Below Zero (2 page)

“Like that dead writer. You know.”

“Lots of dead writers,” Marshall said. “That’s the best kind, you ask me.”

“Sorry to bother you,” the man said affably. “I’m Dave Stenson. My friends in Chicago call me Stenko.”

“Hemingway,”
Sylvia muttered without moving her lips. “
That’s
who I mean.”

“Sorry to bother you at dinnertime. Would it be better if I came back?” Stenson/Stenko said, pausing before getting too close.

Before Sylvia could say yes, Marshall said, “I’m Marshall and this is Sylvia. What can we do for you?”

“That’s the biggest darned motor home I’ve ever seen,” Stenko said, stepping back so he could see it all from stem to stern. “I just wanted to look at it.”

Marshall smiled, and his eyes twinkled behind thick lenses. Sylvia sighed. All those years in the cab of a combine, all those years of corn, corn, corn. The last few years of ethanol mandates had been great! This was Marshall’s reward.

“I’d be happy to give you a quick tour,” her husband said.

“Please,” Stenko said, holding up his hand palm out, “finish your dinner first.”

Said Marshall, “I’m done,” and pushed away from the picnic table, leaving the salad and green beans untouched.

Sylvia thought,
A life spent as a farmer but the man won’t eat vegetables.

Turning to her, Stenko asked, “I was hoping I could borrow a potato or two. I’d sure appreciate it.”

She smiled, despite herself, and felt her cheeks get warm. He had good manners, this man, and those dark eyes . . .

 

 

 

SHE WAS CLEANING UP the dishes on the picnic table when Marshall and Stenko finally came out of the motor home. Marshall had done the tour of The Unit so many times, for so many people, that his speech was becoming smooth and well rehearsed. Fellow retired RV enthusiasts as well as people still moored to their jobs wanted to see what it looked like inside the behemoth vehicle: their 2009 45-foot diesel-powered Fleetwood American Heritage, which Marshall simply called “The Unit.” She heard phrases she’d heard dozens of times, “Forty-six thousand, six hundred pounds gross vehicle weight . . . five hundred horses with a ten-point-eight-liter diesel engine . . . satellite radio . . . three integrated cameras for backing up . . . GPS . . . bedroom with queen bed, satellite television . . . washer/dryer . . . wine rack and wet bar even though neither one of us drinks . . .”

Now Marshall was getting to the point in his tour where, he said, “We traded a life of farming for life in The Unit. We do the circuit now.”

“What’s the circuit?” Stenko asked. She thought he sounded genuinely interested. Which meant he might not leave for a while.

Sylvia shot a glance toward the SUV. She wondered why the people inside didn’t get out, didn’t join Stenko for the tour or at least say hello. They weren’t very friendly, she thought. Her sister in Wisconsin said people from Chicago were like that, as if they owned all the midwestern states and thought of Wisconsin as their own personal recreation playground and Iowa as a cornfield populated by hopeless rubes.

“It’s
our
circuit,” Marshall explained, “visiting our kids and grand-kids in six different states, staying ahead of the snow, making sure we hit the big flea markets in Quartzsite, going to a few Fleetwood rallies where we can look at the newest models and talk to our fellow owners. We’re kind of a like a club, us Fleetwood people.”

Stenko said, “It’s the biggest and most luxurious thing I’ve ever been in. It’s amazing. You must really get some looks on the road.”

“Thank you,” Marshall said. “We spent a lifetime farming just so we . . .”

“I’ve heard a vehicle like this can cost more than six hundred K. Now, I’m not asking you what you paid, but am I in the ballpark?”

Marshall nodded, grinned.

“What kind of gas mileage does it get?” Stenko asked.

“Runs on diesel,” Marshall said.

“Whatever,” Stenko said, withdrawing a small spiral notebook from his jacket pocket and flipping it open.

What’s he doing?
Sylvia thought.

“We’re getting eight to ten miles a gallon,” Marshall said. “Depends on the conditions, though. The Black Hills are the first mountains we hit going west from Iowa, and the air’s getting thinner. So the mileage gets worse. When we go through Wyoming and Montana—sheesh.”

