple weeks ago. (That meeting is still going to occur, and those conditions are essentially the same, but the circumstances have changed quite a bit. You’ll probably be seeing that ’round about October.) What follows is a ROUGH rough draft, written when I was just trying to get an idea of what this novel was going to turn into. At the time this was put down, it was one of those moments when I caught just a thread of an idea and was able to follow it a long way, really without knowing what use it would end up having. You may also notice Will himself is rather different. He’s messed up, no question, but in some ways a LOT more messed up than he is currently, yet a LOT less messed up in others. It hasn’t been touched since I first put it down, so in many ways it may seem to run off to nowhere in spots. More on that after you slog through this.

+   +   +

 

Will watched the ball, rising away until it was about fifteen feet above the ground and thirty yards from him. It took a hard left, hit the side of the shed and ricocheted with a sharp crack one hundred yards into the black dirt of the plowed field. Snap hook. He reached out with his three iron, pulled a ball from the dozens beside the spilled ice cream bucket, took a disciplined ten seconds to set up, and swung. This time the ball looked good, straight for about one hundred fifty yards before it took an abrupt rise into a graceful arc– to the left again– and dropped into the windrow beyond the house. He muttered “shit,” but didn’t mean it. He was confident he would fix itself once he got over the subconscious fear his downswing would render him a eunuch. For the time being, it seemed golfing naked had cured his slice. Maybe he could give a clinic. Or freelance an article for Golf Digest. He had options. A world of options. He wound up on another ball and skulled it.

“Slow down,” he told himself. “Slow-it-down…”

Will heard the car before he saw it, turning his head from the ball he was addressing to the low growl and rumble of tires over gravel. He saw a low dust cloud running toward his house from the county road. The impulse for flight hit him for an instant, but the car was almost to the last curve of the drive and once it cleared the lilac bushes, the driver would have a clear view to the house. Will didn’t want to be seen running naked. He thought it would imply some sort of twisted guilt. He wasn’t going to hide, either. Besides, the only person he could imagine driving out here was Ouillette, and he didn’t think the man would even notice a guy running around bare assed. And if it was the power company jerk, well… he could just go fuck himself.

A sheriff’s office car was a contingency he hadn’t considered. When the squad cleared the stand of brush at the curve and he saw the roof lights and the two-tone paint job Will’s options– rejected or not– had already run out. At the car’s distance and speed, he’d only have enough time to force himself into a state of nonchalance before the vehicle was next to him on the driveway. He blew a breath and rested the club on his shoulder. If he had anything going for him, it was that cops didn’t make him nervous.

The patrol car didn’t move much farther than the stand of lilacs. It stopped in the driveway just a couple of yards clear of the bushes. Will could see the driver’s silhouette well enough to determine the driver was male, and was looking straight at him. Will held his pose and looked straight back. It took him a moment to realize this car was somehow different than the other sheriff’s office vehicles he’d seen on his trips to and from Venlo. It had the same khaki and white panda pattern for a paint job, and the Limburg County shield on the doors, but it also had– and what Will hadn’t noticed on the other squads– the word SHERIFF painted across the top edge of the front fender. Will allowed himself to study the car for another few seconds, then broke his stance before he thought things got too absurd. Maybe the guy had made a wrong turn and was just plain stunned at encountering a naked man. He probably only was hanging around long enough to see if someone else was hiding in the windbreak. Will lowered the club, seperated another ball from the pile and addressed it.

“Grip it and rip it,” he mumbled through his backswing. It felt good and looked better. The ball rocketed off the clubhead with nothing more than a sharp click, boring through the air dead center of the gap in the wind break. It rose at a low angle over the furrows for about one hundred seventy five yards before turning up, like an ascending jet liner clearing the runway. It carried the same sharp angle until it was nearly halfway over the field, appeared suspended in space for an instant, then dropped, out of sight, into the black earth over two hundred yards from where it left the ground. Will had held his follow-through the entire flight of the ball. He was smiling. It was as a good a three iron shot as he’d ever struck in his life. He was pulling another ball from the pile when he changed his mind about the club he was using. There was a sudden desire to not embarass himself in front of his audience by following up such a magnificient shot by shanking the next one. He was pulling a short iron from the bag when he heard the car door.

Will glanced toward the squad. The officer that emerged was large, but not bulky. There was no need to hike up his pants when he got out of the car, but he did it anyway. He bent and reached for something inside, appeared to consider for a moment, then stood empty-handed and closed the door.

His hat, Will deduced; he’s not sure how official he wants his presence to appear.

Will had noticed immediately that the lawman’s shirt was white, not khaki. The title emblazoned on the fender was now clear. It was the Sheriff of Limburg County himself, trying to look casual as he approached a buck-naked stranger armed with a pitching wedge. He pulled his feet closer together, the ball just ahead of his back heel. He was in the middle of his waggle when he heard: “Good morning.”

