Lake Charles (3 page)
“Why? It was invented to go with fishing.” He peered over Lake Charles. “Why we can’t make it work stumps me.”
His boozing was the flashpoint, but I didn’t address it directly. “She’s high-strung, and you’re laid-back. Your opposites don’t attract but repel.”
Silence came after he shrugged his beefy shoulders in reply.
The honking Canadian geese flying in a vee beat it south against the leafy backdrop of Will Thomas Mountain. Autumn circled nearer, and its chill seeped into my bones. Further off, I espied a smoke banner pluming skyward. It was another forest blaze, but today was a blessing: for a while, I’d forgotten my homicide arrest.
“This trip is shot to shit. Are you ready to go?”
“I guess.” He laughed at his tattoo. “‘Eat more bass!’ Ain’t that a riot?” He reeled in his tackle to stow and stretched back into his T-shirt.
Casting the empties into the dirty lake, I chuckled. “You deserve a rebate on your tattoo.”
“Next time we’ll do better. Race you.”
We dragged up the anchors, revved the engines, and dashed off, zipping neck-and-neck over the water. The gusting wind threatened to peel off our scalps like pot lids. It felt exhilarating. We’d never again share the zest as that last run we made on Lake Charles ending in a dead heat. The late afternoon shadows engulfed the decrepit marina and pavilion. He guided us through the scum zone along the same track we’d cut earlier until our bass boats drew up to the T-dock.
“There’s still no sign of her,” I said.
“She’s goofing by the earth dam. Let her burn off more steam.” He lifted his bulk to the rickety T-dock where he swayed a little but then righted his balance. A hand shielding his eyes, he scanned the margins. “Where in the devil did she go?”
“Here, grab this dock line,” I said, guiding my bass boat to ease up behind his. “She’s been gone for what now, an hour?”
Anxious, he ignored my extended dock line. “At least, I’d say. Her farting around will make us drive home in the dark.”
“So we’ll grab a couple of motel rooms.”
“If we’re lucky but they book up fast in the summer.”
I tied a mariner’s knot to latch my dock line and climbed to the T-dock. “Let’s rack up the boats. We’ll hear her soon.”
“Says who?” He gnawed on a thumbnail.
“Says the percentages.” Brave words but the alarm in his voice had caused my heart to stagger a beat. “Let’s rack up the boats.”
“Screw the boats.” He shambled over the dock planks, and he beckoned me with his hand. “C’mon. Your binoculars can glass the banks.”
My boots punched through the dock planks as I followed him ashore. I wished the telephone in the crooked booth got 911. My binoculars were on the cab’s dashboard, and I rejoined Cobb. He cupped hands to mouth and bellowed out over the expanse of water.
“Edna! Yo, Edna!”
“We’ll hear her engine any minute.”
He turned his ear to Lake Charles, but only the eerie silence enveloped us. Binoculars up, I scanned the shrubby boundaries, and my head wagged. “There’s nothing to see, I’m afraid.”
“She wrecked that crotch rocket.”
His finger jabbed in the directions I should glass next. A landward breeze hosed the algae’s rankness over us. I knew one big reason for his growing anxiety. He’d once told me how much he missed his late mother. A drunk truck driver had T-boned her where her sun visor rod speared her in the temple. He’d been all of eight. Like me, one parent had raised him. My sight fell on our pair of bass boats waiting for us to mount them.
“That algae will be a bitch and a half,” he said.
I nodded. “Then I guess we better get on it.”
Two days before Lake Charles on Thursday as I squirmed in the dentist chair, Edna had cleaned my teeth. We talked, or rather she did. I listened.
“Cobb and I might get back together.”
With a mouthful of her fingers and a dental polishing tool, my responses were eye rolls and nostril flares. Was she tweaking me? Her arch sense of humor kept you wary, but I saw no trace of her smile. Not reacting, I didn’t want her too distracted to slip and gouge my gums. She paused to take a rest. A Nashville hat act twanged a love-gone-to-shit-and-life-is-the-pits song on the audio system, but I preferred listening to the brain-fried dentist office music. She continued speaking as she cleaned my teeth again.