“Not good, eh?” Stenko said, scribbling.

Sylvia knew Marshall disliked talking about miles per gallon because it made him defensive.

“You can’t look at it that way,” Marshall said, “you can’t look at it like it’s a car or a truck. You’ve got to look at it as your house on wheels. You’re moving your own house from place to place. Eight miles per gallon is a small price to pay for living in your own house. You save on motels and such like that.”

Stenko licked his pencil and scribbled. He seemed excited. “So how many miles do you put on your . . . house . . . in a year?”

Marshall looked at Sylvia. She could tell he was ready for Stenko to leave.

“Sixty thousand on average,” Marshall said. “Last year we did eighty.”

Stenko whistled. “How many years have you been doing this circuit as you call it?”

“Five,” Marshall said. “But this is the first year in The Unit.”

Stenko ignored Sylvia’s stony glare. “How many more years do you figure you’ll be doing this?”

“That’s a crazy question,” she said. “It’s like you’re asking us when we’re going to die.”

Stenko chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

She crossed her arms and gave Marshall a
Get rid of him
look.

“You’re what, sixty-five, sixty-six?” Stenko asked.

“Sixty-five,” Marshall said. “Sylvia’s . . .”

“. . . approximately the same age,” Stenko said, finishing Marshall’s thought and making another note. “So it’s not crazy to say you two might be able to keep this up for another ten or so years. Maybe even more.”

“More,” Marshall said, “I hope.”

“I’ve got to clean up,” Sylvia said, “if you’ll excuse me.” She was furious at Stenko for his personal questions and at Marshall for answering them.

“Oh,” Stenko said, “about those potatoes.”

She paused on the step into the motor home and didn’t look at Stenko when she said, “I have a couple of bakers. Will they do?”

“Perfect,” Stenko said.

She turned. “Why do you need
two
potatoes? Aren’t there three of you? I see two more heads out there in your car.”

“Sylvia,” Marshall said, “would you please just get the man a couple of spuds?”

She stomped inside and returned with two and held them out like a ritual offering. Stenko chuckled as he took them.

“I really do thank you,” he said, reaching inside his jacket. “I appreciate your time and information. Ten years on the road is a long time. I envy you in ways you’ll never understand.”

She was puzzled now. His voice was warm and something about his tone—so sad—touched her. And was that a tear in his eye?

 

 

 

INSIDE THE HYBRID SUV,
the fourteen year-old girl asked the man in the passenger seat, “Like
what
is he doing up there?”

The man—she knew him as Robert—was in his mid-thirties. He was handsome and he knew it with his blond hair with the expensive highlights and his ice-cold green eyes and his small, sharp little nose. But he was shrill for a man his age, she thought, and had yet to be very friendly to her. Not that he’d been cruel. It was obvious, though, that he’d rather have Stenko’s undivided attention. Robert said, “He told you not to watch.”

“But why is he taking, like, big potatoes from them?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

Robert turned and pierced her with those eyes. “They’ll act as silencers and muffle the shots.”

“The shots?” She shifted in the back seat so she could see through the windshield better between the front seats. Up the hill, Stenko had turned his back to the old couple and was jamming a big potato on the end of a long-barreled pistol. Before she could speak, Stenko wheeled and swung the weapon up and there were two coughs and the old man fell down. The potato had burst and the pieces had fallen so Stenko jammed the second one on. There were two more coughs and the woman dropped out of sight behind the picnic table.

The girl screamed and balled her fists in her mouth.

“SHUT UP!” Robert said, “For God’s sake, shut up.” To himself,
I knew bringing a girl along was a bad idea. I swear to God I can’t figure out what goes on in that brain of his.

She’d seen killing, but she couldn’t believe what had happened. Stenko was so
nice.
Did he know the old couple? Did they say or do something that he felt he had to defend himself? A choking sob broke through.

Robert said, “He should have left you in Chicago.”

 

 

 

SHE COULDN’T STOP CRYING and peeking even though Robert kept telling her to shut up and not to watch as Stenko dragged the two bodies up into the motor home. When the bodies were inside Stenko closed the door. He was in there a long time before tongues of flame licked the inside of the motor home windows and Stenko jogged down the path toward the SUV.

