Signs of Struggle (3 page)

Eagles? I paused. “And the house is available?”

“It will be very expensive, but a bargain,” he said, looking directly into my eyes.

“He must be a wealthy man,” I said, my curiosity piqued by the possibility of eagles at such a place. I had never seen an eagle in the wild.

“He's on the verge of bankruptcy,” Mooning said. “People don’t want to buy quality. He built three homes in the last four years, all on spec, and sold only one, which keeps him from starving, but not for long. He envisions an idea for a kind of house he would like to build, and he builds it for the satisfaction. The man has no mind for business.”

“So who bought the house he did sell?”

“Who do you think?”

“Oh,” I said. I took a deep drink from my glass. Since the deaths of Karen and Annie and Michelle, I drink too much. I admit it. I tell myself I will cut back. I've been telling myself that for eighteen months now, and I mean it. I can go days without, but prefer not to. After all, it's not like I'm inflicting harm on my family.

The third Three Philosophers tasted even better than the first two, smoothing me out. Of course, it was working on my mostly-empty stomach. I dug into the Loony Burger for a while. Then I said, “Sounds like there might be something likable in Gunther Schmidt after all, which would, of course, destroy your biases. You might as well close down the bar, or revise your thinking. Sounds like he possesses strength of character.”

“Nobody likes a failure,” Lunatic replied.

“If he's such a failure, where does he get the capital to build the houses in the first place? Where does he get his construction loans? What banker would loan him money?”

The big Indian snorted. “A banker who happens to be his father-in-law. The house I’ve mentioned is his last. He’s not going to ask anyone for another dime. He’s thinking about going to work down in Dubuque, at the meat-packing plant. A steady paycheck and benefits look pretty good to a young man with a pregnant wife, with child for the first time, even if it does mean driving to Dubuque five or six days a week.”

“You know, you’re sure talkative for an Indian,” I said, half in jest. “I thought all Indians were laconic.”

“Most are. I’m Ojibwa.”

I laughed.

“I believe I got you,” Mooning said.

“I believe so, my Ojibwa acquaintance. Now, is Gunther Schmidt in the phone book?”

“No, but his name is, under ‘Schmidt, Gunther,’ and also in the Yellow Pages, under ‘Builders and Contractors, Schmidt and Sons.’”

“He has sons? I thought his wife was pregnant for the first time.”

Lunatic shrugged his bowling-ball shoulders and said, “A romantic gesture. A hope deferred. A prophecy yet unfulfilled.”

I worked on my burger for a while and silently thanked myself for ordering that second go-around. Then, since I didn't have my cell phone, I slid off the stool to head for the pay phone on the wall back by the bathrooms, wondering why restaurateurs have such a predisposition for placing listening devices near public toilets.

“Something wrong with your food?” Lunatic asked, the edge of challenge in his voice.

I stopped. “No, why?”

“You’re moving away pretty fast.”

“I’m going to call Gunther Schmidt.”

“You can’t reach him by telephone.”

“You just said his name was in the phone book.”

The big man behind the bar shook his head sadly. “I did, but his service was disconnected for non-payment. You are impetuous. You need to gather more information before acting.”

I returned to my lunch and plopped down hard on the stool, totally at the Ojibwa’s mercy. I finished my ale and pointed at the glass. Lunatic provided a fresh Three Philosophers and whisked away the empty glass, replacing it with a clean one. Three ales gone, another to go. I took another bite of the burger, chewing slowly. A near-religious experience. “So how can I get in touch with him to take a look at the house?”

“You can find him in here most evenings. Not a very likable trait, especially with his family getting ready to grow and not having much money left, especially to spend on beer. But a man in that kind of pain needs a few beers now and then, so I only sell him three Millers from the tap and send him on home to Julie.”

“A troubled man needs those three grains of truth.”

“Assuredly.”

Lunatic looked over at Horace and then poured a fresh pint of draft Heineken’s and took it over to the old man, who reached up and patted the bartender on the shoulder and thanked him. Just then, three older men came in together, dressed in expensive golf clothes, and took a window booth.

The men said hello to Lunatic as they settled into their booth. One, a bald man with a good start on a beer belly, said, “Oh,
garçon
, three Specials and a pitcher of Bud Light, and make it snappy.” The other men laughed.

“Coming up,” Lunatic said, coming around behind the bar. He set to work and soon the food was cooking. He poured a pitcher, put three glasses on a tray, and served the men. None said thank you. One said, “And another pitcher when you see this one getting low. Bud Light."

