lunacy and death

First things first: Welcome back Ireland! And hello again UK!

That oughta sum it up. Don’t get spoiled. Might be more than a couple days before I can wrap this chapter up.

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Will dropped his pace to a walk. He watched the circles going lower and lower, struggling to imagine what could it be that would provide a decent breakfast for a half dozen vultures? He stopped entirely, trying to get a fix on the spot they were covering.

Will assessed his current surroundings. He judged the birds to be less than a quarter mile away from him on a line breaking off the road at roughly forty-five degrees. A direct route cut across several acres of untilled corn stubble. He could see the tops of power poles beyond. Looking for errant drives off the tee had taught him a few things. He focused on a tower that would lead him on a path that would bring him across the spot he calculated the vultures had targeted. He left the road, crossed the ditch and began traversing the field, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the power pole he’d selected.

At first Will tried to resume running, but the footing proved uneven and unpredictable. In places it was solid and flat, others soft, almost boggy. Whenever Will planted a foot his ankle threatened to roll. Already ruining his shoes, he decided there was no sense in destroying his ankles as well. Things didn’t improve at the opposite boundary of the field. He found himself staring down through a snarl of brush into the pestilent waters of the Wahpekute River. He’d failed to take the likelihood of crossing the dismal creek into consideration. He paused, resetting his position. He looked up. The vultures appeared to have broken off their descent. All five birds were circling on the same plane, hovering in a tight circle less than sixty feet above the ground. Will was close enough to them now that he could make out the hooked, yellow beaks jutting out in sharp contrast to their red, naked heads. He returned to contemplating his current predicament.

Will stood no more than fifteen feet from the water, but the barrier keeping him from it could not have been more diabolical. It was a dense nest of buckthorn and raspberry canes that would give a rabbit second thoughts. Shorts and a tank shirt didn’t make for trailblazing attire. He took another glance at the vultures. He’d endured his share of physical discomfort in his life; standing on a freeway in subzero weather, trying to stay attentive while the fire department dismantled a mangled vehicle so he could remove the likewise mangled occupant; coping with the lashing rain of a thunderstorm while taking pictures of the splattered remains of a bridge jumper; and more than once he’d crossed less than hospitable terrain to assess a body who may have been dumped by a killer, or a hapless drunk who’d wandered off and died from exposure. A few of those had been discovered by air as well, though by helicopters or police planes instead of scavengers. Right now, God only knew what had attracted those airborne hyenas, but Will just couldn’t leave it at that. He’d encountered too many dump jobs in less convenient places as this. He took a final moment to set himself, then entered the briar patch.

It was worse than he could have expected. Will was to discover that while buckthorn barbs had the potential to do more damage, the raspberry brush was the true enemy. Though more of an upper body hazard, head and shoulders in particular, the buckthorn was easier to avoid. On the other hand, raspberry brush thrived with the canes growing in tight clusters, and could gouge and tear you at any level from the ground up. It grew out in every conceivable direction, and parallel to the ground at every level, trailing spiral tendrils, even giant, spiny hoops. Not only a relentless threat to one’s periphery, it also had an almost magical ability to work its way between thighs and under arms. Concentrating on protecting any one body part only left another more vulnerable. By the time he was ready to admit defeat and withdraw, Will discovered he was two thirds of the way through. No way he was going back. The brutal struggle wasn’t even over when he reached the edge of the river. The nest of thorns extended out over the banks.

His assessment of the barbed veil dangling over the turbid water was no more than a glance, and he spent no time or consideration devising a plan to get through it. He just wrapped his head with his arms and jumped. After an instant of what felt like a slide down a cheese grater, he enjoyed an instant of cool, clear air before splashing into the river. He landed in a crouch and he held it, waddling a few feet forward until he was certain of being clear of any overhanging brush. The water was scarcely knee deep. The muck enveloping his feet was probably of indeterminate depth, and he thought if he stood there much longer he might well sink until his head was underwater. He started slogging his way to the other side. The distance wasn’t more than twenty feet, but it took him a while to get there. He lurched with every step, the ooze of the creek bed threatened to keep his shoes, and he had to swing his arms wide and work his shoulders as hard as his legs to maintain any momentum. It was with no small degree of relief for him to notice that the opposite shore didn’t appear to be protected by a barrier of flesh ripping flora.