“I haven’t talked to him, so don’t you breathe a word. I’m not clear on what’s what. Huh? Don’t speak, Brendan. Anyways, I’ve been so uptight over it. My muscles get stiff. I stay tense, ready to snap. Huh? Am I bearing down too hard? Sorry.”
I slobbered on the paper bib clasped to my neck before I spat. Did she expect me to go in first and soften him up? Neutral like the Swiss, I knew better than to get embroiled in their marital squabbles. Again, I rinsed and spat.
“Didn’t you two call it quits on the Fourth? Now you talk out the other side of your mouth. What should I think?”
“Well, excuse me all to hell. Can’t I have a change of heart?”
“Like anybody, sure.” After hoisting a leg over the side of the dentist chair, I stood.
Giving me her back, she clattered the steel picks and mouth mirrors to fit them into the autoclave. The tobacco smog wafted in from the waiting room despite the posted “No Smoking!” signs. Some bad habits died hard. She was one gasp away from reaming the smoker a new one but turning, she used a more cordial tone.
“Sorry to yap at you. It may sound ditzy, but I could harbor feelings for him. Don’t we deserve a second shot?”
“Absolutely. You say he has no idea?” My tongue slicked over the cleaned tooth enamel. The gaps between my teeth were natural Dr. Smith had told me during his dental probe.
“Do you men ever have a clue? If only he didn’t drink …”
“Is it that big of a deal?” I asked. “He holds his liquor. He doesn’t miss work. No DWIs.” I didn’t bring up vodka, his new daytime liquor, was an odorless vice.
Thinking, she stared off and then parked her blue-gray eyes on me. She chipped on a smile. “Anyway. Have you sold any songs? Have you heard back yet?”
“A signed letter from Houston Forge Records said professional singers don’t record freelance material. Too many legal snafus arise over the copyrights.”
The clink of metal on metal was her fussing again at the autoclave. “Are you smoking weed again, bro?”
“Are you writing a book?” I asked the back of her red hair.
“Does that mean no, smart ass?”
“You know I went cold turkey. That’s why I’m all jitters.” I balled up the paper bib and slung it in the wastebasket. “You really should fill in Cobb.”
“When I’m ready, I will. In the interim don’t let the cat out of the bag.”
“So noted.” They were big kids yet for some reason I went ahead and floated the suggestion.
“Tomorrow after work, he and I are off to go bass fishing. We’ll stay at the nearby Chewink Motel. Are you busy then?”
She turned, her frank gaze on me, and I caught the touch of a coy smile. “I’m always flexible. Where?”
“Lake Charles.”
“So, I’d do what exactly?”
“Bring your new jet ski and let your hair down.”
“I’d be too busy untangling his lures or picking off the ticks and chiggers. It’s sweet that you asked, but no thanks.”
“Just think on it, but don’t let it get out. Lake Charles is our private getaway.” My scribbled out check covered the damages she gave me.
She stamped the dentist’s name—DR. RONALD SMITH, DDS—on the check. I asked her to pencil in my next six-month appointment, but I knew I’d still forget it. My wave acknowledged her farewell nod.
* * *
I left Dr. Smith’s office, stepping down to Main Street, all four blocks of it. My glance saw the weather-faded letters, “Umpire”, on the century-old brick train depot now refurbished as an upscale restaurant. Our lawyers and doctors dined there, but the menu ran too ritzy for my steak-and-spuds palate and wallet. Grateful Edna hadn’t brought up my arrest, I ambled down the baking sidewalk.
The jut-nosed, young woman in faded dungarees and a sleeveless blouse folded up a wheelchair and stuffed it in her yellow Malibu’s trunk. An infirmed older passenger (her mother?) sitting in the front seat wilted. Friendly, I smiled. They didn’t. Newcomers, I mused as my walk came to a glass-plated shop front.
An air conditioner wheezed in its transom, and the water runoff dribbled down. Pete Rojos waved at me dodging the drips. Inside, I could pick out the old leather from the saddle soap odors blended in the chilled, stale air. He appraised me over a pair of copper-framed glasses smudgy as his windows. His words sounded high-pitched.
“It’s hotter than a roasted fart.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Have you got any plans for the weekend?”
“I’m going fishing up at Lake Charles.”