Obviously not a golfer, Will thought. He didn’t respond to the greeting, but completed his swing. Fat, he could feel it. Probably didn’t carry twenty yards. He didn’t bother following the ball. He planted the club head on the ground and rested a hand on the butt of the grip. He turned to the sheriff. “Do you know there’s not a single golf course in this county?”

The sheriff made a noise in his throat and nodded. He answered, not quite looking at Will. “Yes. There aren’t any nudist colonies that I’m aware of, either.”

Will looked at him, squinting. The sun was in his eyes. “Imagine I’ll just have to keep making do on my own, then.”

The sheriff made the noise again and kept nodding. He looked out over the plowed earth. It was dotted with white, yellow and blaze orange spots. “That’s an awful lot of golfballs.”

“Water balls, range balls,”– Will lined up another shot– “grin balls and idiot balls.” He waggled his wedge. “I’ve got thousands of them.”

“Are you going to pick them up?”

“Nope,” Will answered. “Do they constitute a hazard to farm machinery?”

The sheriff said, “Not likely.”

“Too bad,” Will said. He pulled the shot left. “Damn.” He turned to the sheriff, leaning on the club. “It’s my property anyhow.”

The officer shook his head. “That I didn’t know.”

Will nodded and looked out over the sea of black earth. “So it’s a safe assumption that’s not why you’re out here.”

“No,” the sheriff said, shaking his head. Will snorted and pulled another ball from the pile with the head of his club. The sheriff grimaced before putting his hands to his hips and pretending to look at something up the driveway, back toward the county road. The sheriff stood this way for several minutes and Will went on whacking balls into the field. He took another look at Will, who was just following through. The profile he witnessed didn’t seem to agree with him and he turned his attention to the upturned rows of earth. “Uh… how’d you get so many golf balls?”

“Grew up next to a golf course. I’ve been scrounging them since I was four.” He dropped his wedge into the bag and pulled out his driver. Then he squatted, opened a zipper on the bag, and began rummaging for tees.

The sheriff glanced at him and quickly averted his eyes. “Would you mind…. putting some shorts on, or something?” he asked, bowing his head at staring at his shoes.

Will stood up and faced him. “I’m not doing anything illegal, am I?”

The sheriff, keeping his head down, answered, “No.”

Will stood for a moment, smirked, then dropped the club into the bag and the tees to the ground. He turned to the house and started walking. He looked over his shoulder. The sheriff was cautiously peeking up. “Coffee?” Will called back, slowing his gait.

The sheriff looked up, but had his head turned toward the field. He nodded. “Sure,” he called. “Sure.”

Will was already in sweatshirt and a wrinkled pair of shorts when the sheriff entered the kitchen. Will directed him to the table and poured water into the coffee maker. The sheriff looked around. The inside of the house was a skeleton, all ceiling joists and wall studs. The kitchen was the only room that appeared to have any interior walls and there were only three of them. He was sitting at what seemed to be the only real furniture in the house. Through the framework between the kitchen and the living room, all he saw was an air mattress under the rumpled lump of a sleeping bag, boxes and a scattering of tools. The place smelled of plaster dust, paint and polyurethane.

“Quite a project you’ve got going on here,” he said.

Will hadn’t spoken since the offer of coffee. He was opening and closing cabinets, the doors aglisten under their fresh coat of poly. At last he produced a bag of doughnuts. “Yeah,” was all he said, dropping the plastic bag on the table. He went back to more fumbling in the cabinets. He found a coffee cup, made no effort at hiding the act when he wiped it out with the front of his sweatshirt, and put it on the table next to the doughnuts.

The sheriff looked at the floor; sanded and sealed, the planks bright except at the joints, where the blackness of age couldn’t be erased. “I imagine it’s going to be quite a place, when it’s all done. How long have you been at it?”
Will was leaning at the counter, propped with one arm. “About two months.” The coffee maker gurgled and snorted, sending puffs of steam against the base of the cabinets.Will pulled the pot out and filled the sheriff’s cup. “I’ve got this feeling you already knew that.”

The sheriff, reaching for the cup, looked up at Will. “Pardon?”

Will, his own cup in hand, took the other chair. He reached for the bag of doughnuts. “You know how long I’ve been here.”

The sheriff offered a slight shrug. “More or less,” he agreed. He took a sip.

“It’d be a great spot for a meth lab, wouldn’t it?”

Will enjoyed the sheriff’s sputtering reaction for a few moments, then went to fetch a towel.

“That’s not really very funny, Mister Holliday,” the sheriff said, lifting his cup so Will could wipe the table.