Will was gasping as he took his last flailing steps out of the water. At no point in the traverse did the river get above his waist, but when he was fully on dry land he was sporting a glossy pair of gray-green jackboots that appeared to be melting around his ankles. Will tried to remove them by pounding his feet and kicking his toes into the ground, but the silty goo wouldn’t let go. He gave up and took a few minutes to collect himself and regain his bearings. He was leaking blood from a lattice work of scratches. From his waist up, pinkish welts were rising at the edges of the crisscrossing rents in his skin. A burning itch was developing along with them, adding a fresh dimension of misery to the wounds. The part of him that had been underwater didn’t show the same, as equally shredded as it was, but he had faith it’d catch up once they dried. He had no doubt every carcinogen ever spawned for the sake of agricultural progress was seeping into his bloodstream, and God only knew what septic threat dwelled in the fabric of his brand new sludge stockings. Not the worry of the moment.

Looking around, it appeared he’d not only forded the toxic Wahpekute, but had crossed into a different ecosystem. The bank on this side was higher and eroded to a sharp slope of bare earth, gouged by the flow from the times the river was in flood. The land above the bank was not a tangle of cruel thorns. From where he stood it almost looked as if it had been manicured. He scrambled up the slope. He was again confronted by spines, but this time they were man-made, three rows of barbed wire. It was not a typical sight in this region. The landscape beyond it wasn’t typical, either. He wasn’t looking out over acres of land disciplined by generations under the plow. It was just grass. And there were trees, not aligned in a row with the set purpose slowing down the wind, but just standing singly and apart, cottonwoods and red oaks, allowed to grow from wherever a seed or acorn had taken hold. Not very Limburg County, not very southwest Minnesota at all. Will looked up. The sky wasn’t any different. But the vultures were nowhere in sight. Either they’d landed, or his earthbound thrashing had been detected and they scattered. He caught sight of his power pole. Picking through the fence, mindful of adding the threat of tetanus to whatever malady he may have invited in the last five minutes, he renewed his determination to discover what had attracted the scavengers. He’d just cleared the wire when his senses were alerted and his suspicions confirmed.

There were smells that were vaguely familiar, that carried a faint promise of rekindling a memory, and others that were indelible, unmistakable and impossible to forget. Will could conjure the odor of decomposition in his mind while standing in a flower shop. Carried on a gasp of breeze no stronger than a child’s sigh, what struck his olfactory sense was no trick of memory. Rotting meat, and not far from where he stood. There was no longer a need for a landmark to guide him. His nose was all he needed from now on. He moved in a loose serpentine, adjusting his progress whenever the stink was refreshed by a new puff of wind. Soon he came upon a track, two bare strips of earth divided by a strip of matted grass. Instinct goaded him to follow it and no more than a minute later he found what he was after.

Will had been right, suspicions confirmed, for what lay before him was, as he would have described in a report, an apparent gunshot wound victim. A closer look revealed a ligature as well, though there was little question that it had nothing to do with cause of death. What he’d found was not a corpse, but a carcass.

The degree of decomposition was about right with the stink, which Will had put at about four days at the first whiff. The buzzards may have left, but the flies were going about their business as if Will wasn’t there. Will had shredded his skin and exposed himself to the potential hazards of the Wahpekute in the pursuit of a dead calf. It looked to be about full term, but one of its forelegs was withered and barely the size of Will’s forearm. The bullet wound was a neat hole between the shriveled eyes sunken into the broad skull. The ligature was a worn stretch of nylon rope, almost certain to have been placed post mortem. That wasn’t hard to deduce. The dead cow lay between a pair of tractor tire tracks. The loose end of the rope was neatly cut. He didn’t doubt for a second that this poor creature had been left here for the vultures intentionally.

Will also had no doubt—at least at this moment—that he was the dumbest man on Earth. He didn’t take any time to ponder the point any further. It was clear the property owner had a firearm handy, and he didn’t believe this was the best circumstance to find out whether he was a jovial sort.

Will was angry at himself, but his self disdain was nothing compared to the fury he felt for the person who’d opened the portal in his head to invite such foolishness. He set off back toward the river deciding to skirt the bank until he came to a crossing point that wouldn’t cut him to pieces. With every step he took back in the direction of the house, he cursed that stupid sheriff.

Will dropped his dirty dish in the sink, ran a shot of water onto the plate and set his fork on top of it, sitting in the shallow puddle of egg yolk and water. He rinsed out the skillet with warm water and scrubbed it with a steel scouring pad. No soap! He remembered Nan’s admonition. “It leaches into the cast iron,” she explained. “Do you want to taste eggs or soap?”

She’d also have scolded him for not seasoning the pan before he’d cooked on it. She’d never accept that a merchant’s claim of “pre-seasoned” had any merit.

It was the first meal Will had cooked for himself in over two months. It had been made possible by an evening dash up to Maastricht and as a means of avoiding finishing off the six pack, which was been the only thing he’d had in the fridge. He had no plates, silverware or any utensils, either. He could have gotten all he’d bought in Venlo, but he’d been in no mood to go there. The Sheriff’s visit had left him sullen, and the beer and cannabis had done nothing to relieve it. It wasn’t his offer that bothered him—any man is his position would have made the same– it was that it proved he was “out there.”