Lunatic ignored the man and came around behind the bar. I hoped he would never look at me with that same expression on his face.

“So the best chance of running into Gunther Schmidt is to come here in the evenings?”

“I congratulate you on your uncanny ability to process information.”

“I accept your congratulations. My self-esteem is soaring like an eagle,” I said. Mooning rolled his eyes. I said, “I’m staying at the Rockbluff Motel for the time being. I was wondering, since you’ve already found the house I want, if you could recommend something a little more commodious in the short run.”

“Harvey Goodell is a regular customer. What’s wrong with his motel?”

“Nothing. I just don’t want to stay there much longer. I’d like to spread out a little bit. Is there a bed and breakfast around?”

“There’s a bed and breakfast across the river and down to your right, near the high school.”

“Thanks. You do, indeed, know all,” I said, poking the last ketchuped French fry into my mouth.

“You’re better off at the motel,” Lunatic said.

“Why?

“The bed and breakfast is called The Serendipity Bed and Breakfast and that should be your first clue. The rooms are filled with doilies, afghans, doll collections, and knick-knacks. The only TV station you can get is The Home and Garden Channel. One overnight and you’ll be saying ‘mahvelous’ all the time. Lady who runs it, Margo Dweibling, is pleasant, in the superficial, insipid manner of a Chamber of Commerce intern.”

“I'll stay at the motel,” I said. “By the way, if Gunther comes in some night and I’m not here, would you give me a call?”

“I’m not a personal services guy.”

“Well then, I guess I’ll be in here tonight for sure,” I said, and turned to my Loony Burger.

Lunatic grunted and left to take another pitcher of Bud Light to the three men, who were talking about their afternoon’s golf game. I emptied my glass. When he came back, I ordered a Heineken, just to clean my palate, drained it, and slid down off the barstool, feeling much better than I felt driving away from Soderstrom’s Rendering Works. I left enough money on the bar to cover the cost of my food and drink and a twenty-dollar tip and hobbled for the door, saying to Mooning in passing, “By the way, I like your Packard. She’s a beauty.” I nodded at Horace Norris and left as the big bartender picked up his newspaper.

I sat in my truck for a moment before starting the engine. The alcohol felt good, blunting the morning's craziness. One more would be even better, I thought, an even six-pack, but I would be returning to The Grain o' Truth in a few hours, and then I could self-medicate a deeper deadening.

I drove back to the motel, suddenly needing a nap.

H
ours later, in my motel room, I sensed a presence even as I slept, a feeling of scrutiny. I woke up. Gotcha was on the bed, staring at me, her face a few inches from mine, her Milk-Bone breath brushing lightly across my face. Her signal. She wanted to go for one of her rare walks. I have learned from experience that when Gotcha wants a walk, she cannot be deterred.

I swung out of bed and checked the time. I had slept four hours. I stretched and yawned, my fingertips seeking out my right hamstring, marginally better. I got rid of my beer, ate four more Advils, headed for the door. Outside, I opened the front passenger’s door of our truck and Gotcha jumped in. We drove downtown. I parked on this side of the Whitetail River, the energetic stream that divided the town, connected by that picturesque bridge. We got out and walked toward the bridge.

At its midpoint, I paused and looked around, enjoying the steady hurry of clear, deep water tumbling and rushing southward over the spillway like praise songs in worship, and then on downstream where a handful of scattered boulders broke the otherwise smooth surface. Gotcha waited at my side. I turned and looked north. A few yards upstream a restaurant on the east side of the river spread out and over the surface of the water, a redwood deck with potted plants offering open air seating. I wondered if they had a bar. In the warm sky I observed a cloud formation that resembled the offensive line of the 2005 Iowa Hawkeyes.

“Well, Gotcha,” I said to the Bulldog who stopped and looked at me, “I’ve had three days of boredom living out of a motel room, and one helluvan interesting morning. I vote for boredom. How ‘bout you?” She returned my gaze and blinked.

We crossed the bridge and turned right, down a street that cut through a middle-class neighborhood of solid frame homes with screened-in front porches. Gotcha rumbled along, leashless, under voice command, brilliant dog. Soon, we were at the high school.

