Chapter Seven, (pt.2) itty-bitty piece. SHORT READ!

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.

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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…

 

 

Chapter Seven (Pt. 1)

 

A little further down the road… This bit’s just a tad shorter than my last several postings. Probably a good thing. It’s also just stopgap to posting the next bit that follows, as I’m just a touch gummed up in it right now, but it’s starting to shape up to at least first draft standards. Mebbe in the next two days, or so… Anyhoooo… here goes:

SEVEN

Will was awake before sunrise. He shook off the sleep, which hadn’t come easy, and took a minute to re-orient himself. His air mattress left a lot to be desired when compared to the king-sized bed he’d left behind at the hotel. The car wreck appeared briefly in his nostrils then his head, but was just as quick to disappear. He allowed himself to hope his participation would be lost in bureaucracy. He had a good grasp of how County law enforcement operated.

In addition to the mattress, another one of the positives of living in a hotel made itself evident. Will crawled out of his tent. In his absence, the parlor had been swept again and his totes had been rearranged. He had to search for a bit before he found the toilet paper. In the weak light of pre-dawn, he put on a pair of sweatpants, pulled on a clean hoodie, and headed out to the windbreak, roll of tissue in hand.

Will’s trudge to the line of trees gave him the opportunity to inspect more of Ken Maartens’ work. The cellar doors at the rear of the house, which had before been lost in a tangle of overgrowth that he’d actually forgotten about them, had been replaced. This prompted a shudder. Will could count the times he’d been in the cellar on one hand. The double doors lay at a thirty- degree angle, against the back of the house. The doors were two-by-fours, covered by three-eight inch plywood and covered by sheets of corrugated steel to protect them from the elements. They were heavy and emitted an ominous creak when lifted open. The steps leading below were roughly poured concrete. The floor was dirt. It was lit by a single bulb, and the chain to turn the light on was far enough away from the bottom of the steps that you had leave whatever sunlight that came in through and wave your hands around to find it. The weak light from the bulb did little more than highlight the gaps between the slabs of the limestone foundation, The cellar was scarcely six feet deep, which made it claustrophobic for even a child.

Enhancing the dungeonlike atmosphere was that the cellar space was scarcely a third of the footprint of the house. The far wall was the same row of limestones slabs that rose about two feet below the roof, making room for a crawlspace, accommodating the appendages protruding from the dominant feature of the cellar, the furnace. Will came to understand it was just a relic of the times, the inefficient monstrosity known nationwide as an “octopus.” Will had seen it the first time at about five years old, getting introduced to it after a tantrum at repeated refusals of his demands to see what was behind the cellar doors.

Acting out was a rare thing for Will. Bad behavior had never gotten him anywhere as a child, a lesson he often wished he’d carried into adulthood. On that occasion, the success of his wailing was effective in reinforcing, on every level of his burgeoning social awareness, that accepting “no” the first time around was always the best route to take. The furnace alone may not have been fodder for his upcoming nightmares, but the grim surroundings and his mother’s assertion that, “Rijsbergen’s don’t have funerals. That’s where we burned Greatgrandma and Greatgrandpa. Throw another fit and you’ll be sleeping down here,” quelled all future desire for instant gratification.

The west side of the lot had been mown to the treeline. There were ruts in the ground running the length of the house near the foundation, and the brick on either side of all the upstairs windows, framing sheets of polyethylene as the others, was discolored, lightened by what he figured out to be plaster dust. It made him eager to get upstairs to see how it looked without piles of demolition scrap.

The sun had hit the horizon when he worked his way through the windbreak to the base of the cottonwood tree that had become his latrine. The current state of the house had been a pleasant surprise. When he finished a process he’d overoptimistically hoped would be history, he experienced another surprise.

Beyond the windbreak, the property continued another half mile, the boundary was roughly defined by another row of trees on the western side, and south to north between the Wahpekute to the county road. It was about eighty acres. As a youngster, Will learned the entire property owned by his grandparents was two hundred forty acres, divided into approximate thirds by two windbreaks. The section in the middle was the farmstead proper, holding the house, the barn and the outbuildings. An orchard occupied the lower part of this section, five rows of apple trees starting from halfway down the driveway almost all the way to the river. The upper half, from the barn to the other windbreak to the east, was a hodgepodge of vegetable gardens and fenced pasture for livestock intended for the family table. Beyond the eastern windbreak was another eighty-acre plot dedicated to cash crop, as was the western third; corn, soybeans or sunflowers. In their heyday, the Rijsbergens had owned an equal amount of land on the other side of the county road. That had been sold even before his mother was born. The eastern acreage had succumbed to overgrowth and neglect, just as the farmstead had.

Will couldn’t help but notice it every time he left the house on his way to Maastricht those first three weeks he was here. He assumed the west eighty was in the same condition and never paid it any attention. He’d not once driven that direction.

What Will saw, stepping away from the cottonwood and looking west, was eighty-some acres of smooth, dark, freshly tilled topsoil.

Regardless of the time he’d spent here throughout his life, Will would never present himself as a farm kid. However, willful ignorance aside, he knew there was no way a piece of land as scrub infested as the rest of the property could be made so readily arable in a month. Looking toward the county road, he saw a gravel track leading into the field that looked nowhere near as new as his driveway. It was in the same place it had been when he was a kid, yet he remembered just as well that the last time this field had been tilled was the year before his grandfather died. He didn’t spend a lot of time poring over the property description in the abstract and the plat maps, but he didn’t have to do that to feel certain Nan hadn’t sold any of the land after his grandfather had passed. That wasn’t in her nature. She couldn’t have been more protective of the property had she been born and raised there herself, especially if the only reason there was for parting with a piece of her home was for a reason as banal and contemptable as money. There had to be something else going on here. He’d need to be a bit more mindful and take another look at that paperwork, which was the sort of thing Will found banal, if not quite contemptuous. Then, again, there could well be a way to bypass to that type of investigation… and that shortcut could well be found in the person of Bertie Blom.

And the next visit ol’ Bertie gets will be even more interesting than what we’ve witnessed so far…

Chapter Six pt. 2 (Finished.)

No point in explaining or excusing anything this time. Just jump right in.

+   +   +

Will crept along and finally came to a stop. As he idled on the shoulder, his mind raced. The last six months of his life roared through his head; hearing of his father’s death while carrying a dead infant through the door, the funeral, the lawyer, the accountant, turning in his notice at the morgue, wiping out his retirement account to buy the truck, his lease expiring and the crazy decision to move, the crazier decision to fix up the homestead, the horrible decision to rest and rehab at a casino— for over a month. The numbers on the bill suddenly became real money and a touch of nausea melded with his anxiety. Blom, the goofy contractor… Be anonymous, jump into view, hide in a corner, the money, the money, the mon– Fuuuuuuck…

It felt so good, screaming in his head, that Will gripped the steering wheel, filled his lungs and roared the obscenity until he was hacking and wheezing. Relaxing his hands, inhaling through his nose in controlled beats, some calm returned. Single vehicle fatality. Unbelted. Scene indicates alcohol is a factor.

The terminology was back. Right there. Injuries consistent with a motor vehicle accident. Why now? In his entire time at the Medical Examiner’s he’d never “stumbled upon” a body. In his entire life before the morgue every cadaver he’d laid eyes on was a close relative. Jesus… And now his last dead relative had taken him away from dead strangers only to put one directly in his path. Literally.

Fly under the radar. Have a beer with the local yokels. Why did I act that way? If Blom’s recognizing him was a cat slipping out of a bag, then his behavior in front of that deputy was turning a tiger loose on the whole zoo. That deputy didn’t write the farm address down in front of him, but there was no question it went into his computer when he got back to his squad. “This doesn’t seem to rattle you much.” It was in Poechman’s report. It would be in the State Patrol’s report. No big deal. That thought was immediately countered by, The hell it isn’t. There hadn’t been a single death in his life that occurred outside the bounds of official capacity that hadn’t come back and bitten him in the ass.

For a scant moment, that fear he’d felt as a teen grabbed him. All this shit piling up, his doing or random acts, twisting his thoughts, emotions and gut. Did he have a handle on it? Was it manageable? Was it his doing? Or the manipulations of someone, or something, operating just beyond his perception? This confusion, this creeping paranoia… Was it just circumstance, or the first hints that the same toxic chemistry that fizzed in his mother’s head was starting to simmer in his own?

No. No, no and… “No.” Will took his foot from the brake and eased back onto the pavement. “Just crazy times,” he said aloud, “Not crazy mind.” He couldn’t imagine a better tool to jar things back into perspective than getting a firsthand look at the kind of touch Ken Maartens had put on the house.

+   +   +

Will didn’t have to get to the house to realize more than a “touch” had gone on in his absence. He didn’t even have to get to the driveway. It was more unrecognizable than it had been that first night in late March. The weeds and brush had been cut back from the roadside shoulder, all the way into the downslope of the ditch. As he approached, he saw the remnants of the post the mailbox had been seated atop. Over a foot remained, sticking up like a greasy, grey thumb. Beyond the drive, the stubble of trimmed vegetation continued to the west property line. The gravel itself had undergone an unmistakable transformation. There was a distinct change to the driveway itself. Will had driven over it less than a dozen times. When he headed out last, you could almost count the number of trips he’d made in and out by the tire tracks. Now, as he turned in, it looked like a much-traveled country road, hardpacked parallel tracks divided by a slight hump of looser gravel. He was in for an even deeper surprise. The manicure of out-of-control flora was not just bordering the county road, but had continued to either side of the drive and several yards deep. Nearing the house, he could now clearly see state of the machine shed and the outhouse. The machine shed was not as bad as he’d imagined, but the outhouse, once a tangle of warped and rotted boards, had been reduced to single rank square pattern of cinderblocks. He was literally gaping when he parked in the circle.

The sky was clear and the moon over three quarters, so the exterior of the house was plainly visible. The inverted skirt that had ringed the house was gone, saplings, dead thistle and vines, all cut to ground level. The transition from foundation to outer walls was distinct. The removal of all that growth didn’t do much for the appearance of the porch but, from where Will stood at the front of the truck, he could even see the saplings that had forced their way through the flooring had been removed. The windows had all been cleared of their panes and sashes and heavy polyethylene sheets had been put up in place, all of them but one. From the far northeast corner—his mother’s room—hung a canvas chute that dangled into a twenty-five-yard dumpster.

Will caught himself shaking his head. He looked around again, pulling his attention from the building. The overgrowth had been cut from the edge of the driveway to the foundation and, as far as Will could tell, not just as wide as the house and north as far back as the machine shed, but west all the way to the windbreak. The front of the house was cleared as well, right to the brush and trees on the bank of the river. It the moonlight, it could have passed for a suburban lawn. He was tempted to take a walk around to the other side, but decided it was a pleasure he could forestall until the sun was up.

Will’s focus was back on the house, zeroed in on the kitchen door. The stoop the first guy had built had not been replaced, but he could see the freshness of the wood was long gone. His flashlight was still on the front seat. He was so excited that having it back in his hand brought only the slightest recollection of why he’d had it out in the first place. There was no trace of vegetation between the stoop and the gravel. Will traveled a well-worn path to the door. Another pleasant surprise was that the ground was completely dry between the stoop and the gravel. His feet however, were still wet from his unexpected foray into the ditch. When his foot hit the first step, he noticed the changes had not been solely exterior.