Grinning, Will said, “No, I suppose, it isn’t.” He topped off the sheriff’s half-spilled cup before sitting back down. “You can call me Will, by the way.” He extended his hand, “And you are…?” he asked, looking straight at the name stitched over the lawman’s pocket.

“Goosens,” the sheriff answered, “Jan Goosens.” He shook Will’s hand, picked up his cup and added. “I didn’t come out here looking for any illegal activity.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Will took a drink from his cup and nudged the bag toward the Goosens. “Have a doughnut.”

Goosens took one.

“A guy all of a sudden moves into an abandoned farmstead out in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere,” Will went on, “doesn’t mingle much with the locals, usually only shows up in town to spend a lot of money on ‘building supplies’, has a nice new truck but no visible means of support…”

“I know what you’re saying, Mister Holliday,” the sheriff said, shaking his head. “I also know that’s not the case.”

“Will,” Will reasserted. “You’re sure about that,” he said.

Goosens nodded, leaning over so the crumbs from the doughnut would land on the table.

“Hmm…” Will took a doughnut for himself. Before biting into it he said, “So either you’re an overly friendly agent of the law with a lot of time on his hands, or you’re sure about something else.”

The sheriff looked at him and drank form his cup. He even held it out for a refill when he was finished. Will took it. “I’m sure about several things, to be honest with you,” Goosens said as Will filled the cup. “I’ll admit I did some checking around– nothing too specific of course, but I’ll confess to being pretty busy on your account. I hope you’re not offended.”

“Not at all,” Will said with smirk. “You’re the sheriff.”

Goosens smiled. “I know this is an old family place of yours. I know you didn’t pick up anything at Bloemstaad’s that would raise the eyebrows of the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension or the D.E.A.” He raised his cup. “Thanks,” he said, before taking a swallow. “As far as a means of support, well…” He set his cup to the table. “Being less specific in their response than any other inquiries I’d made, the bank let me know that, in your case, that wasn’t going to be much of an issue.

“In fact,” he said, “depending on how much time you spend here, or what your plans are, I’m honestly thrilled to have you as a part of the community.”

“Thanks,” Will said, his tone flat. “That’s great to hear.”

Goosens glanced at his watch, then shifted back in his chair, straightening himself. “There’s something else I discovered,” he said. His voice assumed a more officious tenor. He folded his hands across his waist. “Something that could make a real contribuition around here, and one I hope you give some serious consideration.”

Will narrowed his eyes. “This ‘something’ is what really brought you out here, am I right?”

Goosens took a deep breath. “Yes,” he answered, nodding. “Yes it is. I understand you were an investigator with the Medical Examiner’s Office in Ramsey County.”

His eyes still narrowed, Will said, “Yeah.”

“Would you mind telling me for how long?”

“Fifteen years.”

The sheriff nodded and cleared his throat. “Um… Do you mind my asking why you stopped?”

“Whatever less-than-specific answers you got from the bank should answer that one for you.” Will got up for another cup of coffee and saw it was nearly gone. He poured the remains into his own cup without offering the sheriff any, and went to work on brewing another pot.

The sheriff sat with pursed lips while Will ground the beans. When the buzz from the coffe grinder stilled, he said, “Fifteen years experience in death investigation is quite a thing to have…” he paused a moment, then finished, “whether you believe you no longer have any use for it or not.”

Will was adding water to the coffee maker. He set the pot down halfway through the job. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Goosens shifted in his chair before leaning forward and resting an elbow on the table, looking straight at Will. “We don’t have a coroner in Limburg County.”

Will finished filling the coffee maker and slapped the lid down. “So elect one,” he said.

“We did,” Goosens said. “Doctor Baehnke up at the clinic in Maastricht. Two years ago. He’d done it for over twenty years before that. But the man was old, his health got bad, and he just up and retired.”

“It happens,” Will said, without sympathy.

The sheriff nodded. “Yes, it does. And it did, and that leaves us without a coroner. We’ve gotten by the last few months, sort of handling things by committe with another doctor at the clinic and a few of the funeral directors, but it’s not a very good system. Quite frankly it creates as many problems as it solves.”

“So…” Will said, “elect another one.”

“Yes, yes,” Goosens said, nodding again, “the County Board has given that a lot of consideration, but,” he quit bobbing his head, “there really isn’t anybody interested in the job.”

Will pulled the pot from the coffee maker and carried it to the table. He filled the sheriff’s cup without asking. “Come on, Sheriff,” he said on his way back to the counter. “There’s always somebody who wants that job.” He had to force himself not to say there was always some goofball that wanted the job. The expression on Goosens’ face indicated he understood that already.