Will sighed and pulled on an old tank top. Blom’s advice to “ignore it” now made sense. If Will need a head clearing, there was nothing like a run.

Will walked out to the driveway swinging his arms and sucking huge breaths in through his nostrils. After a few half-hearted stretches he headed up the driveway at a brisk walk. West, today. It was still quite cool, the sun had just cracked the horizon so the dew was still heavy on the roadside vegetation. Arn Mikkelson’s illicit crop was now a few inches high. The seedling rows seemed to glow silver against the dark soil. As much as the emerging plants rankled him he had to admit it was beautiful. As he approached his neighbors drive he forced a couple of coughs, turned his head and launched a gob into the gravel as he crossed it. My DNA is trespassing.

Will always hated the first two miles. He felt sluggish, clogged. His legs didn’t want to move and the air felt like it was coming through a cocktail straw. He’d had this problem since he’d first taken up running, and years later he still felt the same, that he was ready to quit this waste of time and was going to, as soon as this run was over. But, as always, at the two mile mark everything loosened up. His legs suddenly needed no urging, his lungs didn’t battle for air. It felt as if his joints were equipped with ball bearing and the air filled his lungs even through his ears. He’d just fallen into his stride when he saw them; vultures.

Dawn had just given way to full daylight and the sun was throwing heat on his back when a random glance at the horizon brought them to his attention. At first notice it didn’t trigger anything in his head. Seeing a buzzard in flight was no cause for interest in this part of the world. There was always one in view wherever you were, floating in lazy circles in search of a roadkill snack. It was that impression that inspired another look. What he’d seen was not a solitary scavenger hoping to spy a mashed cat, but a trio. He paid them more attention. They weren’t just drifting in random circles, either, but spiraling in unison, clearly fixed on something beneath them. Will kept his eyes on the birds, ignoring the risk of a stumble in a divot or out of place rock on the shoulder. After a moment or two he realized they were dropping, that each circle they made was in a cautious yet calculated descent. He’d never seen that before, and he running straight at them. His mind began to work. Will was no ornithologist, but he knew enough about vulturess to understand that three of them together wouldn’t behave that way if all that was beneath them was an unlucky rabbit. Whatever they were approaching was substantial, enough to feed all three of them at least. They grew larger in the air and lower to the ground with every yard he moved closer. After another two minutes and a quarter mile he could watch them with his head level. By now he could tell that whatever they were closing on was off the road. Will figured that ruled out a deer or a big dog. When two more birds worked into the pattern his brain kicked into a higher gear.

Back Again, and so soon! Bit of a cheat, here, mind you, but still… Those who follow regularly will recognize the following, but should also see the differences. As I previously stated, this part was written looooong before I had a clear picture of what this novel was going to be like. At the time written, I viewed Will as more angry than bewildered, more self-absorbed than self-conscious. In the parlance, he started out in my head as a more unsympathetic character. As I started writing with a clearer picture and a better sense of the plot and its development, he became more sympathetic in my eyes. (Is he a sympathetic character? I, as yet, have no real clue, as nobody up to this point has made any f*%@in’ mention of him being at all relatable…) I hope this change is evident in this edit/rewrite.

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By the time Will heard the car there was no chance of getting back to the house, or hiding, or any chance of escape whatsoever. He’d been so focused on the seemingly endless flight of the last ball he’d hit it bordered on hypnosis. The low growl and rumble of tires over gravel snapped him out of it, but by then it was too late to move. The impulse for flight hit him for an instant, but the car was already even with him and he didn’t want to be seen running naked. He couldn’t imagine anything that could better imply some sort of twisted guilt. That it was a squad car added to his task of attempting to appear nonchalant. It was a good thing cops didn’t make him nervous.

The hope that the patrol car might move to the end of the driveway, thus giving Will a chance to disappear someplace into the windbreak, died when it stopped almost directly across from him. Will could see the driver’s silhouette well enough to determine the he was looking straight at him. Will immediately centered himself, nonchalantly raised his three iron and rested it on his shoulder, and looked straight back. He hoped his pounding heart wasn’t visible through his ribcage.

This car was somehow different than the other department vehicles Will had seen. It had the khaki and white panda pattern 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 things got too absurd. Maybe the guy had made a wrong turn and was just plain stunned at encountering a naked man. Maybe he was only was hanging around long enough to see if someone else was hiding in the windbreak. Will turned, lowered the club, separated 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 a sharp click, boring through the air dead center of the gap in the wind break. It rose at a low angle over the rows of corn sprouts 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, joining a score of tiny white dots that freckled the field. 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. Maybe he was on to something here…

Will 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 magnificent 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 man 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, 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.  “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. “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 more tees.