The door had changed. It was the same door, but the flaking, blistered and pebbled paint had been scraped away, leaving a rough, piebald finish of stubborn paint and bare wood. The door had also been squared up. He switched on the torch. The jambs had been replaced and painted a glossy black. This is just a tease… He paused a moment, then turned the flashlight back off. He was allowing a little self-torment, relishing it.

Will turned the knob, fearing for an instant it would be locked. He hadn’t called Maartens. His departure from the hotel had been on impulse. Though the hasp and padlock were gone, he wouldn’t be surprised if the man had found a way to lock the door. When it turned and he eased it open an inch, he felt like a kid at Christmas.

When it was fully open, he faced an interior of weak ambient light, any details were lost to shadow. The first thing that hit him was the smell. The musty taint of old dirt and decay was gone. It was all fresh wood, paint and polyurethane. The last scent forced a pause. He could only assume the polyurethane smell was from the floor. One of Maartens’s phone calls had been for the singular purpose of what to do with the kitchen floor. What Will was familiar with was a wall-to-wall linoleum sheet. It was a gold and brown pattern intended to look like tiny mosaic squares. Though the pattern was lost and the color worn to a sickly yellow in front of the sink and the oven, his grandmother behaved as if it had been laid the day before. His mother had told him the only thing good about it was it trained her to maintain a lady-like posture throughout every meal. “It taught me to sit like a finishing school sorority sister,” she told him, explaining why she hated it so. “Every time you looked down at it, all you could think of was baby shit.”

Will thought his suggestion of a simple, black and white vinyl tile checkerboard would appease Maartens’ sense of “period appropriate.”

“Yeah, sure,” the contractor said, “if this place was in the city. It’s a farmhouse, Will. No matter how well-off the farmer might be, he wasn’t going to throw money away to make it look like a banker lived there. That would be ‘putting on airs.’ You need to go with the original floor, the one under that godawful spread.”

Will was doubtful. “I can’t imagine what kind of shape it’s in.”

“No worries there,” Maartens told Will, “I’m way ahead of you. We had most of the linoleum up in less than four hours.” There was a pause, which Will had learned from previous calls he was in for an unexpected delight. “Do you want to have a guess at what was hidden by that prehistoric plastic crap?”

Will declined the chance at delivering wonderful news to himself.

“You’re not going to believe it,” Ken Maartens teased. “It took hell of a lot of scraping to give us a good look, but it was worth it, I tell you.” Another pause.

Will broke it. “Don’t make me hold my breath, Ken.”

“Red Oak plank,” Maartens said, in a tone that Will thought bordered on gushing. “Pegged, Red Oak planks. Walnut pegs. Can you believe that?”

Will had no idea whether he could or not. “Like what’s in the living room and the parlor, the rest of the first floor?”

“Geez, no.” Maartens had gone from exuberant to annoyed. “That’s White Oak strips, tongue and groove, nailed to the subfloor. Standard for over a hundred years. Nothing special in that. The kitchen is planked, seven inches and nine to thirteen feet long. And it’s pegged. What in hell? I was expecting planks, Fir or Maple even, for a kitchen floor. The pegs were a complete surprise, let me tell you. Now, granted, it’s way off historically, and that it’s pegged is a real puzzle, but there’s no question it’s original. Why they did that is a mystery, no question. Maybe it was what was available at the time, or a salvage job of some sort…”

Maartens had prattled on, Will had listened and, as had happened with every subsequent call since, Will succumbed to his suggestion. The man’s passion was overwhelming.

In an act of nothing more than optimism, Will fumbled along the wall for the light switch. What he found was box and a twist of insulated wiring. Too much to hope for. He turned the flashlight on.

What Will saw made him gasp. The smell had indeed been the floor, but smell was diminished to nothing by the sight. The flashlight seemed to illuminate the entire room. The finish on the floor was like a mirror, disturbing the light, spreading it to the walls. The room was empty. The counters and cupboards were gone. The oven, which Will thought was old when he was a child and later learned it had replaced a woodburner in the late fifties and was put in at the same time as the linoleum, was gone. So was the refrigerator. The sink, a massive, single bowl trench of porcelain coated iron was gone. The walls themselves were essentially gone, as was the ceiling. The outside two walls, to his right and at the back, were stripped to the bricks. A pantry had been at the rear, behind a wall flush with the downstairs bathroom, had been completely removed, shelves, wall hooks and a hand-built freezer of bricks and steel sheets had been dismantled and done away with. The bathroom, which had been nothing more than a toilet and a tiny sink, was also gone. The ceiling was even gone, in a way. What had once been plaster and lathe like the walls, was now a large expanse of sheetrock. From a hole near the center, dangled curls of new, capped wiring. A similar knot hung above where the sink used to be.

The room was immense. Made more so by the state of the floor. The sight of it caused Will to promise to himself that he never question Maartens again. When Will heard “Red Oak”, he’d imagined wide planks colored like redwood. What he saw were broad boards of pale white, contrasted by dark, tight grains. The ends of the planks were butted at irregular intervals, highlighted by a pair of dark circles half and inch in diameter. It was stunning. Will felt as if he was looking at the floor of a gymnasium. Where the sink had been, four capped copper tubes protruded from the floor. He shined the light toward where the bathroom had been. A hole was visible where the toilet had stood. At the sink, more capped tubes. So much for taking a shit indoors tomorrow, but he didn’t care. What he saw was promise, and some assurance that this was not as insane an idea as he’d feared.

 

Things sure are changing, are they not? Don’t feel shy in adding a comment, positive or negative, as to how things have gone so far. Even better if you comment directly through this site. More coming soon…

 

 

 

Chapter Six, Pt. 1… Surprise!

As promised, now delivered.

+   +   +

At about the halfway point between Maastricht and Venlo, Will saw the first hint of trouble. Two dark swatches in the shoulder of the southbound lane, and a layer of gravel spread across the roadway. Fishtail. A short distance further and there was another layer of gravel and corresponding tracks on the shoulder. This time the tracks didn’t lead back to the pavement. They continued into the right side ditch.

“Shit…” Will crossed to the northbound shoulder and parked as far off the roadway as he could. He killed the headlights, flipped on his flashers and grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment. He trotted across the road with a breeze blowing straight into his face. It carried the smell of “wreck”, a mechanical potpourri of oil, antifreeze and fuel. As he neared the opposite shoulder the scent of fresh turned earth and shredded vegetation entered the mix. He switched on the flashlight and aimed the beam into the ditch. It landed on ragged chunks of torn sod and dark furrows of exposed, wet earth. He swung the light, and about one hundred yards from where he stood he saw the car. It was upright but facing the wrong way. It was obvious the car hadn’t been upright for most of its course. The roof was canted toward the passenger side and the windshield was an opaque mosaic that shone white in the beam of the flashlight. The entire body of the vehicle was smeared with mud and swatches of grass. Staying on the shoulder, Will walked toward the car. He came upon the body so quickly it took a moment to register.

It was a man and he appeared to be young—younger than himself, anyway– but Will had seen enough of these types of injuries that, even at the distance between them, he knew they made determining age a difficulty. And even at this distance, the man was at the bottom of the ditch, he also knew there was no question as to whether or not he was dead.

Will moved down the incline. The body lay like a discarded doll and was partially pressed into the ground. The arms were outstretched to either side. There was a bloodless laceration across the man’s forehead deep and broad enough to expose skull. The man’s eyes were half open and aiming the light directly into them triggered no response. His nose was partially flattened and pointed toward the car. His mouth was open and his chin was aimed vaguely in the same direction as his ruined nose. He wore a white T-shirt and a denim jacket, both twisted around his torso to his nipples. The exposed skin below had a faint pink patina, as if it had been lightly scoured, which Will concluded had been the case. Judging the flattened vegetation and pressed mud he was centered in, and his compression into the soggy earth, it appeared the car had rolled, he’d been ejected, and the vehicle, probably on its roof at this point, slid right over him. Will played the light a little lower on the body. The hips were rolled at a right angle to the torso, the legs twisted like a licorice stick. Will stood over the corpse for another moment. He could smell booze. When he at last turned away his feet were soaked. He cursed to himself he couldn’t go fifty feet in any direction in this goddamn county without getting his feet wet. He took out his phone and dialed 9-1-1.

The dispatcher answered after two rings. Will interrupted his opening spiel and stated. “You’ve got an MVA with at least one fatality on County 1 just north of Venlo.” He was walking halfway up the ditch on more or less dry ground, making brisk time to the car. He heard, “Sir… the nature of your emergency?” Will repeated what he’d said.

“Number of vehicles involved?”

“One.”

“Sir, did you say fatality?”

“Yes I did.” He was close enough to the car that he shined the light into the passenger side. Gut instinct had him believing there had only been one occupant, but then again, one could never assume…

“Are you certain about the fatality, sir?”

“Couldn’t be more certain,” Will answered. He played the light about the inside of the car. He saw nothing but fast food wrappers and beer cans in the expected state of disarray. No additional corpses. Not here, anyway. “Is someone on the way?”

“Did you attempt CPR, sir?”

Will stifled a gasp of exasperation. “No, I did not attempt CPR. That, my friend, would be futile.” He pronounced it “few-tile.” “Is a squad coming?”

“One has been dispatched and will arrive shortly sir,” the voice sputtered in his ear. “I need you to remain calm, sir.”

“Calm it is,” Will said and turned the phone off. The car was not emitting any ticks, pings or pops and Will couldn’t sense any radiant heat. It had to be at least a half hour since it left the road. He swept the light around the car again and even peered under it as best he could and saw nothing. He started back toward the point it left the pavement, almost certain there wasn’t another person to add to the body count. What happens when we assume . . . ? He’d taken only a few steps when his phone rang. He answered it but said nothing, just put it to his ear. “Sir I need you to stay on the line.”

“Sure thing,” Will told the dispatcher. He dropped the phone in his pocket without turning it off and continued searching the ditch. The first squad arrived from the direction of Venlo as he was about to take a second turn. He’d found nothing else but more churned earth. The patrol car pulled right up to the front of his truck and cut the head lights. The spotlight on the driver side flared to life and began sweeping the opposite side of the pavement. Will tried to get the deputy’s attention by waving his own light. After a few passes, the lawman popped out of the car.

“Over here,” Will called. He aimed his light toward a spot on the shoulder near where the body was lying. The deputy trotted across the road and pulled his own torch from his belt. With the deputy shining his own light at Will’s face instead into the ditch, Will walked up to him. Shielding his eyes, Will gestured toward the body and without any form of introduction said, “Body’s right down there,” and raising the angle of his arm a slight degree, “and the vehicle’s maybe seventy yards farther up. I’ve been up and down twice and didn’t find anyone else.”

After holding the light to Will’s face for a couple of beats, the deputy turned it toward the ditch. When he located the corpse, he gave a grunt and made as if to charge down the bank. “Don’t knock yourself out,” Will told him, blinking. “He’s finito.” But the deputy had already left the roadside and was scrambling down the edge of the ditch. Will’s eyes readjusted and he saw the deputy crouched beside the flattened driver, holding his wrist.

“How thoroughly did you check this man?”

“Thorough enough,” Will called back. “But, if you find a pulse, please extend my apologies.” Will was impressed. He knew how most cops felt about touching dead people. As he watched the deputy drop the limp arm, he caught blue and red flashes from the corner of his eye. When the deputy returned from the bottom of the ditch, headlights were clearly visible beneath the roof lights. “Cavalry’s here,” Will told him.