“Contract it out, then,” Will told him, putting the coffee pot back. “We handled counties outside of Ramsey. Works just fine. Just ask the folks at the BCA, they’ll be more than happy to tell you.” He shrugged. “If you want the number to Ramsey’s M.E. I’ll give it to you. Ask for Phil. He’ll get you set up.”

“We’ve looked into that, too.” Goosens lifted his cup, “Thanks,” he said, and took a drink. He set the cup down. “The truth is, Mister Holliday, and I’m more than just a little embarrassed to admit this, but you are in a better position to afford that than the county is.”

Will laughed, but it didn’t come from humor. He laughed to cover the reaction he felt when he suddenly realized what the sheriff was asking of him– and it wasn’t for anything as outrageous as money. He had little hope that the next thing out of his mouth would discourage the sheriff from pursuing it any further, but he said it anyway: “I’m not buying you a coroner, Sheriff.”

Goosens laughed as well. “I’m sorry, Mister Holliday– Will– I didn’t come out here looking for charity.” He shook his head, grinning. “No sir, that’s not the case, although selling cookies or washing cars may be something the County Board might want to give some thought to.” He chuckled again. “No, the reason I wanted to talk to you is, given your experience and apparent availability–”

“No,” Will said.

Goosens raised his eyebrows.

Will turned and leaned the back of his hips against the counter. He looked away from the sheriff and raised his cup to his mouth. “I’m not interested,” he said, before taking a drink.

“I know this is a bit of an imposition,” Goosens said.

“Not at all,” Will said, still not looking at him. “You’ve got a problem here, I can see that, and you’re just trying to solve it.”

“If it’s a matter of time,” Goosens said, “I don’t know that you’d even be putting in more than ten hours a month. Certainly this could just be a temporary thing, a few months, maybe a year. Just enough to give the Board some time to settle down to the matter and work out a better solution. I don’t want to be presumptuous and say that I’m sure money’s not a consideration, but there is a stipend–”

“No,” Will cut him off again. He turned his head and looked at the sheriff. “I don’t want to do it. I’m not a prick, Sheriff, and I don’t want to come off as one, but I did it for fifteen years, and now I don’t have to.” He shook his head. “So, I’m not going to. I’m willing to help you in any other way, but I think I’ve already offered you the best solution to your problem– call Ramsey, or any other county in the state with a big enough operation to cover what you need here.” He shrugged. “If the county budget is the problem, then it’s the County Board’s problem, not yours.”

“Well,” Goosens began, “if it were only that simple…” but he stopped. He put a smile on his face instead and rose from the table. “No harm in asking, right?”

“Nope,” Will said.

Goosens gave Will a nod. “Well, I admit I’m disappointed with your answer, but it was still a pleasure to meet you, Mister Holliday. Long overdue, and I apologize for that. Welcome to Limburg.” He smiled again. “You make one hell of a first impression.”

Will couldn’t help but smile back. “Come back any time, Sheriff,” he said. “Just call ahead, so I can be dressed for the occasion.” The Sheriff’s rose and went to the door, but before leaving, turned and said. “There is a golf course in this county, by the way. The municipal course in Maastricht.”

“It’s a pasture with nine holes in it,” Will answered. The Sheriff shrugged and stepped out.

Will remained at the counter for several minutes after Goosens left. The sheriff’s offer kept crowding into his head while he tried to drink his coffee and it took more effort than he even wanted to admit to himself to drive it back out. Several times he set his cup on the counter and started to step out of his shorts, but they’d never get as far as his knees before they were back up around his waist. and the cup was in his hand again.

“Jerk-off,” he muttered, trying to build some resentment against the man, “wrecked my golfing.” A minute later he was telling himself what an awful mess the sheriff must be in. He’d seen enough situations like that before and could appreciate what headaches they were.

Will had gotten through the second pot of coffee and was at work at making a third before he dropped the cup into the sink and unplugged the coffee maker. He switched to beer. Taking a couple cans from the fridge, he went into the living room. He opened one and took several swallows before flopping back onto the air mattress. Between sips of beer he stared up through the skeleton, the crisscrossing wooden bones of rafters, joists and studs, of his house: His house. His time. It became his mantra through two hours and several beers. By the time he made his way up the steps to feed yards of new wiring into his gutted attic he was pleasantly buzzed, but still clear-headed enough to be fully relieved of the burden of the sheriff’s visit. He doubted he’d ever have to convince himself again that he’d seen enough dead babies in his lifetime, and that seeing any more would be of no service to himself, or anyone else.

 

+   +   +

To be honest, I put this out just because I’m stuck at the beginning of this chapter. I’m getting tired of ripping what little hair I have left out. Not a word above has been touched since I first wrote it, but it will appear once more– a lot shorter and quite different than what you’ve just read. I give it about ten days to two weeks. The CURRENT first part ought be done torturing me in about three or four days.