Will caught the Sheriff glance at him and quickly avert 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, 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. He directed him to the table with a nod and poured some coffee into a Ramsey County mug, one of the pair he’d gotten as farewell gift at his sendoff party. The Sheriff looked around, nodding. He appraised the room, fixed a Will with a curious look and asked, “Ken Maartens?”

Will found the question from the County’s top law enforcement officer more distressing than being caught by him naked. Jesus Christ . . . He felt a sudden flash of empathy for his mother and those times she was trapped in throes of paranoia. For that moment, he knew it wouldn’t be surprised him if the man had video of him taking a shit in the windbreak.

Will’s composure returned somewhat as he filled a cup for himself. “Yeah,” he said, setting both cups on his insipid table, “Ken Maartens.” He motioned to the other chair as he seated himself.

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. “There’s no mistaking that man’s work,” he said. “Nobody like him within a hundred miles of here. I imagine it’s going to be quite a place, when it’s all done. How long have you been at it?”

“About two months.”   Will answered. He decided to push the man a bit. “I’ve got this feeling you already knew that.”

The Sheriff, taking a seat and reaching for the cup, looked up at Will. “Pardon?”

“You know how long I’ve been here.”

The Sheriff offered a slight shrug. “I suppose,” 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. “That’s not really very funny, Mister Holliday,” the sheriff said, and wiping the table with his palm.

Will left the table and come back with a roll of paper towels. “I suppose, it isn’t.” He wiped the table top, tossed the used wad into the sink and the rest of the roll back onto the counter. He topped off the sheriff’s half-spilled cup before sitting back down. “I can’t recall our making introductions, but you can call me Will.” 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, keeping his eyes in line with the Sheriff’s. The memory of a squashed young man in a wet ditch appeared in his memory. “A guy all of a sudden moves into an abandoned farmstead out in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere,” Will went on, “doesn’t mingle with the locals, other than to visit the bank or 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. “Very sure.”

“Hmm…” Will wished he had a doughnut to offer the man. “So either you’re an overly friendly agent of the law with a lot of time on his hands, or you’re also ‘very sure’ about something else.”

The Sheriff held the eye contact for a moment before taking another drink from his cup. Without looking up, he said, “I’m sure about several things, to be honest with you. I’ll admit I did some checking around– nothing too specific of course, but I’ll confess to being busy on your account. I hope you’re not offended.”

“Not at all,” Will said. “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 Blom’s that would raise the eyebrows of the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension or the D.E.A.” He paused while Will refilled 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. “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 a refill for himself. He poured the remains of the pot into his own cup and went to work on brewing another pot.

Goosens sat with pursed lips while Will refilled the coffee maker. “Fifteen years experience in death investigation is quite a thing to have…”

“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. “Elect one,” he said.

“We did,” Goosens said. “Doctor Baehnke up at the clinic in Maastricht. Two years ago. He’s done it on and off for over twenty years. But the man is old, has some health problems of his own, and he just up and retired.”

“It happens,” Will said, without sympathy.

Goosens nodded. “It does, and it did. That leaves us without a coroner. We’ve gotten by the last few months, sort of handling things by committee with another doctor 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 wants to have another election,” 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 topped 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, but he also added, “There might have been a time when the dogcatcher could hold the position, but those times are gone. The statutes have changed considerably over the last several years.”

“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.” Goosens set his 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 didn’t share the laugh, which Will figured it was because it wasn’t funny. “Mister Holliday– Will– I didn’t come out here looking for charity.” He shook his head. “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 allowed himself a bemused chuckle. “No, the reason I wanted to talk to you is, given your experience and apparent availability–”

“No,” Will said.

Goosens raised his eyebrows.

Will 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. “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 sat 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.

“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 was in. He’d seen situations like this before and could appreciate what headaches they were.

Will had gotten through the second pot of coffee and was contemplating making a third before he dropped the cup into the sink. He switched to beer. He took one from the fridge, opened it and took several swallows. The coldness of the beverage was received without celebration. If he’d never pulled over on his way back to the casino, he could have spent months here without ever laying eyes on Jan Goosens, much less having the man see him naked and sitting in his kitchen. He worked his way through the can trying to conjure some regret for having done so, but it wasn’t there. He acted on it because he hadn’t the option to do otherwise. He had another beer and didn’t spend half as much time getting through it. This time he spent his time between swallows trying to rekindle the delight he’d had walking into his splendid new kitchen. He drank until a buzz began creeping in, but there was no joy in it. His brand, spanking new kitchen was allowing itself to be seen as anything but ostentatious. Alcohol is not the answer, Willem.