The deputy shot him a hard look, and held it on Will as he keyed the microphone on his shoulder. “One three one five on scene,” he said into the mic, “one confirmed fatality, EMS arriving.” An unintelligible answer crackled, which the deputy appeared to have no problem understanding. “Ten-four. Do we have an ETA on State Patrol?” Another squawk and the deputy nodded. He released the transmitter. “Wait right here,” he ordered Will, and walked around him to meet the fire truck that was just pulling up.

Will did as he was ordered and stood scuffing in the gravel, coating his wet feet with a layer of yellowish dust. He watched the deputy shouting up to the cab of the fire truck. Another deputy appeared around the rear of the truck. The two of them spent another minute talking at the open window of the cab, then walked past Will. They both had their flashlights out and were focusing them on the body. Seemingly satisfied with what they were seeing, they swung the direction of the lights up the ditch and made toward the car. Time to leave, Will thought, hop in the truck and skedaddle.

He pushed past the EMS guys who’d piled out of the fire rig and were laying flares, ogling the corpse or heading toward the deputies for a peek at the ruined automobile. Same shit no matter where you go, he thought, two minutes of scrambling and then sit around and wait for the State Patrol. He also thought of other people he’d seen at wrecks, people not wearing uniforms. Shunted off to the side with blank expressions of mixed shock, confusion and numbing boredom: Witnesses, with no idea what to do, no one giving them direction, leaving them unattended and too lost to take control of their own situation. They never dared to make a move until someone with a badge gave them leave to get on with their lives. He wasn’t about to fade into witness purgatory.

He approached the deputies. Not speaking to either one in particular, he announced, “It would seem my civic duty has been fulfilled, so I’ll be on my way.” He gave them a short wave and started across the pavement.

“Hold it.”

Will slowed, but didn’t stop. He looked back over his shoulder. The original responder, the first deputy who’d arrived, took a step toward him. He had his flashlight aimed at Will’s face again. “Yeah?”

“You’re not done yet.”

Will nodded and shrugged, but didn’t stop walking until he was beside his truck.

When the deputy caught up with him he didn’t look pleased. Will looked him straight in the face and raised his eyebrows. “What else?”

“First I’ll need your name.” Will took out his wallet, produced his license and handed it over. The deputy redirected his flashlight from Will’s face to the card. “Where were you driving to, Mister Holliday?”

“Home.”

The deputy glanced up from the plastic. “Seems you’re a long way from ‘home,’ and heading in the wrong direction.”

“I just moved out here,” Will told him, and gave him the address to the farmstead. “I’m just getting the place in shape and haven’t changed my DL yet.”

The deputy cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. He tapped the license. “Give me a minute.” He turned from Will and went to his squad. Will slouched back against his fender and watched as the county cop entered his car and slide Will’s license through the onboard computer. He also watched as the man studied the screen for a few moments, then picked up his radio mic. Will looked up. Even with the glare of the headlights and the flashing roof bars, the stars were starkly visible, filling the sky from horizon to horizon. It was a sight you’d never see in the cities. Wanna screw up the glory of nature? Just add people. His reverie was broken at the slam of the squad door. He looked at the deputy as he approached. I’d better be out of here in two minutes…

“No wants or warrants?” Will asked. The deputy didn’t respond. “I’m keen to take my leave.” He extended his hand for his driver license, but the officer didn’t offer it. Instead, the deputy asked, “Did you witness the incident, sir?”

“Nope.”

“What caused you to stop?”

Will sighed and forced himself not to roll his eyes. “Driving along, came upon a gravel spray, tire tracks on the shoulder, a little bit further and saw a bigger spray and ruts at the edge of the ditch.” He shrugged.

“What time was this?”

“Dispatch will have that answer for you, and right to the second.” He quarter turned and reached for his license. He was well and truly finished with all of this and was afraid this bumpkin was striving for a good reason to stick him in the back of his squad just to prove he could do it. “There’s really nothing more to it, Deputy–” he squinted at the man’s name plate, P-O-E-C-H-M-A-N, “Poach-mun…”

“It’s pronounced ‘Peckman, Mister Holliday.”

“Excuse me,” Will said, and repeated the name, asserting the corrected pronunciation, “Deputy Poechman. Nothing more to offer, really. I’m driving home, see a wreck, call it in. That’s all.”

Deputy Poechman nodded. “Are you a cop?” That inquiry set Will back a bit. And the deputy didn’t stop. “Medic, EMT, fireman?”

Will shook his head, a little stunned.

“This doesn’t seem to rattle you much,” Poechman went on. “Your average guy comes across something like this and they’re more than a little freaked out. You don’t seem to have a problem with it.” He shook his head and added, “’DL,’ ‘MVA,’ ‘dispatch’… That doesn’t pop up in conversation no matter how much time they spend watching cop shows. Not to mention how rude you were to, uh, ‘Dispatch’…”

Will had recovered enough say, “I worked in a hospital for a few years.”

The deputy responded with a doubtful nod and a guarded smile. He offered Will his license. “Thank you Mister Holliday, I think that’s all I’ll need.” Will took it and tucked it away. As he circled his truck and opened the door, the deputy said, “Drive safe, and if there’s anything else we need from you, Dispatch has your phone number. I appreciate your help.”

As Will pulled away he saw another chain of flashing lights in his rearview mirror. Welcome, State Troopers… He had to grudgingly acknowledge, if only to himself, that Deputy Poechman had probably done him a solid by cutting him loose when he did. Will knew some State Troopers could get a little persnickety about not getting firsthand accounts from witnesses.

As he approached the county road crossing that would take him to the house, he scrapped a half-considered plan to go into town and see if the “Muni” was open. He had a gut suspicion the Deputy would make a careful pass by the bar once he was finished at the accident scene. Will didn’t want to afford him any kind of opportunity to find cause for another chat.

Turning in the direction of the house, Will felt a sudden flush of anger. He tried to assign it to missing out on a beer. Driving back from the hotel, he’d talked himself into believing he should establish himself in town, take the plunge and shed that silly need of invisibility. The local watering hole would have been the perfect place to start. Now, a sincere effort to put down some roots had been compromised by a moron who couldn’t hold his liquor and keep his car on the road… As the intersection got farther behind him, he couldn’t hold the facade any more. Why had he acted that way? He didn’t do that crap for a living any more. It was made worse by the fact that, during his entire career at the Medical Examiner, he’d not once encountered a body anyplace other than a funeral home away from work.

The stink of the accident was back in his nose; the hot, sweet odor of antifreeze, the sharp burn of spilled gasoline, an underlying tinge of spilled blood… The smell in his mind was not specific to the wreck he was driving away from, but the imprinted and indelible product of the scores of vehicular catastrophes he’d borne witness to. Olfactory memory was a curse to people like him. Whatever odor your brain decided to conjure up couldn’t be replaced or overpowered by conscious recollection. You couldn’t swap out the re-called smell of a decomposing hooker with something like baking bread, fresh cut grass or an old girlfriend’s sex. Nossir. The subconscious was insidious, fickle and entrenched. It could not be reprogrammed, and if it wanted to trigger a past stench, it was going to do it. There were other things that Will could smell, either on command or popping into his nostrils without warning. Lots of things, and most of them much worse that a wrecked automobile.

 

Long, long, long… but NOT bloated. Want something longer?

https://www.amazon.com/Lunacy-Death-perspective-developed-investigation-ebook/dp/B079DWFH9T/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1529597298&sr=1-1&keywords=lunacy+and+death

 

 

 

Chapter 5, pt. two (or maybe finish… can’t tell yet.)

 

As well as the usual caveats, I add this: The following is bloated, long and clunkier than I’d like. It was put down with the intent of being only about a thousand words. It just doesn’t work that way, sometimes. I’d run into an idea or a train of thought and couldn’t let it go without, as it reads, taking it too far and, as a result, not a very solid or complete conclusion. The effect is soft, and therefore it reads soft. Yet… YET, I couldn’t dump it. It needs to sit a while, then I can come back and put it on a diet, get the stomach stapled, attack it with a scalpel. That’s how it goes sometimes… Anyhoo, the surprise (!!!) promised in the previous post is coming up next in the next post.

+   +   +

 

Will never got another call from Blom. On the other hand, Ken Maartens called him every day, sometimes two or three times. It was usually questions about problems that Will couldn’t visualize or quite comprehend, and it typically ended with him telling the contractor to do what he thought best. He wasn’t sure how to take it. He either enjoyed a sense of security, certain the man had his best interests at heart. Maartens had given no impression other than he thought the house was a magnificent project and whatever was invested in bringing it back to its former glory was money well spent. “Letting that place go all to hell would be nothing short of criminal neglect,” Ken told him. “You should be proud of putting this right. Hell, I’m proud of you. You’re not just doing yourself a favor, you’re doing the whole community a favor.” Will would later find himself agonizing as to whether he was getting the gouging Blom had warned him about, and caught himself thinking the man’s enthusiasm was nothing more than a sleazy pitch. About three weeks after their first conversation, the project had come to the point where aesthetics became the issue. At that same point, his anxiety took off in every direction.

Will had never given anything more than a rat’s ass worth of concern to what kind of faucet his tap water flowed through. Color and composition weren’t words that came to mind when he walked into a room, and the only qualities he could ever find relevant when it came to a counter top was that it should be flat. Ken Maartens, on the other hand, proved himself a man who was deeply concerned.

“You’re going to want it ‘period appropriate,’” he told Will. “What kind of effect would it have on you if you were to step into a nineteen-oh-two Queen Anne and the living area was wall-to-wall Berber carpet and the furnished from an Ikea catalog?”

Such thoughts were alien to Will. “Effect?”

“It ought to make you want to puke. It ought to make you wonder what kind of jerk-off would invest in such a home only to turn it into a chiropractor’s waiting room. I’ve seen that crap happen, and too many times in this part of the world. Particularly in the part of the world.”

They were talking about a kitchen. “I just want a faucet with water coming out of it. And after the water comes out, I want it to drain anywhere but into the river.”

“Well, for now,” Maartens answered, his voice rising a full measure. “I can understand that, of course. But, six months from now you’re going to be ashamed of yourself. You’re going to wonder why you decided to live in a place that’s put together like a Detroit housing project.”

Attempts to argue were futile. “That makes sense, but I’m more of a ‘function over form’ guy.”

“All well and good. I can appreciate that. I’ll tell you this, though, that’s what high-rise condos and public transportation are for,” Maartens said. “You find yourself wanting to go back to crackheads and nightclub shootings and leave the five-tooth tweakers and bowling alley ass kickings behind you, I’m not one to judge. But, that means you’re going to have to sell this place.”

Maartens let it hang a minute. Will let him. When Maartens started talking again, Will was fully expecting a lecture on “half-assing,” which is what he got, sort of.