 

Just stopping in to offer a brief update on “where things are at.” New installments are upcoming. I’d like to say “shortly”, but that would make me a big, fat, liarhead. Could be a couple days, could be a week or so. Shifting a plotline is a “thing” for me. I obsess about the transition and, for some reason, can’t just let it spill for a later cleanup. Not how my brain works. What comes up will be clunky, but it will contain all of the “points” I need for the day the “cleanup” is necessary. While what comes next might not be there when a first edit– gutting and hosing out– is done, all of the reference points (I believe) that are necessary to move the story along and to make sense will be there, either flagrantly in text, or subtly in context.

Also, my brain was getting full. In my modus operandi, this means all that’s come before– down on paper, so to speak– is standing in the way of what should be the next step. It means I was getting tired, and going back over all accomplished so far seems easier that “just getting on with it.” It’s a peccadillo.

All above are just referring to the “process.” It’s an individual thing. Anybody else might– probably– works on such a project in a different manner. Whatever works is the only thing you need to tell yourself. Shifting the focus of this blog is just one aspect of it. Sticking what you worked on for a day, a week, a month and throwing it out there works for me. Keeps me focused, motivated and all that crap.

Anyway. The gears are meshing again. The next bits are getting put together and will be up…. whenever….

Putting and end to said “hingepin” chapter. What comes next is going to shift things in a HUGE way.

+   +   +

Will walked back along the county road. His trip down the driveway was through a cloud of dust, raised by a vehicle that had pulled in ahead of him. The highlight of his morning was supposed to be meeting with Ken Maartens, who he assumed had been in the truck that had pulled in ahead of him,  but his this latest discovery had put a damper on it. He was so preoccupied he wasn’t aware of another truck coming down his driveway. When he heard the tap of a horn behind him, the battered truck was almost on his heels. Will stepped aside with a start. The beat-up Chevy rattled by, towing a trailer loaded with a brush cutter, rakes, pitchforks and a commercial lawn mower. The box was occupied by a foursome of Native American kids. They waved at him as the vehicle and trailer rocked and swayed down the drive, and kept waving until it turned to the left, heading in the direction of the orchard.

Will stopped walking. He stood at the edge of his drive, in his nicely clipped weeds, and gaped at the spot where the truck had turned off the driveway. What is fucking next? When he picked up his feet again, he walked with the conviction that, should a condor swoop down, grab him and then drop him in the Wahpekute, he’d have no cause for surprise.

When Will reached the end of the driveway, there was a newer model truck parked beside his own. The trailer with “Maartens” on the sides stood open, and the ramp had been dropped. There were noises coming from inside. He approached it, and met a man coming down the ramp with a roll of paper like that that covered the entrance of the kitchen over his shoulder. For a moment, it appeared to Will his approach had been unnoticed, but when the man came within two feet of him, he abruptly put the roll down and looked him in the eye. “You’re Will Holliday?”

Will’s answer was a mute nod.

The man thrust a hand toward him. “Ken Maartens. Delighted to meet you.”

The guy standing in front of him bore no resemblance to the Ken Maartens Will had come to envision through their phone conversations. He’d imagined a stern, graying hulk of a man. Instead of a six foot five inch slab of taut muscle and callouses testing the limits of a triple XL T-shirt, he was face-to-face with a button down grey shirt and corduroy pants. Ken Maartens eyes may have been steely blue, but there were hidden behind round, wire rimmed spectacles. He wore penny loafers.

“Will,” he answered, taking the hand. He’d gotten one thing right. Maartens palm felt like alligator hide.

“I’m compelled to tell you, Mister Holliday, that this project is exciting.” He broke off the handshake and gestured toward the house. “This is a masterpiece, and a freak.” Maartens faced him, or at least turned to. Will was a full head taller than the contractor. “Had I known about this place, I’d have been tempted to buy it myself.”

“Well,” Will replied, looking at the hulking pile of bricks, “don’t count yourself out, yet.”

“Could you explain why the walls are so thick?”

It was a story he’d heard more than once. Will looked down. The man’s eyes were wide and almost dancing. “My greatgrandmother,” Will told him. “She was terrified of tornadoes, I heard, and claustrophobic. She didn’t want to go in the cellar every time the weather looked bad.”

“But, the expense…”

Will shrugged. “She had a bricklayer for a brother-in-law. The story was he always over-ordered for a job and diverted the surplus here. I heard it took them over a year to build it.”

Maartens shook his tiny head. “No way that’s coming down in a tornado. That’s five ranks think. It must have been one hell of a puzzle putting together.”

Will shrugged. “My great-granduncle built most of Venlo and more than half of Maastricht. I s’pose he had plenty of practice.”

Maartens was nodding. “It’s a good thing, Mister Holliday, putting this house right. It deserves it.”