He threw away his third empty can, then went into the campground to search for that bag of weed.

I’ll waste no time jabberin’.

+   +   +

That he could be so enamored of a toilet flush was something Will had never imagined in his life. He hit the lever again, captivated as the swirl filled the bowl. He watched until the water disappeared through the drain with a loud gurgle. He stepped into the kitchen, refreshed from the hottest shower he’d ever taken int his life. He marveled at the slickness beneath his feet, and the soft gleam of sunlight reflected up from the floor. It was astonishing, the transformation from the wreck he’d first laid eyes on that first day he viewed this kitchen in the light of day.

Maartens had proven himself a craftsman and designer beyond anything Will could have found on his own. He’d stolen a few feet from the pantry and included a shower in the downstairs bathroom, a simple, tiled floor to ceiling glass doored enclosure that took up the entire end of the room. The sink was a simple porcelain pedestal. The floor was a checkerboard of black and white. The was no closet. Towels, soap and cleaning supplies were stored on two shelves. Simple. The walls were four-foot, white wainscoting, the walls a pale blue.

The kitchen was wainscoting as well, the walls above it a muted gold hue. The cabinets were white with dark blue porcelain knobs and pulls. The countertops were granite— “Composite,” Maartens corrected him, “but there isn’t anybody who can walk in here and tell the difference.”—with a drain board incorporated in the material at one side of the sink, and a butcher block cutting board inserted at the other. The sink was ceramic enameled single bowl with a high backsplash. The fixtures sprouted from the center of the back, in chrome, a knob for hot and cold. There was a soapdish affixed above the fittings. Will had initially complained about the single dish.

“I’m stuck using a pan to rinse shit?”

Maartens answered him by swinging a well disguised panel open beneath the counter, revealing a dishwasher. “That,” he said, pointing to the sink, “for all practical purpose, is a glorified garbage disposal.”

Will made no further complaints.

Maartens had also taken it upon himself to select the appliances. He’d added a matching stove and refrigerator that appeared to have been designed by a nineteen thirties automobile manufacturer, all art deco soft lines with chome and small, subtle highlights matching the paint on the walls. The stove was a beast, with dual ovens and stovetop equipped with five burners and a grill/griddle. The refrigerator was also enormous. It had rounded edges and a doorhandle that ran from the top of the door to its base. He expected it would take a solid tug to pull it open, but it swung with little effort. He could have stored an entire calf in the lower unit and a hog in the freezer. Standing with Maartens, who’d summoned him after completing the final touches, he was dumbstruck. Fully modern, yet “period authentic”, it bore no resemblance to his grandmother’s kitchen, yet he could not imagine it as anyone else’s. He knew it would have brought tears to her eyes. It didn’t bother him a bit that he’d never once been consulted regarding any of the finishing work.

When able to speak, all Will could muster was, “My God.”

“Yeah,” Maartens answered. “It’ll do. Monday we get down to some practical work. Getting that roof the way it should be could take more than a week. There’ll be a few more dumpsters here that morning, so don’t be surprised if you wake up to one helluva racket. See you then.”

Will had been so thrilled he was out the door behind Maartens and went to Maastricht and bought a coffee maker, a small table and a pair of chairs.

The entire week had actually gone well, considering how it had started. Will had managed to get the old propane tank replaced, filled and hooked up in time to heat his water. Ouillette’s crew from Save Our Native Sons had completed their groundskeeping mission. Will caught them before leaving the property, and had sent them away with a hundred dollars to be spent on pizza, burgers, soft drinks or whatever else the boys wanted before being returned to “the facility.” Bourke had been a voice of dissent but, with some arm twisting by Will and an alluded threat of complaint to Loren Ouillette, he accepted the offer with a grudging nod. The boys—and Marchand—had been thrilled. He also promised them he’d do all he could to find them more “hours”. This, of course, meant Will was compelled to make a visit to Blom’s sooner than later. He’d also decided that it could wait until after the weekend.

Will crossed the kitchen floor to the sink, rejoiced at the flow of water escaping the faucet, and filled his coffee pot. He marveled at how smooth the floor felt beneath his feet, and delighted in the lingering smell of newness that enveloped him. He was still reliant on a generator for electricity, but Maartens had rigged up a battery and it didn’t have to be running to throw on a light switch or keep the fridge cold. The only electricity in the house was in the kitchen anyway. He’d called the power company, but they couldn’t give him a precise date for getting him hooked up.