Rockbluff High School, a two-story, block-granite building emptied out for the summer, rose near the banks of the Whitetail River. A broad, sloping lawn extended down to the water. Carefully-tended flower beds, groupings of holly bushes, and several red maple trees accented the campus. Smooth, white, pebble-gravel walkways wandered off in different directions. Redwood picnic tables, green trash cans with beige plastic liners, and a statue of the Red Raider, RHS's team mascot, completed the grounds. The Red Raider appeared to be, based on his hypertrophied musculature and aggressive facial expression, fueled by steroids.

Gotcha led the way down to the water. Inspired by the passing of liquid, she squatted. The river slapped softly against the bank. Far downstream, I could see frothy rapids; upstream, the limestone bridge. Gotcha wandered off to an uncut area of tall grass and weeds and hunkered down. She looks like a football center when she does that, ready to hike the ball. She finished and came to my side. We turned back to the school, crossing deserted parking lots, maneuvered around a corner of the building, and nearly bumped into a woman and her dog.

The lady, petite with short blonde hair and looking like maybe she ran too much for someone in her 40's, stopped suddenly. She wore Bermudas and a baby doll black tee that showed off her light hair. Nice figure. Good proportions. Skimpy sandals completed the outfit. Her toenails were painted bright red. I’m sure there’s another name other than red on the bottle. “Classic Carmine” maybe, or Annie’s favorite, “Matt Adore Red.”
Oh, Annie.
I swallowed hard.

The woman’s right hand fluttered to her face and she said, "Oh, you startled me!" She had blue eyes Karen would have called periwinkle. Her dog, one of those trendy little Jack Russell Terriers, bristled and lunged, held back by the woman’s firm grip on his leather leash. Gotcha wiggled her little corkscrew tail and sat down next to me, prompting pride.

"Sorry," I said. Then, “I like your dog." Which was true. Just not my style. Too noisy. The only thing noisy about Gotcha is her snoring, and even that is soothing.

"Thank you," she replied, working to control the dog. "Milton!" she said firmly, tugging hard once. The dog quickly sat beside her, eyes alert on his owner. "Your dog is very nice, too. English Bulldog?"

"Yes, she is. A bit big for a female, but we didn't buy her for the show ring. We bought her to be our family dog," I said, looking at Gotcha to avoid staring at the attractive woman. The personal information had slipped out, and now I couldn’t retrieve it. An opening I regretted immediately.

"What's her name?"

"Gotcha.”

"I love it!" the woman laughed, smiling at Gotcha. "She's very well behaved. Do you hear that, Milton?” Then, turning away from her dog, "Please excuse my poor manners. My name is Olivia Olson, 'Liv' for short. I teach English here at Rockbluff High."

"Thomas O' Shea."

"Nice to meet you, Thomas. You're new in town. Welcome to Rockbluff."

"How…?"

Liv smiled. "Small town. Everyone knows everyone."

"I should have thought of that," I said.

A smile lit up her face, an engaging, honest smile. "Since this is a small town, and we all know you're new, you might as well come clean with your origins," she said.

"I grew up a little downstate, in Clinton. And you?"

"Right here. Born and raised. Went off to Cedar Falls to get educated and came back here right after I got my M.A. and started teaching, which was many, many years ago. Previous millennium, in fact. My students love to hear my stories about when I was young, shortly after the earth’s crust started to cool."

"I don't think it was too long ago," I said, smiling. She looked fit and energetic, an ex-cheerleader on Surge? I wanted to get out of there and was mad at myself for extending our chat.

Sometimes, at night, dreaming, I think I’m sleeping with Karen, and when I wake up without her beside me, it breaks my heart. For months I was not attracted to women, my libido in solitary confinement somewhere. Maybe Peoria. I would look at females with nice figures, like Liv Olson, but look at them as if I were considering the conformation of a purebred Chesapeake Bay Retriever at the Westminster. I thought I was dying.

She said, "You're very nice to say so, but believe me, it was a long time ago. So where's your family? Will they be joining you when you get a house?"

I was stunned for a moment, but only a moment. Her question was not unexpected. I had made provision for it, so what did I expect?

"You said you acquired Gotcha to be your family dog. I just thought…" her voice faded. My stomach knotted. That will never go away, no matter how often I pray it will. Like St. Paul’s thorn, a permanent thing.

"I did say that, didn't I?" I said, scrambling. "It's true, but I've lost my family, and, um…" I muttered, looking at my hands, then Gotcha, then the ground. I regrouped, sought Liv’s eyes. "They were all killed in an automobile accident a year ago last December, in Georgia. My wife, Karen. My daughters, Annie and Michelle. So I don't have a family any more. Just me and Gotcha now."