Will would have been more agreeable the night before; before leaving the casino, before he’d come across that guy in the ditch, and now, more than he’d realized, before he discovered several thousand corn sprouts. A full belly might have even allowed him to share Maartens’ enthusiasm. “It’s the least I could do before deciding what to do with it, ultimately.” Open a door, close a door… “I ought to be the one thanking you, anyway. Bertie certainly picked the right man for the job.”

“Bertie knows everyone and everything,” Maartens said. He already had the roll of paper on his shoulders and was moving towared the kitchen door. “It’s no secret if you’re looking for restoration rather than just fix-up, I’m the guy to call.”

Will followed him. He wondered why Blom hadn’t just come out an named this guy right off the bat. Too many puzzles it this part of the world. “So, Mr. Maartens, what would be next?”

Maartens set the roll down in the doorway and faced him. “Are you telling me to keep going?”

“Infrastructure-wise, yes.”

Maartens offered a slight smirk. “Infrastructure,” he repeated. The smirk dropped and he was all contractor. “That’d be the roof, Mister Holliday. Goin’ about this the right way, that should’ve been the first move.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got special considerations,” Will said, which brought back the smirk. “I’m going to assume you’ve already taken a look at it, inside and out?”

“I did.” Maartens said, then asked, “Did you ever get up in the attic?”

Will shook his head. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” the contractor said with a shake of his head. “The guy I sent up there for the first ‘look-see’ wasn’t real happy.”
“There was a problem?”

The contractor nodded. “Yeah, bats.”

“Bats?”

Another nod. “Yep, full of them. Hundreds, maybe a thousand.”

“Wow.”

“Couldn’t shoo ‘em out, and he tried everything, swiping at ‘em with a broom, smoke, even tried blasting the radio. Nothing worked. All they did was flap around and drive him back down the steps. The ones he did get out were back a minute or two later. Stubborn little shits.”

Will looked up. “He got them out, though, right? I’m mean, eventually?”

The contractor’s expression turned unreadable. “Yeah, he sure did. That didn’t make him real goddamn happy, either, but he figured it out. Sucked them out with the biggest shop-vac we had.” He responded to Will’s gasp with a wry smile, “Yeah. Like I said, he wasn’t real happy about the job. First time he dumped the canister, he tried going right out the window with it over the dumpster. Wouldn’t you know? A good number of the little bastards flew right back in– the ones that lived anyway.” Maartens shook his head. “I gave him a couple days off after he was done and the poly went up. He probably spent it in a nuthouse.”

“What did he do with the guano?”

Maartens raised his eyebrows. “Pardon?”

“The guano,” Will repeated. “The bat poop.”

“I know what guano is,” the contractor responded. “He got rid of all that, too.”

“He didn’t throw it out, did he?”

“I imagine so. That’s stuff’s haz-mat. What else was he going to do with it?”

“It’s the best fertilizer in the world,” Will explained. “It’s worth up to twenty dollars a pound.”

Maartens’ expression made it clear as to what, or who, he considered batshit. “Well, you didn’t leave any instructions about salvaging excrement of any kind. And, again, bio-hazard.”

“Still…”

“Maybe I should have offered it to him as a bonus?”

Will dropped it. He turned and jabbed a thumb at the kitchen windo. “So far, it’s fantastic. What needs to be done with the roof?”

“’Bout what you’d expect. Total tear-off and re-deck. All things considered, it held up well. There’s some water damage, of course, most of it around the flashings and windows. The chimneys don’t appear to need a total re-build, but an overall tuckpointing is an absolute necessity. Might have to redo or replace some of the rafter joists, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you the extent of that until we get into it.” Maartens pointed to the roof, the north and south gables and the chimneys. “Those lightning rods,” he said, Will noticing a familiar tone creeping into his speech, “are oxidized all the way to useless. They aren’t doing much good the way they’re laying now, anyway.”

Will backed awad until he could get a good look. The one at the chimney was tipped a full ninety degrees, the one at the north gable was lying on his side on the roof. There wasn’t one visible at the south gable, but Will thought he remembered it dangling at the eaves during his first inspection. “What about them?”

“You need lightning rods, that’s ‘what about them.’ Law of averages has me believing this place should’ve been burned down and beyond rescue years ago. And you should have four or six more than were already there.”

“Okay. . .”

Maartens looked at him, deadly earnest. “They should go up yesterday.”

Will repeated, “Okay.”

“I’ll get something up the end of this week. It won’t be permanent, but it’ll keep God from taking away what you’ve put in already. We can work around them until the roof is as it should be, then we’ll install a permanent solution.”

Will looked back to the roof. He couldn’t wait until it got to the point when Maartens would be making his suggestions regarding what would be “historically appropriate.” His thoughts were interrupted by Maartens.