As the coffee perked, Will went to his chair and table, a purchase that would not doubt had Maartens huffing with disgust. What he’d bought was at best an Ikea knock off. When he brought it in, he was almost disgusted himself. Function over form, for the time being, he decided. When he came up with something better, he’d add it to the pile of scrap lumber and brush on the other side of the driveway. He slipped on a pair of socks, then went to the stoop where his golfbag, a five gallon pail of balls and his shoes were standing.

Will had regained some good fitness habits while he was sequestered at the Resort, Spa, Casino and Entertainment Experience, and felt it would be a terrible disservice to himself if he abandoned them. He sat on the stoop and put his shoes on. Wearing nothing else, he shouldered the bag, lifted the bucket, and made his way toward the rear of the house.

All in all, a decent week. A better week than Will had experienced in months—considering how it started. His brain had managed to settle into a normal rhythm. He found a patch a few yards behind his new propane tank that was level and closely shorn. He pulled a handful of tees from the bag and dropped them at his feet. As he pulled on his glove, he viewed his target area, a wide patch of seedlings framed by a fifty-foot gap in the windbreak. Perfect. He tipped the bucket and a few dozen golf of various brands and condition spilled over the tees. He pulled the driver from the bag, picked up a tee and pushed it into the ground.

Blom’s advice to ignore his neighbor had probably been the soundest of offers. Will probably should have let it go for a couple of weeks. Trespassing… Had he given himself some time, he probably could have come up with some discrete, subtle plan that would have had a satisfactory result that all could easily have lived with. In retrospect, all he’d accomplished with his approach was scaring a young housewife with a couple of little kids by putting her in the middle of it. If this Mikkelson was such a stubborn ass, he couldn’t think of any better means of motivating the man to further dig in his heels and make this a bigger mess than it was. So be it. It wasn’t as if Will had been fulfilling a lifelong dream of farming. As he saw things at the moment, the likelihood of his remaining past the last coat of paint on the last room to be restored would be nil. Putting the house back together was as much as a pair of dead people could ask, and there were plenty of places far more interesting to be the local oddball. For the time being, he’d decided his plan of action would include being the best oddball in Limburg County he could be.

Will planted a tee, placed a ball. The morning sun felt glorious on his skin, all of it.

+   +   +

For the moment, it appears I’m at a point where the words aren’t putting up much of a fight. I’m gonna ride it ’til it sputters out again.

 

AND NOW A WORD FROM MY SPONSOR (S)

https://www.amazon.com/Lunacy-Death-perspective-developed-investigation-ebook/dp/B079DWFH9T/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1536881113&sr=1-1&keywords=lunacy+and+death+book

 

 

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

+   +   +

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marchand nodded. “Community service,” he barked.

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

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

“What can we do for you?”

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

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

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

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

All Bourke offered was a curt nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will.”

“Mister Will—”

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

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

“Oh, thank you, Mister Holliday—”

“Will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay… see what happens when you take the pressure off yourself? More, and much better below. Could be I’m back on track. Hooray.

+   +   +

 

It distracted him for a moment, before he could answer, “Hi, my name’s Will Holliday. I’ve just walked over from next door. He stretched an arm in the direction of the house. The banging, buzzing and hammering were clearly audible from were he stood. He had no doubt she heard it was well as he did. “Is you husband home?”

At Will’s gesture, the woman’s expression went from inquisitive, to neutral, to trepidatious. He didn’t fail to catch that “husband” added the deepest furrows to her forehead.

“I’m afraid he isn’t.”

“Do you expect him back anytime soon?”

His first answer was a lot of eye darting, as if she were looking for a place to focus where he wasn’t part of the view. “Nooo… he won’t be back until later.” She was looking somewhere in the direction of South Dakota. “Probably not until after dark.”

Better time to set up an ambush? “Would it be okay to leave message for him?” Will asked.

No hesitation here. “Probably not,” popped out as if she was waiting for a chance to say it.

Will had fifteen years of experience behind him of dealing with family members who were less than forthcoming, if not downright obtuse. There was only one method he found that had any effect at all, and that was just get right to the point. “Well, in that case,” he said, offering a smile she apparently had no interest in seeing, “I’ll just state the reason I’d like to talk to him, and leave it up to you to decide whether he wants to hear it from me or not.” He let it hang for a moment, offering the chance he always did for a person to just open up and take the bad news. Nothing. “I have a couple questions about the lot just east of you.” He added the same, offhand gesture toward the house he’d initially made.

She didn’t see it, but she did react. She turned away from the door and walked away, back to the rear of the house. Before Will even had a chance to enjoy his puzzlement, she returned. He had to step back as she pushed the screen door open. When she thrust an arm through the slight gap she’d allowed, he half expected a kitchen knife. It was a paper bag, about the size of a three pound nail sack. Will couldn’t do anything but stare at it. “Please,” she said, waggling it a little. “Take it. They’re for you.”