"Please forgive me," Liv said, her periwinkle eyes suddenly moist. "I am so sorry," she went on, "I noticed your ring. I was just trying to be…"

"I know. It's okay. You were just trying to be friendly. It's okay, really." I forced a quick smile to help her out. "No harm."

"I'm sorry for being so emotional," she said, her saddened eyes never leaving my face. "It's just that there is so much that can happen to people. Your terrible loss, and now our community loses a wonderful man, you probably heard about it, Hugh Soderstrom, horrible accident on their farm this morning. His wife a young widow."

"It was on the news," I guessed. "A tragedy."

"Yes, it is." She dabbed at her eyes with her fingers. "In any case, it was nice talking to you, Thomas, and I'm glad you've come to live among us. Hope to see you and Gotcha again sometime. Forgive me."

"Nothing to forgive. It was nice talking to you, too. And very nice to meet both of you," I said, my smarmy façade oozing all over the place. I started off and Gotcha swung into step, her distinctive rolling gate proving her pedigree. Olivia Olson took off toward the river with Milton, tugging on the leash to get him to stop admiring Gotcha’s figure and get going in the right direction.

Disgusted with my slip into pathos, my strong conservative ancestry reminded me emotions were not for men from Iowa. After all, Marion Morrison, aka John Wayne, was from Iowa.

With my leg acting up again, we tramped back across the bridge and to our truck. At the motel I took a long shower with plenty of hot-hot water directed to my aching hamstring, ate another half-dozen Advil, stepped into a change of clothes, and watched ESPN. Gotcha took a nap, a month’s worth of exercise completed. I buttoned off the television and left to shuffle the mile and a-half to The Grain o’ Truth. I decided to force my leg to get better by not driving.

It was well after six when I arrived, part of a growing crowd. I smelled steaks and onion rings cooking. Mick Jagger was singing "Under My Thumb" and two couples danced a loosey-goosey freestyle, improvising, light and laughing.

I approached the bar and took the only unoccupied stool between two young couples, the women seated on either side of me. Each ignored me and I thanked God. No demand for small talk, charming
bon mots
or the projection of a persona. Each woman leaned forward to listen to her young man. Talk of the future, talk of tomorrow. Easy lies.

Lunatic Mooning appeared. “If you stick around, you’ll see why so many people come from London, Paris and Vienna to spend their nights in Rockbluff.”

“No doubt. It does feel like it’s starting to throb a little.”
Like my leg
, I thought. I took in the small crowd. Tony Bennett's turn on the jukebox. “I’m a little surprised at their taste in music, however. A bit retro.”

“My place. I stock the jukebox. I try to educate. I want to make a difference.”

“Methinks your place is a gold mine, my Ojibwa acquaintance.”

“I do okay, plus it reinforces my…”

“…belief in the ultimate distastefulness of man,” I said.

A half-smile came to Lunatic’s face. “Your short-term memory appears to be intact. Now, what can I provide you, a Three Philosopher’s, or would you like to order something from the menu, or both?”

“I’m hungry and thirsty, so I think I’ll have a Loony Burger and a pitcher of Corona, if you don’t mind. You’ve got something going with those burgers.”

Lunatic turned to a lady behind the bar and said, “One Special and a pitcher of Corona for our patron, Rachel.” Then he turned back, gestured at Rachel and said, “Rachel, I’d like you to meet Thomas O’Shea. Thomas, Rachel Bergman.”

Rachel vigorously wiped her right hand on her apron and reached across the bar and we shook hands. She had a good, earthy smile. Her dark hair streaked with gray and braided close to her skull made her look efficient. Fifties. Sassy. I liked her face. We exchanged pleasantries and she provided the beer, turned away, and set to my order.

I said to Mooning, “I don’t suppose Gunther Schmidt is here tonight, is he?”

“Not yet. He’s overdue. But he is also random. Feel free to stick around, shoot a little pool, hit on some women. Kick back. He might show.”

“I believe I’ll do some of those things,” I said.

I spent the next hour finishing my food, shooting enough pool to improve a little, and eavesdropping on conversations. I chose not to hit on women, although one, somewhere in the confusion of her late 30’s, did smile at me every time I looked her way. I tried not to look her way. Too old to be a boyfriend, too young to be a daddy sub. I longed for Karen to walk through the door.