“I’m going to be honest with you. That place was priced out of this market when the first brick was laid. God knows, I can’t tell you how much I admire that. I truly do—someday you’re going to have to tell me why the walls are so thick—but it wasn’t built with ‘resale’ taken into consideration. No matter what you do with it, you’re going to take a bath. You’re not selling it to anybody who grew up around here, either. These yokels aren’t concerned with character or quality. They can’t afford it. All you’ve got to do is drive by the trailer parks in Maastricht and Venlo. There’s your goddamn ‘new housing market.’ What you hope will happen is you get somebody from Minneapolis with more money than sense, like a retired finance guy who’s got a wife sick of him hiding in the office for most of the marriage. She wants ‘country living’ as seen in a magazine published in New York or L.A. Remember, it’s the wife that’s pushing that lunacy, and the first thing that’s going to tell her she’s in rural paradise is the kitchen and the bathrooms. You might not mind pissing in a stainless-steel trough, but she’s not going to have her grandkids doing that. She sees a kitchen that looks like the last update was in nineteen thirty-three—but it works like the twenty-first century– she’s not going to let the husband walk away without making an offer.”

Will was sure he’d heard all of this before, but with a much different spin. “Alright, alright,” Will said. “You don’t have to make a goddamn speech. Say I do bail out in year or so, how does dumping more cash into the place right now help me out if I’m going to lose money if I sell it, no matter what?”

“Because the money you dump in now, if you do it the right way, is the money you’ll get back. You put bargain fixtures in a place out here, anybody who takes a look won’t have a problem knocking ten grand off a house already listed thirty thousand under reasonable market price.”

Will had never intended to let the price of a fixture or appliance influence his rehabilitation of the house, but he couldn’t let himself get bulldozed into making decisions based on some stranger’s opinions. Up to this point, he’d always agreed with Maartens because any problem reported to him was mechanical or structural. Will could concede all of that was beyond his scope. This discussion had nothing to do with carpentry, plumbing or electrical work. The man had gone from an expert at making the house work properly, to an expert on how it should look.

“I inherited the place,” Will said. “Not only do I not owe a penny on it, I’ve never spent a penny on it—up ‘til now.” Certain he could get one over on the contractor at last, he added, “So, whatever I sell it for, if I ever decide to, is all profit.” He thought that should knock him back a few steps.

There was no hesitation at the other end. Ken Maartens immediately shot back with, “Then why in Christ’s name would you deny a property like this its full potential? Why would you deny yourself?”

If Will had an answer to that, he couldn’t come up with one. How was he supposed to argue against that? He turned Ken Maartens, contractor and repressed interior decorator, loose to do whatever he saw fit. The man appeared to care more about the house than Will did. Which probably isn’t a bad thing, he told himself. Dropping the reins completely might even put himself back in the position that, if he didn’t like the result this far into this madness, he could allow for the idea of packing it up back into his head.

+   +   +

Will was entering his second month away from the homestead. He bought a calculator in the gift shop and spent an hour or so in his room figuring out how long he could live in a casino before he’d have to look for a job. If he could break about even at the tables and slot machines, he concluded it would be ten years. After a raid on the mini-bar, he thought it only reasonable he try to factor in disastrous fortune and whatever reckless behavior he could add to it, and still came to the conclusion he’d go insane from the place long before he’d have to sleep in bus shelters. He was already half nuts from the atmosphere. Doping out how long it would take him to achieve indigence was a fantasy anyway. A conversation he’d had with his father’s—and now his—financial manager kept coming to mind since he’d surrendered control to Ken Maartens.

“What would it take to go broke?”

The accountant, who was just slightly less dislikable to Will than the attorney, smiled and said, “If you leave it as is, nuclear holocaust or biblical plague.” His smile stretched a little at Will’s confused expression. He shrugged. “It’s just like they say, ‘That kind of money takes care of itself.’ They never add, however, ‘If you leave it alone.’”

“I’m still not clear.”

“That’s a pretty good approach to what I just said,” the accountant told him. “Don’t touch it, and it’ll always be there. You don’t have to be clear, though I recommend you work on that. The account your father left you is set up to take care of itself. It’s more of an entity than a portfolio.”

Will was still lost.

“I’ll try and keep it simple,” the man explained. “You just can’t walk into the bank and ask for a check. And you can’t just sign it over to an organization or individual. There are steps you need to take, and it would be a tedious, time consuming process. It’s not just one big account, but several bound together in various means and degrees of connection. It’s like organs in a body. Some of these accounts are like lungs and a heart, some are a liver, and kidneys and others are spleens. Some parts are more vital than others. You want me to get into detail, we can set aside an entire day, and I’ll explain it from one end to the other. My advice on that would be to wait a minimum of three months before doing so. This type of situation requires a little getting used to, some time to percolate.”

All Will knew for certain was that the cash he’d put in the bank that first day in Venlo was just an installment; part of his “allowance.” The accountant had at least explained that much to him before he went off to percolate.

“There’s a percentage of the account that’s accessible to you pretty much at all times,” he was told. “It’s liquid, and if you find yourself in need of immediate funds all it would take is a few phone calls and a very short waiting period. Otherwise, from that same account, a balance is forwarded to your private savings or checking every quarter. That’s sort of an ‘allowance from your allowance.’”

That’s when Will found himself with a cashier’s check for almost a quarter-million dollars. “That’s not what you’ll receive every three months,” the accountant told him. “Your father’s checking and bank accounts were included. I can show you what the normal amount will be easy enough.”

Will declined, saying he liked surprises.

“That’s a good way to start looking at it,” Will was assured. “If it helps to put things into perspective, those automatic deposits are tonsils.”

He threw the calculator into the trash and went down to eat. Life at the Casino, Spa, Resort and Entertainment Experience had grown tedious well before his last conversation with Maartens. Now it was approaching unbearable. His running, golf and swim routine were easily rationalized as things he’d be doing regardless of his situation. The volume of it, golf in particular, far exceeded what he’d have time for if he was leading a normal life. As much as he loved those diversions, they’d ceased to be diversions. Though he was certain he could never get bored on a golf course, playing the same one as many as three times a day had robbed it of any challenge. Its familiarity was having an unexpected effect. His scores had peaked at about the third week of regular play. Then his game began to deteriorate. He was sloppy, indifferent and easily distracted. He’d considered dropping some rounds from the week and had even eliminated the nine holes after lunch on his non-running days. All that did was give him two extra hours three or four days a week to be sloppy, indifferent and miserably distracted without the pretense of doing something healthy. He’d done the massages, the mani-pedis. He gone to see the shows, but found them so boring and bereft of entertainment he always left early. He simmered in his hot tub, sometimes for hours. About the only thing he hadn’t tried as a means of escape was finding a sexual partner. The opportunities were there. On a few times, they’d literally presented themselves. Will was not a prude. Rejecting sex for any reason other than immediately obvious or even foreseeable unpleasant consequences was not in his character. If certain conditions were met and the situation was comfortable, Will couldn’t conceive of any time in his life he’d ever turned it down. He hadn’t had a relationship that lasted long enough to even to have been considered a relationship since his divorce. Excepting his son, the one positive thing he’d taken from the marriage was a profound understanding of what lousy material he was as a lifelong partner.

There were several factors that contributed to his current choice for celibacy. The atmosphere was one of them. As sanitized and as separate as the place tried present itself in comparison to Las Vegas or Atlantic City—both places where Will had indulged his baser impulses in the past—it was still a place where vice was the sole purpose of its existence. That in and of itself was not a deterrent, but the fact that it wasn’t one island in an archipelago of depravity certainly was. A strong percentage of its clientele were essentially local. Getting reacquainted with a single night bed partner didn’t hold much appeal, and the longer he stayed, the more the risk. Another was his choice of accommodation. Selecting a top floor suite was a bad decision. Remaining for more than three days made a bad decision worse. Staying there for over a month made a bad decision just plain stupid.

In an isolated mecca of vice and irresponsibility, a stay of more than a couple of days meant he became a familiar face, and not just to the staff. Sitting at a blackjack table or a slot machine, an empty chair beside him would soon be occupied. “I’ve seen you here before,” was an introduction that he couldn’t deny. Initially, when a lady presented herself in such a manner, Will could allow for a little intrigue. Under any other circumstances, he would have been keen to play it out, see where it might go. The desire for some anonymity was still pretty strong however, and how easily it had been blown at Blom’s and its resultant effect still rankled.

There was enough uncertainty and unpredictability tossing him around as it was.

Will kept things neutral, answering with something like, “Yes you have,” or “That doesn’t make you wonder what’s wrong with me?” and leaving it at that. If the impression he got was negative for whatever reason, an aloof, “My condolences,” or “No better proof I’ve got a gambling problem,” was usually enough to be left alone. If he got an instant bad vibe, a brusque, “Then you come here way too often,” worked well in chasing someone off.

There were a couple occasions that sudden company was downright enjoyable. Good conversation with an attractive person was always welcome, regardless of circumstance, but Will would never allow it to get past pleasant chit-chat. Any chance of it going any further was left in the dim realm of vague possibility of “next time” or “hope to see you again.” There were times he went to sleep kicking himself.

Things changed with the duration of his stay. Will’s initial spree of outrageous tipping was well intended but ultimately folly. It was a cat let out of a bag, a locked gate after the horse was long gone, and a smashing of Pandora’s box. Will was fawned over, coddled, complimented and treated like an adored celebrity—until he caught himself and tried to bring his gratuities back to a standard range. This, as he should have known, backfired. He went from Robin Hood to Ebenezer Scrooge the first time a tip didn’t exceed twenty per cent. It didn’t halt the perception of his being an eccentric millionaire, hiding out in the hinterlands, it just changed to millionaire who was just as big an asshole as the rest of them. Will began learning what effect the promise of money had on people around him, and subsequently what it had on him. In a place as cash-centric as the Casino, Spa, Resort and Entertainment Experience was, it was impossible not to be seen and treated in accordance of what you brought in, and what you’d leave behind.

This was not just an effect Will felt in the staff’s transition from indulgent welcome to glum familiarity. The initial joy Will took in choosing this place for respite from plaster dust and decay had been based in playing a role he knew his father would find contemptible. He was indulging in behavior of which he’d long been accused. Anything he’d done in his past that flew in the face of his father’s expectations and values hadn’t been enabled by the man’s money, and they weren’t acts of adolescent rebellion. His motivation for a trip to a corn belt Sin City backfired in much the same way his freewheeling shows of generous appreciation had gone. It this was never how he was, why was he behaving so now? Such was the satisfaction gained by thumbing your nose at a dead man.

The longer he was there, the more Will found himself thumbing his nose at himself. Since his first conversations with Maartens, the money jumped back into the forefront. He began not only seeing its effect, but feeling it as well. Now, when approached by a female, he was forced to consider whether it was he who was attractive, or they’d somehow gotten wind of where in the hotel he’d been staying. He began shutting down any potential “good conversation” before it even started. Returning to the room from a run or the golf course, he began checking his belongs to see if anything had been moved or rifled through. Gambling, another distraction at best, as he was never that fond of it, had been completely ruined. No matter what kind outrageous bet he made, win or lose, he felt no different once he realized he’d made up the wager in less than an hour in interest, or lost five times that amount at a tick of the clock if the market was going down. Either way, it wouldn’t affect him.

Will finished his dinner, figured out the bill and added fifteen percent to the check. If Maartens was calling him about faucet selection and “period appropriate” décor, his kitchen and bathroom couldn’t be that far from functional. He looked at the date/time stamp on the bill. He’d been here five and a half weeks. It was almost the second week of May. He plucked his card from the check wallet and went into the bar.