“Back to the attic,” he said. “There was a lot of stuff up there we weren’t sure what to to do with, but it didn’t look like trash.”

“Like what?”

“Boxes, trunks, some furniture…” He gave what had become a familiar shrug. “The kind o’ stuff I’d guess you’d expect to find in an attic, I s’pose. The boxes were all sealed with tape and the trunks were closed. We didn’t look in any of ‘em, of course—might even be locked. We had to move them around to clean up the place, but then we stacked ‘em up and left ‘em be.”

Will looked up again, this time at the plastic covered gable window. Some of his renewed eagerness ebbed away. Boxes, trunks… He knew what was laying in one of them. He returned his attention to the contractor. “How much do I owe you?”

Maartens said, “It’s all with Blom. I don’t have a final figure for you, not at this point, anyway. He’s got ‘weeklies’ up until this last Monday, mostly for material. I was holding off on labor until I talked to you face-to-face.”

“You bought through him?”

“Whatever I could, and a lot of it. The things he couldn’t supply are listed as well, but separate.”

Will nodded. “I’m just heading up to talk to him. I’ll come back with a check for everything up to Monday, and I’ll cover the labor if you can get if figured out by the time I get back.” Will turned and gestured to the group in the field. They were making quite a racket with their brush cutters and mower. “Are they included in the labor?”

“Them? The ‘clean-up crew?’ Couldn’t tell you about them. The only thing they did for me was get the demolition out of the top floor and sweep out the rest of the house. They kicked butt, though, I tell you. Got all the scrap out and swept it clean in a day and a half. Didn’t have the heart to send them up to the attic but, I confess, the thought crossed my mind. That’s a separate cost entirely.”

“What about the outside stuff?”

Maartens shrugged. “Went right at it as soon as they were done with me. They’ve been out here a couple times a week, since. You might want to have a word before they start planting flowers. Blom offered them, like I said, but I told him the only thing I could use ‘em for was clearing out the house. Whatever they’ve done since, you’ll need to bring it up with him.”

Will looked back and him and said, “No. It’s fine. It’s great, as a matter of fact. I just hadn’t…”

Maartens interrupted. “Blom sent them. But, now that I recall, he made a mention about Ouillette.”

“Ouillette?”

“Loren. The Indian.”

Will nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Loren. I remember,” which he didn’t. “Cool.”

He fully faced the contractor and extended his hand. “You’ve done me a huge service, Ken. I’d like you to keep doing so. I’m back in town, so to speak, so we’ll take out the middle man. We can make it official after I get back from Blom’s.”

Will didn’t fail to notice some trepidation in the man’s handshake. He caught Maartens glancing at the kids hacking away in the brush. “No worries, Ken,” he said. “I’d forgotten all about them clearing the weeds. Got so much going on in my head there isn’t room for half of it.” He released his grip. “Water,” he said. “toilet, sink. That’s all I care about right now. The rest of it’s gravy, as far as I’m concerned.” Maartens nodded. “Start thinkin’ roof,” Will added. “Be back in a couple of hours.”

As he went to his truck, Will caught himself looking up to the attic. Boxes, trunks… Of course, he’d need to look inside them. As if he didn’t have enough shit chewing at him as it is. Breakfast, the bank, then Blom’s. He had a few more questions for the old man than he’d started the day with. That ought to provide enough diversion to keep him out of the attic for at least one day.

After all that, I’d like to add “Lunacy and Death”, the ol’ ebook, has showed twitches on Amazon. Take a look, if you haven’t already: https://www.amazon.com/Lunacy-Death-perspective-developed-investigation-ebook/dp/B079DWFH9T/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1531434825&sr=8-1&keywords=lunacy+and+death+book

 

This post is  a short bridge. This, is sort of a “hinge-pin”, transitional chapter– leading into a “lynchpin” chapter. After this point the entire story shifts, breaking into a “meatier” plotline. In the next chapter, our boy finds a different sort of challenge that’s more “esoteric” than fixing up  an old house. This conflict is going to bring the causes and complexities  of his childhood into the open (to your benefit, dear reader, it all become very clear)  and the ways he’s been able to, cope, adjust and plain  bury them up to this point in his life aren’t going to serve him any longer. Sooooo… the last post, this one, and the one or two to follow are really just setting things up– and setting Willie-boy up, too– for a much different ride than the one he’s been on already… Actually, it’s going to be crazier, more stressful and– for our hero– a lot more miserable (and maybe even gratifying, as it may turn out) than he would have ever imagined. I’ll babble a bit more on this at the bottom.