“Lake Charles … oh, wow … it’s been years.”
I fished out the claim ticket to my boots I’d dropped off for reheeling.
“Puma Claws are the toughest heels I sell.” His rusty voice mimicked the cicadas trilling in the honey locusts. I slipped off my shoes, and he grinned as my sock feet nestled into the malleable boot leather.
“It feels like I’m walking on cotton,” I said.
“You bet your hillbilly ass it does. Puma Claws are the toughest heels I sell,” he said again, only prouder. “You can dance all night, and they won’t wear thin on you. They’re made in the U.S. of A.”
Chuckling, I stamped the boots to seat my heels. “How’s Salem making it?” I gave him my leather shoes I’d worn in to have him reheel.
His raven-haired, sword-legged, and blue-eyed daughter, Salem shipped off in four days to Vanderbilt University in Nashville. She wore a bronze tan well into January, and I’d dated her. She didn’t like pot, but I did, so any serious vibes between us went up in smoke. She lingered as the special girl in my heart.
His eyes hardened into chips of flint. “Why do you give a—”
The cowbells clanked, and my glance followed his to the door. The new cedary Aqua Velva overrode the old leather and saddle soap smells. I took in the tall, big-boned man anywhere between forty and fifty suited in ash gray poplin. My teeth gritted, and I nodded as Herzog slouched beneath the air conditioner spewing down its cool air. His hangdog aura never varied.
“Have you completed my repairs?” he asked Pete. “You stated today at the latest.”
“Count on me to deliver the goods, sir.” He dug out a brown leather game pouch from under the counter. “I pop riveted the shoulder strap back into place. You’re good to go.”
“This year I’m being proactive.” Herzog removed his wallet and paid. “My hunting lodge is scouting the prime sites. Dr. Smith predicts Lake Charles offers phenomenal hunting. We like to park near the earth dam and enter the woods from there.”
“That’s where Brendan is headed this weekend.”
Herzog latched his hangdog look on me as Pete went on.
“Brendan, have you picked any hunting spots?”
“I’m too busy earning a paycheck,” I replied, protective of our new fishing hole at Lake Charles and no wish to see Herzog—or anybody—poking around there. I settled with Pete now back to his easy-natured self. Next time we met, I’d be wise not to mention Salem to him.
Slotting our money into the register, he winked at me. “Herzog is also a weekend hunter.”
“On the contrary. Hunting intrigues me more than practicing law does.” Herzog eyed me. “When do we meet? We return to court two Thursdays from now.”
“I’ve got to be off.” I sidled halfway through the doorway. “Good hunting and cheers, all.”
“Our pre-trial preparation is essential.”
“It’s under control,” I said before the door slapped shut behind me. Walking to my cab truck, I knew Momma Jo had hired Herzog because he quoted her the cheapest rate. But he was a dimwit shyster, and I plain didn’t like him. Too pushy, for one thing.
After I got into my cab truck that still didn’t burn oil, I cranked it and tooled by the plywood-scabbed shops blighting Main Street. Gentrification hadn’t struck yet, but sprawl was a new cancer. Rumbling Caterpillars had busted the sod for a shopping plaza on the old Bishop place across from the trailer park. On principle alone, I’d never even buy a pack of Lifesavers at a chain store.
The twin brick smokestacks to Longerbeam Printery, my employer, spiked into view. The squat adobe building was once the old tannery. Greasy ink fumes now replaced the brackish rankness of the animal hides. Next up was Umpire’s small hospital where Mama Jo put in long hours. It was in many ways, the smells included, like the old tannery. Across the street sat Herzog’s law office, no place I hated more.
A half-block later after my turn, I slowed into a bungalow neighborhood. Black gums, Kentucky coffee trees, and tulip poplars canopied Mama Jo’s chocolate stucco and tidy yard. Trained roses bloomed on the trellis. Her place trumped my furnished flat over Umpire’s taxidermy shop. I tolerated the landlord’s no smoking and no pets rules, but my neighbor Mrs. Wang owned Oscar, a tabby I fed half the time. I’d also sprung for the repairs on the stove and fridge. After no break on the rent, I’d let this month’s slide to pay down on the bass boat.