Will had no sooner sat down that he had company. It was not a divorced, single mother from the nearest town, but a diaphoretic real estate agent from Sioux Falls, who was there for a conference. He’d assumed the role of Will’s drinkin’ buddy the night before. Will had allowed for it. He was past three beers when the man first sat down beside him. Will accepted his company, primarily just to talk to somebody. He was happy to have a face in front of him rather than a phone to his ear. That the person didn’t have breasts and wore a wedding ring gave him the signal he could relax. After a couple hours, the gentleman got hostile when Will didn’t buy him a drink.

“Hey, buddy, how’s it going tonight?”

Will looked at the bartender instead, who was about to reach into the cooler for his usual. Will waved him off. He looked at the real estate guy, trying to think of an answer. Instead, he waved, walked out, went to the main desk and checked out.

Yeah, I’ve done better. However, it’s up there, raw and fresh as a vat of fresh-stomped grapes. It’s gotta ferment before I can make it drinkable. I do say this with total confidence: My next installment– (confession time, it was written well before this was, and I’ve gone over it a couple of times)– is more ACTION PACKED! and a smoother, more “connected” reading experience…

 

Chapter 5 (first chunk or so… working up to a surprise!)

Welcome back! So good to see you again…

 

FIVE

Ten days had passed before Will got a phone call from Bertie Blom. He was torn between tears of joy and answering with a demand of, “What took you so goddamn long?”
He settled himself before simply saying, “Hello.”

“Mr. Holliday?”

“Will,” he corrected, then added, “Please.”

“If I’m your employee,” Will heard back, “it’s going to be ‘Mr. Holliday.’”

Will couldn’t tell by the tone of his voice if the man was serious or not. He didn’t ask.

“The well is going in this afternoon, the septic system should be good to go by the end of the week.” He heard Blom clearing his throat, then: “With your consent, of course.”

“Yes,” Will said. “Good god, yes.” He was now fairly sure Blom was yanking his chain.

“Were you aware the waste line was emptying straight into the river?”

Will did not. It came as a bit of a shock. “Guess that’s why I was never allowed to play in it,” he said.

“One good reason, I suppose,” Blom told him. “There’s also been a contractor down there a couple of times. He looked it over top to bottom and said he can have a crew all set and ready the minute he gets your ‘go ahead.’”

“Do you know the guy?” Will asked. Under the conditions he’d laid out he wasn’t sure if he had any right to sound picky. But, he was standing at the edge of the tee box of the seventh hole, waiting for the foursome ahead of him to tee off. It had him looking straight at the hotel. The view suggested it was time he learned about running with the first idea that jumped into his head.

“Not well enough to invite myself to dinner,” Blom said, “but enough to tell you I’ve never heard a single complaint about the work he’s done, and he’s done plenty.”

“Then by all means, go ahead.”

“He should be able to get at it tomorrow,” Blom told him. “He said he was pretty clear about what you’re asking for, but he also had a couple of questions.”

“Fire away,” Will told him.

“Well, Mister Holliday, he didn’t leave them with me. I apologize.” Will was going to ask him, “Apologize for what?” but Blom kept talking. “If you’re comfortable with it, Mister Holliday, may I forward him your telephone number? Of course, should you wish to protect your privacy and prefer I remain your liaison, I completely understand and will be delighted to remain so, at your pleasure.”

Fuckin’ A. “Have him call me.”

“As you wish, Mister Holliday.”

Will was about to hang up, when he heard, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mister Holliday?”

“No.”

“Very good, sir. Enjoy the rest of your day. I will try not to disturb you.”

The group ahead of him were piling into their carts. “Great. Thanks.” His thumb was on the “end call” button when Blom added. “It’s you who should be thanked, Mister Holliday. This opportunity to have earned your trust has meant a great deal to me.”

Will killed the call, quite sure he wasn’t risking offense.

Will didn’t speak to Blom again. He did however, speak to the contractor. The man called him less than an hour later, catching Will during his ride back to the hotel. His name was Ken. Ken was all business.

“How far do you plan to take this project?” Was the first thing he heard, and before he’d even learned the man’s name.

“Pardon?”

“Is this Will Holliday?” The man was so brusque and so the antithesis of Blom that Will could only stammer out an affirmative. “How far do you plan to take this?”

It wasn’t so much a question as a demand. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I hope you’re sure about something…”

Was he getting scolded?

“…because if you’re not sure of how far you want to take this project, we can save me some time and you a shitload of money.”

“No, uh…” Will was at the entry to the hotel. He fumbled in his pocket at the hotel door, trying to fish out a five for the driver. All he had was a ten. The bellboy had already come out and snatched his bag from the back of the cart. He was waiting for him at the door. The driver sat in the idling golf cart, pretending to be watching something going on in the parking lot. It appeared he’d set some dubious precedents. “Gimme a sec, please, just a second.”

Will told the cart jockey to wait a minute, not that he was giving any indication of leaving, and strode up to the bellboy. He held the bill up, but made no motion of handing it over. “Split that with your motorized colleague, there. If you can’t do it fifty-fifty, then it’s all his.” The bellboy shouldered the bag and lurched off to the cart, taking the bill from Will’s hands. Will put his ear back to the phone.

“You read what I put down at Blom’s, right?” he asked.

“I did.”

“I can explain further, if you need it.”

“I just want to know if you’re half-assing this job or are intending to see it through.” Will pulled the phone away from his face. What? “Are you there?”

“Yeah…”

“This isn’t the first time some guy’s come up from the Cities, sees a great deal on a rundown place and decides it’s the bumpkin’s life for him,” Will heard. “Country life, fresh air, wide open spaces and he won’t be listening to sirens all night. What a great place to raise the family! I’ll work from home! All that crap. About two months into fixing it up, and now all he can smell is cow shit and fertilizer. He’s still got to go into the office once a week, and drive an hour to see a movie or get a cocktail with more than three ingredients, and what’s he going to do in a blizzard? The neighbors are running the biggest meth lab between Sioux Falls and Minneapolis, have five crazy dogs and like to burn shit. The bored as hell local kids think his mailbox makes for great target practice. So, the For Sale sign’s back up—and will be ‘til the next decade. If I’m lucky I settle for twenty cents on the dollar.”

Well, then. “It’s not like that,” Will told him. “I own it, outright. It’s been paid for almost one hundred years. It’s my grandparents place. Bertie told me you’ve been out there already. If you don’t think I’m serious, you didn’t look upstairs. You’d have to think I’m some kind of goddamn moron if you believe I knocked all that shit down for fun. If you’re worried about getting paid, well, one, you’ve got my word. Two, I’ll give you a number to Don at the Venlo bank. There’s an account set up for the house. It’s worth three times more than the place is worth if I sold it tomorrow. If my word’s not good enough, you talk to him. I’ll give him the go ahead and he’ll tell you how much is in there. If you won’t take my word for it, or a check from me, I’ll make it so he pays you. How’s that for ‘how far I want to take it’?”

It was quiet at the other end for a moment. Then Will heard, “I’ll take your checks. Glad to hear it. That place ought to be put back into shape.”

The contractor went on to inform Will that he could do what he’d gotten from Bertie. Getting running water into the kitchen and downstairs bedroom wouldn’t be all that difficult, but if Will was going to rehabilitate the entire house, it would be better, and less expensive, if he were given a green light to continue with plumbing and wiring the upstairs. “We can cap it all off,” he told Will. “When the time comes, it’ll be just a matter of hooking it up, plumbing and the electricity.”

While the man went on about windows, roofing, tuck pointing, Will’s mind drifted. He’d just committed himself. How’d that happen? What he’d been telling himself about “seeing this thing through” had never made it out of his head, which meant he’d reserved the option to bail out at any time. Now he’d just declared his earnest intent, and even fibbed to convince this stranger. That “account set up for the house” was just his checking account.

The man was still talking, but Will had completely lost track. “Sir,” he interrupted. It broke the flow.

“Sir? It’s Ken, Ken Maartens.” ‘

“Sure, Ken, everything you’re saying makes perfect sense. Run with it.”

“And the crew for crap upstairs?”

“’Upstairs . . .?”

“Like I was just telling you,” Will was told—again, apparently–, “I got offered the use of a clean-up crew if I took this job” – Will couldn’t recall making any mention of a clean-up crew, must be Blom’s work— “they can get going on cleaning out the demo crap upstairs right away. They’re operating apart from me, like I said. You’d be paying them separate. It just comes down to what your priority is, time, or money.”

Will was getting confused. “Uh… time.”

“Good enough. I’ll be in contact pretty regular.” Ken was gone.

Will looked at his phone for a minute. He felt an odd sensation that was a mix of elation and despair. He didn’t want to fixate on it too much, lest that pendulum stop swinging on the wrong end of the spectrum.

When he entered the hotel, the bellboy was standing with his bag, ready to go up to the room. Will found this aggravating. “Still here?” The young man nodded. “Run it up, why don’t you? Badger housekeeping to let you in, or kick down the door…” He stood in the lobby until the kid was on the elevator, then he was off to the bar. He had some thinking to do.

Moving along, yep. Building up to a surprise Chapter 5 finish! Hang on t’yer seats…

 

Chapter Four, Pt. 3 (finish…. maybe…)

The roughest of rough draft to date. Bloated? Yep. A touch “all over the place”? To a noticeable degree. Put it up anyway. By the time I get back to this for some tuning up, I’ll have a cleaner and clearer “vision” of what I’m trying convey at this point in this story.

 

 

Will spent his days well-scrubbed, well fed, well entertained. His golf clubs stayed in the room that first week, but April was fading. He didn’t let that dissuade him from going outdoors. He took advantage of the conditioning that was the result of three weeks of using a large hammer. He started running again. It had been a habit that had carried him through middle school, allowing him an excuse to stay away from home for a couple extra hours a day. That was the purpose it had served up to the day his mother died. From that day after, it was a tool to deaden his mind and exhaust his body enough to keep him out of trouble until he graduated from high school. That he started every morning, charging into the sunrise from a place that’s primary intent was to keep people indoors, was motivation enough. After a few days he’d become familiar to the staff. A man staying in the swankiest room of a casino who began every day running around the edges of the parking lot had to be some kind of freak. That more than a few of them made no effort to hide that they considered him an oddball provided even more incentive. It was a role he’d been cast in all his life.

When the weather evened out and the daily high temperatures were consistently above fifty degrees, Will finally took to the golf course. It had been open since he’d been there, but Will had long refused to unbag a club if the temperature called for a stocking cap or pulling on mittens between shots. Crappy weather fostered bad habits. He adjusted his schedule accordingly, cutting his running schedule to every other day. On the days he ran, he played a round in the afternoon. On the days he didn’t, it was eighteen holes in the morning, nine right after lunch, and another eighteen in the afternoon, daylight permitting. Will had also managed to establish himself as a borderline whack-job with the folks at the clubhouse. His action in promoting that perception was his adamant refusal to take a cart, even though it was included in his ridiculous room package. The clubhouse manager had gone to great lengths in pointing that out.

The first day he’d decided the weather was to his satisfaction, he’d just showed up at the clubhouse. He didn’t call from his room for a tee time, as was recommended in his check-in brochure. Calling in meant they’d send somebody to the main entrance to pick him up in a golf cart—his golf cart. Will was having none of that. As he was setting up his tee time, he informed the starter he was a guest. This seemed to irritate the man.

“Why didn’t you call in?” He was checking the computer, confirming Will’s declared status as a registered patron of the Casino, Spa, Resort and Entertainment Experience.