+   +   +

The growing light afforded him the opportunity to inspect the property for anything he’d missed in the dark. Coming around the back of the house, he noticed the greenery had been rutted and torn by heavy machinery. There were two capped pipes sticking out of the ground. The well, he understood, and a great deal different from the old pumphouse, which had gone the way of the outhouse. There was also a hill of bare earth about sixty feet from the back, northwest corner. Septic mound, he thought, wondering how much longer it would be before he could put it to work. Fifty yards away from the kitchen door, well on the other side of the driveway, was a tremendous heap of cut brush and saplings, intermingled with the scrapped lumber from the outhouse and, what had been hidden in the weeds, the old pumphouse. It was over ten feet high, and at least three times that in diameter. There was a fifteen foot, closed trailer parked beside the dumpster. Maartens was painted on the sides There was also a commercial generator, mounted on a towing frame and an axle, positioned between the trailer and the dumpster. Will went inside, led by the single cable running from the generator in through the kitchen door. The cable ended at the stoop at the base of the stairway, hooked into a four-rowed strip plug

There was enough light that he could look around without the limited view of the flashlight beam. The floor in the kitchen looked even better. Though it surely was cured enough by now to walk on, he remained on the heavy sheet of paper that had been put down in the entryway and the stoop. He tried to visualize what it would look like with cabinets, sink and counters in place. All that came to mind was smaller. His inspection the night before had started and stopped with the kitchen. He felt foolish so much had escaped him. Even the dark of night couldn’t have hidden half of what he’d missed. He convinced himself the traffic incident had nothing to do with it, assigning his inattentiveness to the anxiety that triggered his hasty, unplanned departure from the casino. He went up the steps, following two electric cords that ended in a pair of large fans.

The light upstairs was filtered through the thick polyethylene sealing the windows. Without the mounds of scrap, the second floor had become and echo chamber. All around was naked framing and bare brick. The atmosphere was stale, the plastic had eliminated any air exchange, and it felt heavy, almost humid. It took a few moments before Will realized it had been power-washed, the entire second floor. The dust, that had coated and clung to every surface—even the first floor—was gone. The trim he’d removed, labeled and stacked, had been rearranged and re-numbered.

Dense as it was, the air was essentially clear. The view, however, was not. The heavy plastic sheets over the windows was like solid fog. Everything on the other side of it was hazy and blurred. He walked through the “front bedrooms” to the east side of the house. Through the thick poly, it was still possible to discern the windbreak. He could tell the trees were almost fully leafed. The fuzzy green was highlighted by the dark earth of the field beyond. And that mystery is now back in my head. He moved to the rear, not using the hallway but stepping through the studs. The bathroom was between the northwest bedroom— his bedroom– and his mother’s room, where this whole process had begun. The stool and the sink had been removed, and the same shining copper poked through the floors as downstairs. The bathtub remained. It was a clawfoot, over six feet long and half as wide and almost as big as the “pig scalder” that took up one end of the slaughtering shed. That wasn’t going anywhere, Will had promised himself. It showed the wear of almost a century, but that took nothing away from its glory. It’ll be refinished, he told himself. If I let things get that far. It was in use now. From another hole in the floor, yards and yards of new wiring had been pulled from below into the bathroom. It lay in a coil that almost filled it. Will had seen enough. While the transformation, even in this early stage, had been astounding, it was certainly still in infancy. It was going to go well into winter, no matter how many people he put to work on it. The thought of it was suddenly exhausting.

Plodding back down the steps, Will was suddenly aware of another amenity he’d gotten too comfortable with at the Casino, Resort, Spa and Entertainment Experience. He was hungry.

+   +   +

Short, sweet, bloated and fat… as it stands right now. The rest of the chapter may come out as such, but there’s nothing I can do but throw it down. When the time comes, it’ll be edited, trimmed, economized or… chopped to pieces, torn apart or maybe thrown out altogether.

And now….. ALL ABOUT MEEEEEEEE!

At this point, I’d like to thank those who’ve followed it this far. It’s a bigger help than I can even come close to explaining. I hope there’s some entertainment value in having a peek at a project from its inception to– hopefully– completion to a finished, polished and sleek conclusion. Hope-ful-ly.

Putting this up, bit by bit, had unexpected and positive benefits. It compels one to maintain discipline, produce everyday. If there’s a negative it’s that you pay a little bit too much time editing, even when  it’s just spilling out of your brain. Tends to make one lose the thread sometimes.

Soo… those of you who’ve stuck with it through the origins and the blogging: Wow! and thanks. (Audience has shrunk some.) There have been a few folks who picked up on this after “phase one” of this site, and to you I say: Wow! and thanks. (And if you feel you’ve missed out, there’s always this): https://www.amazon.com/Lunacy-Death-perspective-developed-investigation-ebook/dp/B079DWFH9T/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1530897496&sr=8-1&keywords=lunacy+and+death+book

Back in a couple…