As soon as he’d relieved her of it, the storm d closed. He looked up and saw her staring at him through the screen. “I have to ask you to leave, now. Sorry. I don’t want to call the Sheriff on you for trespassing.” And the inner door was shut.

Will was bewildered. Through the open window he heard, “Who was that, mom?” answered by a “Watch your movie.” He hung there a minute more before stepping off the porch, and waited another moment on the sidewalk. Huh . . . He took another moment to collect his wits before he started back over the grass. He then noticed the bag was radiating heat. The smell hit him as he reached the windbreak. Huh . . .

Will made his way back across the field, trodding heavily over the dirt and top of whatever sprouts happened to be pushing up through the soil wherever his foot landed. Though he certainly had nothing empirical to go on, he had a better grasp of the point Bertie was trying to make. Trespassing… That had a rehearsed element to it, as if a prepared response. Nowhere in the real world would that fly, but… The cookies smelled fabulous.

+   +   +

Until…

 

 

Well… Friday= nothing. Yesterday, about two sentences… today: this. That’ll teach me to go the every day route. It’s never worked for me before, either.

+   +   +

There was a doorbell button on the outside frame, but Will pounded on the edge of the screen door. Childhood memory was his cause for not ringing. The doorbell was there as a warning. Only total strangers, solicitors and those Jehovah’s Witnesses from Breda used a doorbell in Limburg County. The doorbell was a warning of unwelcome interaction or outsiders. Friends and neighbors knocked.

The windows were open, and over the sound of a Disney movie, he heard scrambling and pounding feet. The main door behind the screen as if blown open by an explosion centered by Will. He found himself looking at a pair of kids, tow headed boy and girl, not older than four or five years old. Will tried to match the age of these kids to the guy he saw standing on the edge of the field that morning. Late bloomer… Before Will could muster an introduction, they turned their heads and, in unison, shrieked, “Mom! Someone at the front door!”

They turned to stare at Will. Will said, “Hi.”

The boy waived, the girl bolted. The amiable staredown lasted a few moments before the boy turned his head to loose another yell. He never let it go. Will heard more footsteps, heavier than children, a pace a beat faster than a walk, the stride of a mother interrupted. A silhouette appeared behind the child, then an arm appeared beside the boy. He was swept away with a “Go watch your movie with your sister, and an adult appeared, fully visible on the other side of the screen. “Can I help you?”

The age of the woman seemed more congruent with the age of the kids, mid-to-late twenties, early thirties. Will also saw what he been conditioned to imagine what every Limburger farmwife looked like. Thick and curvy, not fat, but solid. Dressed in a gingham blouse, with the buttons covered by a short apron that hung to the mid thighs of her hemmed, denim cutoffs, Her forearms looked powdered, the white dust ending in sharp lines at her wrists. He could also see where the kids got their hair color. A small gust of breeze traveled through the screen door after rolling through the rest of the house. Whatever was going on back there smelled pretty good.

It distracted him for a moment, before he could answer, “Hi, my name’s Will Holliday. I’ve just walked over from next door. He stretched an arm in the direction of the house. The banging, buzzing and hammering were clearly audible from were he stood. He had no doubt she heard it was well as he did. “Is you husband home?”

At Will’s gesture, the woman’s expression went from inquisitive, to neutral, to trepidatious. He didn’t fail to catch that “husband” added the deepest furrows to her forehead.

As midnight approaches, I post this, the shortest offering yet. What lies below is all I could salvage out of what must have been 1000 words. Pathetic. Ah, well, just part of that lovely “process” I’m so graciously working through for anyone who cares to see. Back tomorrow.

+   +   +

. He trod steady and straight, paying no mind for the footprints in the churned soil or the inch high sprouts flattened beneath his feet, toward the front porch that was on the other side of the next windbreak.

Will’s trek across the field had left a substantial amount of soil clumped on his shoes. This pleased him, as he thought it would make a fine point if he could leave a pile of dirt where he stood on the porch. He could then make a statement like, “If it’s the land next door you’re after, this is all you’re going to get—starting now.” His disappointment was genuine when he found the trip through the far windbreak and the distance crossed over the lawn to find that the grass and undergrowth and taken almost all of it away. Standing on the porch, he stomped several times, freeing a few meager clumps from the treads of shoes. It made for a poor representation of righteous outrage. It would have to do, though he’d lost all faith in its potential. He gave himself another moment to solidify his indignation.

There was a doorbell button on the outside frame, but Will pounded on the edge of the screendoor. Childhood memory was his cause for not ringing. The doorbell was there as a warning. Only total strangers, solicitors and those Jehovah’s Witnesses from Breda used a doorbell in Limburg County. The doorbell was a warning of unwelcome interaction or outsiders. Friends and neighbors knocked.