“Room Eight-Thirty-Two,” Will said as the man checked his driver’s license against the information on his computer. “Top, floor,” Will added as the man actually picked up his license from the counter and held it next to the screen, “from where I enjoy the spectacular vistas of the Minnesota River Valley and the west parking lot.”

“Hmph…” The man looked at him and returned the driver’s license. “If you call ahead, and we encourage calling the night before, we’d have everything all set for you. You don’t even have to walk through the door.”

Will tucked his license away and shrugged. “I’m a spontaneous kind of guy,” he told him.

Spontaneity was never a welcome thing on a golf course. The man’s expression said as much. “How many in your group?”

“Just me,” Will answered. Will knew that was also not a welcome thing on a golf course, especially in the mid-afternoon. However, it was the third week of April, and they weren’t exactly jammed up.

Even less pleased than he was a minute before, the starter offered a mild scowl. “I suppose we can squeeze you in—” he hit another button on his keyboard, “—in twenty minutes. Be on the first tee at two-twenty-five. I’ll have them pull your cart around.”

“No need,” Will told him.

“Pardon?”

“Don’t want a cart. I prefer to walk.”

The starter now mixed puzzlement with his annoyance. “It’s free,” he told Will, “it’s part of your Welcome Packet.”

Will gave another shrug. “I don’t want it. I never use a cart.”

“There’s no cost…”

“Don’t want it.”

“We really encourage the use of a cart.”

“I don’t recall any mention in my Welcome Packet that this was a ‘cart-only’ course,” Will said.

“Well, it isn’t,” the starter said, “but we encourage the use of a cart.” He tried to add more weight to this encouragement with, “In fact, we strongly recommend it.”

“I appreciate the recommendation. I choose to decline. Strongly.”

The starter wouldn’t let it go. “We strongly recommend the cart as a way to discourage slow play.”

Will couldn’t let that go. “Carts don’t mean squat when it comes to slow play. Slow golfers make for slow play, riding or walking.”

“My experience says otherwise.” The man tried to say something else, but Will cut him off, tapping his watch.

“I’m up in fifteen minutes. Want to stretch out a bit before I make that first drive.” He thanked the man for his time and the offer of the cart. At the door, he called back, “I’m not slow.”

From that day on, Will called ahead with religious adherence, even though it meant accepting the ride to the clubhouse. That amenity of the Welcome Package was apparently non-negotiable. Each time, he had to resist all arm twisting and cajoling that ensued in the process of declining a cart for the rest of his round. Once, he’d been asked to fill out a foursome. He did with cheerful consent, though he suspected the situation had been contrived just to get him into a cart. While his newfound mates rode and parked, rode and parked, Will walked the eighteen holes. Over dozens of rounds, hundreds of holes, he’d never once been called for slow play. Wheels and motors have no place in the game of golf. It was one of his few core beliefs. He wouldn’t even use a pull cart for his bag.

Running and golf were not the extent of his athletic endeavors. One of the swimming pools at the Casino, Spa, Resort and Entertainment Experience was half Olympic size. It inspired his first and only stop at the gift shop, looking for a pair of swimming trunks. Will couldn’t imagine any occasion that would bring him back for a repeat stay, so he was hoping to find a Speedo. Not to be. The only thing that would fit him was a baggy, knee length suit printed with day-glo palm trees on an orange background. Should he drown, or suffer a fatal medical event, there’d be no trouble spotting him at the bottom of the pool. Sundays became “swim days”, fifty lengths before breakfast, with a single round of eighteen holes after lunch.

No matter how much time he spent running on asphalt, walking on grass or churning through water with his ass swathed in a distress signal, his days as a resident of the Casino, Spa, Resort and Entertainment Experience became interminable. The hours consumed by his exertions, excessive as they were even to him, still didn’t take up the hours that would be spent by full time employment. There was a lot of time left over in the day; time for rumination, perseveration and anything else capable of gnawing the insides of his skull.

Will thought his choice of accommodations was a stroke of ironic brilliance. The quintessential inside joke. That he’d come up with it on impulse could only mean it was perfect. If he were to succumb to the life of pampered indolence he could now afford, he could not imagine a better locale to give it a test run. It was this type of pedestrian hedonism that would validate his father’s view of him as an irresponsible, self-pitying, self-absorbed brat.

When Will was “shown to his suite” by the bellboy, he was immediately reminded of how well previous impulse decisions had served him. Standing in the elevator with his escort and the luggage trolley, loaded with his golf bag and the tote, the smell emanating from the plastic box didn’t support any assumption the facility may have had that he was a high-roller. Once inside the room—rooms—he stopped the young man from taking his package of fetid laundry from the cart.

“There’s a laundry service here, right?” Will couldn’t help but notice the young man looked happy for at least a momentary reprieve from handling the tote again.

Standing erect, he answered, “We do, sir.”

Will gestured to the luggage cart. “Would you mind . . .”

“Not a problem, sir. I’m happy to do it. Whatever you need.”

Will could well imagine he was happy to do anything if it meant not having to put his hands on that reeking box. “Offer my apologies when you get it to them,” Will said. “Let them know there’s no roadkill in there and, if they’ve no choice but to burn it, I’ll understand. No hard feelings.”

Will sent the young man on his way with his rancid cargo and a twenty-dollar bill. When the door closed he took a heavy seat on the leather couch in the “living area.” After a brief study of his accommodations, he decided they did a pretty good job of making a deep pocketed guest forget he was staying in a gambling joint surrounded by miles of cornfields and pastureland. He was expecting—hoping for—“smarmy.”

Just this quickly, he was back on the roller coaster, a ride he’d been able to get off of by destroying walls for three weeks, and one he’d not taken for years until his father died. Too much change in too little time, too many nasty surprises and too much confusion. He’d barely learned his father was sick before he died, and he didn’t even hear it from him. It was that fucking lawyer, calling him to inform him of “terminal illness and imminent demise.” That’s how the paterfamilias’s mouthpiece put it.

“He couldn’t tell me that himself?” Will snapped back over the phone.

“I’m acting on my client’s instructions, Mister Holliday. I apologize—”

“On his behalf?” Will interrupted.

The pause was brief but, there was a pause. “For having this kind of news delivered to you over the telephone, and by a stranger.”

“Sure,” Will said. He could have added that the attorney had nothing to apologize for, that he couldn’t be expected to understand the full scope of their relationship. He could have added that, instructed to do so or not, this was a difficult call to make to a third party, as he’d been in that position many times in his life. He could have shown some empathy. Instead, he ended the call with, “I hope, for your sake anyway, this is a service that falls under ‘billable hours.’”

That poor lawyer. The next time Will talked to him was in the man’s office, going over the estate. I hope like hell you were getting paid top dollar for the shit you had to take. It was that same shit Will thought he’d buried years before it was his father’s turn for the same treatment. Arguments, accusations and abandonments, Will thought. Plenty of that on both sides of our story, right Dad?

“I’m willing to talk to you about anything,” he’d told his father, and more than once. “I want to talk about this, and that, and how, why and what. Everything and anything, Dad, except money.”

Will drummed his fingers on the arm of the couch. He liked the sound. He’d always wanted a leather couch. A silly indulgence, and not worth the money, at least not the money he had at the time he wanted such a couch. Now, he could furnish that house with nothing but leather couches. That house which he’d also wanted once as a silly fantasy. That desire had also been buried. To discover it hadn’t died like everything and everyone else, it came back more as a haunting than a celebrated resurrection.

Stop this. . .

Will pushed off the couch and surveilled the rest of the suite. Kitchenette, balcony, and in the other room, a king-sized bed and a TV screen the size of a refrigerator door. There was a hot tub. He’d always wondered how great it would be to have one of those, too.

+   +   +

Yeah, this bit needs a shave, a haircut and could stand to lose a few pounds. It’ll get done, but it’s going to have to wait.

Chapter Four, Pt. 2. Asking a favor

Blom was busy when Will got there, ringing up a few customers and yelping instructions at his knife packing, damaged stock boy. Will paced around just inside the entrance, pretending to be nonchalant. He wasn’t sure of how their reacquaintance had sat with the old man, and now he was here to ask him a favor. He’d had more than one relationship in his life end with the suggestion that he go fuck himself.

When the activity at the counter settled down, he approached the register at a pace he’d hoped would give him enough time to gauge Blom’s reaction to seeing him again. The smile Bertie offered him took the place of the ice bath as his best moment so far today.

“Welcome back!” It sounded genuine . . . “I was getting worried you’d realized what you’d gotten yourself into and hightailed it back to the big city.”

Will shrugged and held his hands out. “Still here, and no wiser now than I was then.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad to hear it. What can I do for Mister Holliday this morning?”

Will was suddenly stuck. He knew what he wanted from the man, but didn’t know how to go about it. He settled for asking, “You know people around here, right?”

Blom’s brow furrowed. “I would hope so.”

Will sighed, “I mean tradesmen– contractors, plumbers, electricians and such.”

“It helps that you’re able to narrow things down a bit,” Blom answered. He pretended to ponder a moment, then said, “Yes, I believe I do.”

Will nodded like his head was on a spring. “Good. Marvelous. I need somebody or somebodies that can do any or all of it. The sooner the better.”

“Well,” Blom said, “I can give you some numbers…”

Will went from head nodding to head shaking. This idea was hot in his head, and he couldn’t allow Blom to nudge him in a realistic and reasonable direction. “Uh-uh. Nope. At this point ‘numbers’ are not what I need. I cannot use ‘numbers.’” He stepped back from the counter and said. “Look at me, and be honest about it.” As good as it had been for his spirits, Will knew his nature bath hadn’t done much in the way of making him presentable.

Blom slid a pair of glasses from the top of his head to the bridge of his nose. “Well . . . If I knew you a little better, I’d say you look like hell.”

“Thank you,” Will said. “Should’ve seen me half an hour ago.”

“That’s too bad.”

“No shit. And that’s why I am incapable of finding any comfort in ‘numbers’. That’s why I stand before you now, begging for your support and intervention.”

Blom shook his head. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.”

“Simple,” Will said. He stepped back up to the counter, doing his best to appear helpless, which he essentially was. “I implore you to open your heart in the spirit of human kindness and act as my broker.”

“Broker?”

“Exactly. Since you last saw me, I’ve spent every waking moment and every ounce of strength I’ve got getting that ruin on the road to restoration. In the process, I realize the only skill I have—and that comes as a total surprise—is knocking stuff down.” He paused, hoping Blom would catch on and assure Will he understood exactly what he needed, and he’d come to the right place. He did not. “You probably know every guy who can swing a hammer or electrify a pig sty within a hundred-mile radius,” Will went on. “I, on the other hand, have made no local acquaintance but one.” He pointed at Blom. “What I’m asking—no begging—you to do is put those numbers to use on my behalf, find the right guy or guys who can get done want I need to have done with that wretched place, and in the shortest time possible.”

Blom pursed his lips and thought a moment. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not a good idea.”

“It’s not as big a deal as you might think,” Will said. “It’s really just boils down to a kitchen and a bathroom. All I need is running water, and it doesn’t even have to be hot.” He paused a moment, then said, “Some electricity would be really nice, too.”

Blom’s expression did not exude positivity.

“Please,” Will added. “I’ve accomplished all I can with what capability I’ve got, and it’s been an utter misery. I can’t do a thing more until I can at least take a crap without fear of snakebite.”