She smelled smoke and gasoline on his clothes when he climbed into the cab and started the motor.

“Man,” he said, “I hated doing that.”

Robert said, “Move out quick before the fire gets out of control and somebody notices us. Keep cool, drive the speed limit all the way out of here . . .”

She noticed how panicked Robert’s tone was, how high his voice was. For the first time she saw that his scalp through his hair was glistening with sweat. She’d never noticed how thin his hair was and how skillfully he’d disguised it.

Stenko said, “That old couple—they were kind of sweet.”

“It had to be done,” Robert said quickly.

“I wish I could believe you.”

Robert leaned across the console, his eyes white and wild. “Trust me, Dad. Just trust me. Did they give you the numbers?”

Stenko reached into his breast pocket and flipped the spiral notebook toward Robert. “It’s all there,” he said. The girl thought Stenko was angry.

Robert flipped through the pad, then drew his laptop out of the computer case near his feet. He talked as he tapped the keys. “Sixty to eighty thousand miles a year at eight to ten miles per gallon. Wow. They’ve been at it for five years and planned to keep it up until they couldn’t. They’re both sixty-five, so we could expect them to keep driving that thing for at least ten to fifteen years, maybe more.”
Tap-tap-tap.

“They were farmers from Iowa,” Stenko said sadly. “Salt of the earth.”

“Salt of the earth?”
Robert said. “You mean plagues on the earth! Christ, Dad, did you see that thing they were driving?”

“They called it The Unit,” Stenko said.

“Wait until I get this all calculated,” Robert said. “You just took a sizable chunk out of the balance.”

“I hope so,” Stenko said.

“Any cash?”

“Of course. All farmers have cash on hand.”

“How much?”

“Thirty-seven hundred I found in the cupboard. I have a feeling there was more, but I couldn’t take the time. I could have used your help in there.”

“That’s not what I do.”

Stenko snorted. “I
know.
”

“Thirty-seven hundred isn’t very much.”

“It’ll keep us on the road.”

“There’s that,” Robert said, but he didn’t sound very impressed.

As they cleared the campground, the girl turned around in her seat. She could see the wink of orange flames in the alcove of pines now. Soon, the fire would engulf the motor home and one of the people in the campground would see it and call the fire department. But it would be too late to save the motor home, just as it was too late to save that poor old couple. As she stared at the motor home on fire, things from deep in her memory came rushing back and her mouth dropped open.

“I said,” Stenko pressed, looking at her in the rearview mirror, “you didn’t watch, did you? You promised me you wouldn’t watch.”

“She lied,” Robert said. “You should have left her in Chicago.”

“Damn, honey,” Stenko said. “I didn’t want you to watch.”

But she barely heard him through the roaring in her ears. Back it came, from where it had been hiding and crouching like a night monster in a dark corner of her memory.

The burning trailer. Screams. Shots. Snow.

And a telephone number she’d memorized but that had remained buried in her mind just like all of those people were buried in the ground all these years . . .

She thought:
I need to find a phone.

 

 

FIVE DAYS LATER, ON A SUN-FUSED BUT MELANCHOLY SUNDAY afternoon before the school year began again the next day, seventeen-year-old Sheridan Pickett and her twelve-year-old sister, Lucy, rode double bareback in a grassy pasture near the home they used to live in. Their summer-blond hair shone in the melting sun, and their bare sunburned legs dangled down the sides of their old paint horse, Toby, as he slowly followed an old but well-trammeled path around the inside of the sagging three-rail fence. The ankle-high grass buzzed with insects, and grasshoppers anticipated the oncoming hooves by shooting into the air like sparks. He was a slow horse because he chose to be; he’d never agreed with the concept that he should be ridden, even if his burden was light, and considered riding to be an interruption of his real pursuits, which consisted of eating and sleeping. As he walked, he held his head low and sad and his heavy sighs were epic. When he revealed his true nature by snatching a big mouthful of grass when Sheridan’s mind wandered, she pulled up on the reins and said, “Damn you, Toby!”