Oh, boy….

Here we are:

He had to pee.

From what had become his usual spot to accommodate bodily function, Will looked through the windbreak, over the turned earth and sprouting corn, eyes fixed on the white house and its flowerbeds. It looked awful small from where he stood. So, he missed Nan’s funeral. So, he was drunk, stoned and sunburned as the Limburger’s gathered to bid farewell to the last of the Rijsbergens. Of course, he was conspicuous in his absence. That day may well have been the first time he’d ever been conspicuous in these parts, on his own, anyway. He was sure he’d shared some of the scrutiny when it came to Mom, but after she was gone, he’d allowed himself to believe any attention he attracted was nothing more than sympathy for an unfortunate little boy. That had made for a refreshing change. His return to the hinterlands meant a return to conspicuousness. Ah, well . . . The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Keeping his eyes on the house, Will zipped up. Remarkable, he thought, how a freshly emptied bladder could also provide fresh perspective. So, he missed Nan’s funeral. Deplorable as it may be, he owed nobody an explanation. Any redemption he could hope to attain would be found in whatever resulted from the noise being made behind him. Whatever amends he could offer wouldn’t grant him redemption, and it sure as hell wouldn’t make the guy who lived in the house he was staring at any less an asshole. Bertie’s caution was understandable, but it was seated in a past Blom understood, and the present Will was living in. He now understood why he’d come here. He was going to fix that house because it was the least he could do for his grandparents. He had the means of making the structure as solid and habitable as it could be. Leaving it to another family to put some warmth and happiness in it was as grand a legacy any family could hope for, fucked up or not. As far as that legacy was concerned, a large part of it was rooted in protecting a piece of ground his grandfather had found joy in, no matter that a great part of that joy was had by using it to scare the living shit out of everybody else.

Will stepped forward, well clear of the wet spot he’d just made, and continued in even, measured steps. He walked past the Cottonwoods and Pin Oaks, through knee-high grass, thistle and brush, into open space. He trod steady and straight, paying no mind for the footprints in the churned soil or the inch high sprouts flattened beneath his feet, toward the front porch that was on the other side of the next windbreak.

Until tomorrow, then…

Hello again, short time no see. Here is the “different approach” I talked about only yesterday. I’m going to try and put down a day’s work, every day, for the next couple weeks, months or however long– maybe until this draft is finito. This could mean 100 words, or a 1000. As it goes, so shall it be posted. I’ll keep at it, see how it works, and if it does, that’s how it’ll be…

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Will eased off the shoulder, and at the stop sign, he kept the wheel moving to the left.

Finish what you started, Willem. Finish what you started.

Will had been gone three hours by the time he pulled in. It felt like three weeks. The end of the drive was now occupied by three vehicles, Maartens’s truck, another pickup, and a van. Will parked on the grass. He stepped out to the sound of laboring small engines to his left—the native kids were hard at work defoliating the ground around the old orchard—and the dissonant chorus of power tools coming from the kitchen. Will understood this should be a happy noise, a cacophony of rebirth and renewal. He could only perceive it in bitterness, wondering how the guy next door could not interpret a racket that could be heard in Maastricht as a hint the landgrab was over. Asshole.

Outside the truck, Will looked toward the rising and falling two-stroke whine coming from the now clearly visible rows of apple trees. The kids appeared to be wading through a green fog, raking and tossing bunches of slaughtered vegetation into the bed of the battered four-by-four with pitchforks. He was immediately aware of the humidity. The air had been steadily increasing in stickiness over the course of the last few days. Standing there, not moving, he could feel the sweat forming in beads on his forehead and neck. Seeing those boys moving through a miasma of swirling chlorophyll made him itch. It also caused him to remember he’d fled Blom’s without talking to Ouilette. Seeing those youngsters heaving heaps of mown vegetation through a maelstrom of aerosolized plant matter, he allowed himself to wonder if, after a month of such labor and not even sharing a word with Ouilette, he could couple deadbeat with whackjob. Will had no choice but to show himself again at Blom’s, and he couldn’t put it off too long. Goddamnit!

He had to pee.

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And there ya have it. Tomorrow, there’ll be more…

‘Nother thing: ‘Twould appear there are a few regular visitors to this site that have just showed up in recent weeks. THANK YOU! Comments welcome, even disparaging ones. And a special greeting/thanks to what appear to be regular visitors from the other side o’ the Atlantic: BUIOCHAS LEAT IREANN! (Translation tomorrow, if requested.)

WHOA! No sooner do I send a greeting across the briny, a little further, across the Irish Sea, a visitor from the UK! (not the first), and a Cheerio, to you, mate!