Blom sighed. “Willem, didn’t you think of any of that before you came out here?”

Will allowed himself a show of indignance. “Yes, I did. It’s a long, dull story and there is no point in a recap. It didn’t work out.” He softened. “I can’t do any more to that place on my own at this point. I can knock walls down, I can rip out old wiring—you should see the place now– but, when it comes to making anything work I’m in way over my head.”

Blom sighed again. “You’ll need a whole new well and septic system.”

“I figured…”

“I could have a guy out there for you in a day or two for that…”

“Splendid!”

“But beyond that, Will, I don’t have the faintest idea of what you want—or any idea of what that might cost.”

Will shrugged. “That’s not your problem.” Blom gave him a puzzled look. “I’m not asking you to play bean counter,” Will told him. “All I need is that you be my liaison.” That did little to clear the look on the old man’s face. “Okay,” Will continued, putting both hands on the edge of counter and leaning in, “I’ll be as clear as I can with what little functioning brain I’ve got left. I can’t go back to that place until I’m assured of a comfortable bowel movement– enjoyed indoors. If I return to that property in the next twenty-four hours I can only make the trip if I have five gallons of kerosene and a book of matches. I’m no quitter, but I also embrace the philosophy ‘if whipped, go down.’ Right now, I’m whipped.

“What I’m asking, is if you would be so kind as to engage local talent and put them at my disposal. The primary qualification is that this talent has an open schedule and can get a lot of shit done in as little time possible. Rehab-refurbish or at least rough in and make functional the kitchen and the main floor bathroom; wired, plumbed, sinks, shower and shitter. Simple.” He straightened and folded his arms across his chest. “Do you know anybody who fits those simple requirements?”

Blom removed his glasses and wiped a hand over his face. “I’m sure I can find one or two people who fit the category.”

“Then you’re already ninety per cent there.”

The quizzical look was back. “Then what more do you want?”

“Oversight.”

“Oversight?”

“Precisely. Any niggling, little problem he, she or they should encounter, I want you to handle it. And—here’s where it’s a sweet deal for you—any material they may require is to be purchased at this establishment. Plus, I’m throwing a fair and equitable commission your way on completion of all work. I can’t expect you to take this on without proper incentive.”

Blom replaced his glasses and shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re setting yourself up to be gouged and I will not play a part in it.”

“I’m not setting myself up to be gouged,” Will countered. “I’m fucking ready to be gouged. Gouged, pillaged, raped and ripped off.” His hands were back on the counter. “Besides, humble shopkeeper, compare the chances of my being ‘gouged’ by hiring someone I don’t know from Adam to you, employing them on behalf of the offspring of a dear old childhood friend. What effect do you suppose that would have on the ‘gouge’ factor?”

If Blom had an answer to that he didn’t offer one. After a moment he put a bemused face on and asked, “Before I get involved in this lunacy, could you do me a favor and be a little more specific about what a ‘niggling little problem’ might be?”

Will shrugged. “Say they’re tearing up the bathroom and discover the sub-floor is shot. Give ‘em the go ahead. ‘Replace it,’ you tell ‘em, ‘and from now on don’t bother me unless you’ve got a real problem.’ I won’t have a common laborer waste your time. Same with the kitchen. If they recommend treated dry wall over the conventional? Treated it is. Countertops? Butcherblock? Composite? Marble? ‘Jesus Christ, man, just pick what works…’ Simple.” Blom offered no response. “I’m leaving my phone number with you. If they have a problem that proves overwhelming, they can call me. And, like I said, if there are any materials they need that you can provide, they must buy it here.”

Blom sagged. With a slow shake of his head he said, “Make a list… Give me an outline, or a summary, or whatever the hell else. I need to visit the bathroom.”

Will grinned at him. “Gotta a pen?”

Blom left him, still shaking his head and muttering, with a pen and a notebook. Will watched him as he moved to the back of the building. Before he started writing, he caught sight of ‘Uncle Loren’, standing a few aisles away from the counter and just barely in view. That odd smile was on his face. He turned back to the pad. Before he could start, he threw another glance in Loren’s direction, deciding to ask if he’d overheard and had any suggestions. He was gone.

 

 

Chap. 4, Pt. 1. Will gets dirty. Will gets clean.

To give you an idea of how much fun this can be, I’d had 1500 words pounded out over the weekend and was  about to put it up Monday. Read it, decided it stunk, and tossed it out. ALL of it… What follows is a better job… or had fucking better be…

FOUR

Will pulled the filter mask below his chin, pushed the goggles to his forehead. From where he stood he could see every one of the ruined windows on the second floor. In front of those windows were piles of lathe, broken plaster and shredded yards of ruined wallpaper, heaped to the sills. The walls around the windows were naked brick. All that remained of the interior were wall studs and ceiling joists. The doors hanging in the frames looked ridiculously out of place. In the hallways outside those doors lay the woodwork trim from each room, numbered and stacked in the order he’d removed it. Beside them was the trim he’d pulled from the hallways. He’d just finished sweeping the floors, which had been in better shape than he would ever have allowed himself to believe. He’d just add the sweepings to the piles at the windows. Impressive. It had taken him three weeks, and now there was nothing more he could do up here. He took one last look around his skeletal second floor, then took the broom and his industrial sized dustpan downstairs.

The parlor had become his base of operations. It had taken a couple days for his hands to heal up after his assault on his mother’s old bedroom. He couldn’t slip a pair of gloves on, much less grip the maul. Instead he cleaned up the parlor as best he was able, knocking the loose plaster from the ceiling and sweeping it into the living room. That was the first time he was able to appreciate the quality of the oak flooring. Stained and rough as it was, it was solid. It didn’t even squeak. He laid out the ground tarp and set up the tent, brought in the cooking stove and the lanterns. The rest of the contents of the box of the truck were stacked beside the fireplace. His tools were lined up on the other side.

There rest of the time spent allowing his ravaged hands to mend was spent marking the trim upstairs. Some was warped, some was split, and some of the interior window framing on the west side was just plain rotten. He labeled them regardless of condition. Well more than half of it was salvageable. If he got that far, it would be easier to replace what was lost if the originals were back where they belonged.

By the time squeezing a pry bar or tugging on the ripping tool didn’t bring tears to his eyes, he had a solid, methodical plan in place, not only for destroying most of the second floor, but also for how he was going to conduct himself for however long he was going to be in this forgotten and God forsaken corner of the planet. One job at a time. Know the job before you start. Plan the job before you start. Finish the job. If, in doing that job, another task, project or obligation should pop into your head, ignore it until what you are currently focused on is finished. Finished. If, at any time you are engaged in a task you have sworn to see through to completion, you suddenly come to your senses and decide to put Limburg County and all within it behind you forever, you will not jump into your vehicle and seek the comforts and amenities you can now afford if not deserve, you will not pick a destination until the job at hand is complete. Above all else, Mom, Dad, Gran or Nan will not get inside your head until… whenever. At least not when you’re in the company of anyone else.

It had been three weeks. He’d lived on bottled water, canned soup and peanut butter or grilled cheese sandwiches. He resupplied twice a week, doing all of his shopping in Maastricht. Too much Venlo in one day had gotten this started. He feared another visit before he’d accomplished anything substantial would provide him with an excuse to turn tail. Vanity had played its part as well. Spending twelve to fourteen hours a day in a cloud of grime and nothing but a saucepan to bathe in was an effective deterrent to socialization. Taking a dip in the Wahpekute was out of the question.

The weather had also been a factor in keeping him to task. A day or two after his first in Venlo, the weather turned. Over the first two weeks, the skies clouded over, and the temperature during the day hovered consistently around forty degrees. Most nights brought the thermometer below freezing. It had snowed twice, once leaving three inches on the ground. In the middle of the first week, after a couple miserable nights in a fetal position under the sleeping bag and seeing his breath in the first light of day, he’d added a small gasoline generator and a space heater to his shopping list.

The weather, in typical Midwest fashion, had turned completely these last few days. This morning he’d been sweating well before noon.

Will propped his broom and dustpan with the other tools. Despite the warmth of the day, the west wind coming unobstructed through the living room windows prompted him to start the generator. He lit the camp stove, debating for a moment whether to fill the pan with water or soup. He decided the wash rag could wait until morning. It had gotten to the state that Will wondered whether it now added more dirt that it removed. He poured a can of chunky minestrone into the pan and slapped a peanut butter sandwich together as it heated. The sun had fully set and there was no light save the blue flicker of the flame dancing at the edges of the pan. That had been his evening entertainment, watching the flames, and it had no way caused him to miss television.

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Will was awakened by a crash he felt as much as heard. The thunder echoed back to silence. It took him a few seconds to realize what was happening outside, but when he was alert enough to gain full realization, he acted quickly. He threw off the sleeping bag, rolled from the sagging air mattress and crawled out the tent. He scrambled to the totes, tearing through them until he found a clean washcloth and towel. Before dashing outside, he grabbed a roll of toilet paper. When he hit the side door, he was thankful that for at least a bit longer, God was on his side. The sun had risen two hours before, but it could not penetrate the layer of dark, rain laden cloud above. He hadn’t slept this late in weeks. The morning was the color of twilight. The rain had not begun to fall, but Will could feel it in the rushing air.

As he dashed around the back of the house he ran headlong into a cold gust of wind that almost forced the breath back into his lungs. As he scurried into the windbreak there was a “hissss-bang!” and for an instant the world was bleached white. He decided crouching beneath the cottonwood that had been sheltering his makeshift latrine would be less than prudent. He squatted in a space without a branch over his head and took care of his business. The rain still held out through his return sprint to the house, but no sooner had he made it back inside than the clouds ruptured. He swapped the toilet paper for his bar of soap and in dashed into the downpour.

It was freezing, cold enough to paralyze his lungs for several seconds, but exhilarating as well. Soon he was numb enough that he could breathe and otherwise function. Will rubbed the cake of soap over every inch of his body, scraping his fingernails over the bar and clawing his scalp to work out the amalgam of plaster dust, wood fibers and just plain dirt that had taken up shelter there since that first swing of his sledgehammer.

When the cold had penetrated enough to start stiffening his muscles, and any more scrubbing might start raising blood, Will stutter stepped over the sodden ground and positioned himself in a solid stream running off the roof along a gable valley. He stopped rinsing when he started to cramp. Hunched over and shivering like a half-drowned puppy, he staggered his way back into the house.

Will scoured the towel over his chest until it stung His skin was flaming pink, but he felt clean for the first time in over two weeks; at least above the knees. His feet and calves were speckled with mud flecks and bits of plant matter, but the rest of him was scrubbed raw. After several minutes hunched in front of the space heaters, turned to max, he finally was warm enough to stand fully erect. The gunk had dried on his lower legs and with a couple of passes with the damp towel they were almost as clean as the rest of him. His skin tingled from head to toe. When he ran his fingers through his damp hair it squeaked. It was wonderful, and he had no desire whatsoever to do it again. Ever in his life. Never.

He stood, intending to move only when he felt his bones getting hot, but when he suddenly saw something, hanging right before his eyes, he was suddenly wrought with panic. What in Jesus name was the matter with him? Everything around him was coated with a fine layer of grime. Even in the weak light of the main room, he could see motes floating thick in the air. For a moment he stood paralyzed, afraid to move or touch anything, because he knew the crap would be transferred to clean skin. Even standing perfectly still, the shit in the air was attaching to him, recoating him. He snapped out of it.

Reanimated, he dumped one of his plastic totes and pulled out his last change of clean clothing and a decent pair of shoes. He dressed in a frenzy. He crammed as much dirty clothing as he could into the empty tote and snapped the lid shut. He looked at the sleeping bag, suddenly seeing how much filth had been transferred to it. Better to burn it. He’d never be able to bring himself to crawl back into it. He fashioned a serape out of a sheet of polyethylene, went out, killed the generator and moved it into the kitchen. He loaded the dirty laundry into the back of his truck, crawled in the cab and started it up. About to pull away, he threw it back into park and ran back into the house. He came out with his golf clubs. He heaved them into the back seat. Before pulling away, he shrugged off the plastic and tossed it out of his window. With the windshield wipers on high and the heater going full blast, he gunned it up his driveway. He turned toward Venlo, once again, he noted sourly, with wet feet. But… What a good idea he had. What a plan… but before he would be able to see it through, he needed to talk to Bertie Blom.

And there you have it… For those new here, or those who’ve forgotten, I’ve got an Ebook on Amazon… Something you don’t have to read in installments. Find it HERE: https://www.amazon.com/Lunacy-Death-perspective-developed-investigation-ebook/dp/B079DWFH9T/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1528297541&sr=1-1&keywords=lunacy+and+death

Chapter Three, Pt. 3 (finish)

Not wasting time with qualification or explanations. Wrapped up this chap. and my brain is all about #4

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When Will had finished complying with recommendations and following instinct, he found himself with a full cart of stuff he’d never imagine owning, much less using. What was he doing here? The answer to that interminable nagging question wasn’t going to be found at the checkout station. The sudden pounding his chest confirmed that, and a lot more.

Will had always perceived of Bertie Blom as an old man. When he first met him, Will wasn’t more than four years old. Bertie could not have yet hit thirty. The last time Will saw him was the summer he spent with Nan, and Bertie may have been in his mid-forties. That summer had been last time he’d seen Nan alive. It was the first time he’d run away and hid; the first time he’d thought such a thing was possible. Nan had sent him away in the Fall, back to school, convincing him such a thing was never possible. But he would try again: Mexico And again: Vienna. And, for what he thought would be the last time and his most brilliant and perfect hiding place: a medical examiner’s office.

And now that urge was on him– again. Bertie Blom, sixty-something, was sitting in the place where Will had first met him and the last place he’d seen him. Will’s hands tightened on the cart. Ditch this shit and flee… He squeezed hard enough to feel the pulses in his wrists. Fuck mom. Fuck Dad. Fuck… He swallowed. If he was serious, to walk away this time final and forever, with all the means in the world to bury himself in the hole of his choosing and let the rest of his miserable life sputter out in the manner of his choosing, all he had to do was add Gran and Nan.

He relaxed the death grip. He closed his eyes, inhaled until he felt the breath threatening to push into his ears. Release . . . Therapy. He blinked a few times, took a step, and convinced himself the laden cart was pulling him to the cash register.

With no one waiting at the checkout, Will went straight to work. Keeping his head down, he began piling his items on the counter, building a wall. He heard a low whistle and, “Looks like somebody’s got a long day ahead of him.” Will answered with a grunt and a nod, careful not to reveal more than a quarter of face. Bertie had always impressed him as a sharp guy, but was he was so sharp he could recall a face he hadn’t seen for twenty years? Take no chances! he told himself.

As the items were rung up and slid down the counter, dismantling his barrier, Will grabbed them and put them back in the cart. Speed was the key to a clean escape. Be packed and ready to fly. Pay up and dash. No need to get a receipt. The last of his purchases were small, a pair of gloves, a package of filter masks and safety goggles. The old man held them from the end of the counter and leaned beneath the counter and pulled out a bag. Will swapped the bag for a credit card, managing the exchange through the corner of one eye and keeping his face turned away as much as he was able. Instead of hearing the whirr and buzz of his transaction being processed, he heard Bertie call out, “Jared!” Will’s hand again grew tight on the cart when he heard, “I’ll have someone get those out you your vehicle and help load it.” Before Will could decline the offer, “Jared!” was called out again.

Before Will could insist on taking care it himself, the kid was there, bounding around the corner, scabbard dancing at his hip. He came to a halt right in front of Will. “Hi,” he said.

“Would you assist this gentleman in loading his merchandise?”

The boy nodded, looking past Will to the counter. “Sure.” He grabbed the front of the cart, grinning at Will. Will sighed, pointed through the window to his truck with his free hand, and said, “Just toss it in the box. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Watching Jared’s fervent departure with the cart, Will considered it may be a blessing. Keeping his back turned to the register wouldn’t be odd if a man were concerned about the paintjob on his new truck. Then he heard something that shot that hope to pieces.

“Willem Holliday.”

He sagged. Will gave himself a second to collect himself, then turned. Just get it over with, and work to keep it short. He expected to be eye-to-eye with Bertie Blom. Instead, the old man was looking at the credit card.

“Willem,” he repeated, “that’s a name that fits right in around these parts, though I haven’t heard it in years.” Will tried not to flinch when Bertie glanced up at him, but it was just a glance, and his eyes were back on the credit card. “Damn near a lifetime since I’ve heard it, actually.’ He fed the card through the slot in the register. “If you’d have grown up around here, we’d probably call you ‘Wim’.”

In a panic, and hoping it would throw the shopkeeper off the scent, Will blurted, “My mom tagged me with Billie. I just go by Will.”

“Billie Holliday?” Now the man was looking straight at him, eyebrows raised and grinning.

Will offered a weak smile and stretched his arm across the counter for his plastic. “Yeah, she thought it was a hoot.”

For a second it appeared the old man was about to surrender the credit card, but he pulled it back and the eyebrows rose even higher. Then his eyes widened as if trying to catch up. “My goodness,” he sputtered as Will’s heart fell, “you’re Marta Rijbergen’s boy!”

Hearing his mother’s maiden name was like having a stroke, a tiny explosion in his brain, but it passed. “Sure am,” he said, motioning for his card. He knew he wouldn’t get off that easy, but thought it worth a try.

Bertie Blom folded his arms on the counter and leaned toward him, shaking his head. “My goodness.” The cash register began spitting out the receipt. “What could possibly bring you back here?” Will pointed at the paper curling out of the machine. The old man grunted, waited until it finished, and glanced over the paper. He looked from the receipt to Will. “The house?”

Will was going to attempt a few-words-as-possible approach. He nodded. “My God, son, are going to fix that place up?”

“Yeah.”

There was no doubting the old man’s astonishment was genuine. He spent a few moments letting his head turn back and forth while he kept his eyes fixed on Will. He didn’t speak again until Jared came crashing back in with the empty cart—“All loaded up!”—and went galloping off to the back of the store, yelping, “Thank you, and come again!”

“I sent Loren over there a couple times after your grandmother passed,” he told Will, “but I don’t imagine anybody’s been there since.” He stopped shaking his head. “You’ve been there?” Will nodded. “In what kind of shape is it?”

“Pretty rough.” This was okay. Give the man a few minutes to prattle on about the house, then announce he’d better get to it. “The bricks are all where they belong…” Now, he told himself, stand back and wait for a cue. He stood in front of Bertie Blom’s pulpit, nodding along with the words that rolled past him, inserting a “yawp” or a “nawp” where it seemed to fit, marveling at how easily the local vernacular crept back into his speech. At hearing, “You’ve got quite a job ahead of you,” Will found his chance to get out the door.

“That’s a fact,” he said brightly, “and it won’t get anywhere with me standing here.” He lifted a hand in farewell and turned.

“Your card.”

Will turned back, picked the card and the receipt from Blom’s fingers and was about to make for the door.

“Quite the character, your mother.”

The air grew dense, too heavy to push through. Will couldn’t ignore him, or even look away.

“Knew each other all our lives, church, Sunday School, you know, then kindergarten and right on up through high school. I was a year ahead, but the schools were so small, you know, we spent a lot of time in the same classes.” Bertie was smiling as he talked.

Will felt his jaw tighten. The smile is genuine, he told himself. It’s benign, harmless. But, with each word, the clench strengthened, creeping up to his ears, descending into his throat.

“After grammar school we rode the bus together to Maastricht for high school. At least once a week– or whenever we could –we’d pile into a car and go to all the games, football, basketball, even the baseball games, just to get out…”

The words came at him. Will heard them, understood them, but as soon as they made it to his ears, they separated from an old shopkeeper’s reminiscence. They churned, torn away from the context of a past Will had never so much as gotten a glimpse of. The memories of an old friend became septic, poisoned by the fetid gunk of his less than fond recollection.

“A driving license didn’t mean much in those days…”

It took Will a moment to recognize he was sliding into a panic attack. Impossible. How long? A dozen years…? Fifteen. His first week at the morgue as a Tech, unzipping a body bag. Blood, brains and hair… The guy was in his kitchen. Did it in front of his kids… It didn’t hit him until he heard “shotgun.” The tunnel vision was kicking in. The man at the counter shrank back, framed in a blur, the mouth moving. Will’s throat grew tighter, threatening to close. Drowning, with lungs full of air. It was this place, this town, this day. Too much, all at once… Blom’s voice became clear again.

“We never missed a dance…

Which led to what? Your first drink? Your first kiss? First feel… first fuck?

Struggling to steady himself, Will raised a hand. There was nothing he could do to stop the tremors. Blom fell silent. “That Marta Rijsbergen wasn’t the one I knew.” Saying it out loud, the name, helped. It pushed her back in her place. “The Marta Rijsbergen I knew was a crazy person.” The air began to move in his chest. “And she was a terrible mother.”

The storekeeper killed his smile, pursing his lips. He said, “I’m sorry, Mister Holliday. I am. I did hear she had some serious problems later in life.”

Will lowered his hand. He followed it with his eyes until he could focus on his crusted shoes. He studied them until the shaking stopped and his breathing was even. When he looked up, Blom’s face was somber, almost shamed.

“I was just trying to let you know that, when she was younger, she was a wonderful friend. I thought the world of her.”

Will bled the tension out of his neck by nodding. He plucked his credit card and the receipt from the counter. Looking only at the paper and plastic, he said. “I’m sure she was, Mister Blom. I’m sure she was.” Turning to leave, he couldn’t allow himself to take a step before adding: “And I’m glad you thought the world of her. It’s good to hear somebody did.”

He walked out, straight to his truck, without looking back.

Will drove to the house. He left the parking lot with no other destination in mind. His only thought was to be mindful of the speed limit. Down the new driveway. He left the keys in the ignition when he swung from the cab. Walking around the back of the vehicle, he caught the handle of the splitting maul and swung it to rest on his shoulder. He entered the house without a glance to the useless kitchen. He instead turned left. He pounded up the stairway to the second floor. He had no concern for the condition of the steps, felt no fear of rotted flooring or weakened studs when he topped the stairs and crossed to the northeast corner bedroom. The door was ajar, and the hinges held when he kicked it wide open. He took scant notice of the pink, flocked wallpaper, curled, stained and faded. It looked to Will no different than it had when he was a boy. The gloves, safety goggles and filter masks were in the bed of the truck. He didn’t think of them. He just hefted the big hammer and swung.