Signs of Struggle (5 page)

"Don’t people talk about you, avoid you in the supermarket, move to a crowded booth when you walk in The Grain o' Truth?"

"Truth is, smarty-pants, people seem to like it. Gives them something to talk about. And, an added bonus, since my motives are altruistic, sales are up. Seeing a corpse every now and then makes people think. I've been a member of ‘The Million Dollar Round Table’ every year since I started dying on impulse. Never was before. Life is good in America when you're willing to sacrifice a little."

"What a country."

"That's the gospel truth." Arvid watched a fat black ant walk across the shaft of a blade of grass and disappear into the undergrowth beneath his chin.

"I'll quit bugging you and go on my way now. See you later," I said.

"Not if you're a tourist you won't," Arvid muttered, snorting, working at snorting. Maybe the ant was interested in one of his nostrils.

"I'm not a tourist, I’m a new resident." I stretched my back and put some weight on my right leg, turned away, and hobbled down to the wrought iron gate, opened it, stepped through onto the sidewalk, and closed the gate behind me. "So," I called back to the man in the yard, "I'm going, feeling really dumb talking to an amateur corpse."

"Artiste!"

"See ya!"

"And if you do see me and I'm not upright and mobile, leave me alone," Arvid said, his raised voice muffled by the plant life pushing up against his face.

"I'll leave you as you fell!" I shouted, crossing back over the street, climbing behind the wheel of my truck, and heading on into town.

I parked in the nearly-empty lot at Lunatic's place. I had just stepped onto the slate front porch and reached for the door when a silver Corvette, filmed with dust, skidded into the parking lot and lurched to a stop, the engine killed by the driver’s misuse of the clutch. A lean young man, late twenties, shaved head, earrings, lunged out of the car and started toward me. He held something in his hand, and as he drew nearer, I noticed that it was a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap. He popped it on his head and turned the bill backwards.

He wore jeans, a sleeveless red t-shirt, and cowboy boots. Several tattoos decorated his thin arms. I turned to go inside, heard the man running up behind me.

“Move it!” he muttered. I stepped back. He rushed by me and bulled his way inside. A tattoo of an elaborate cross graced the back of his neck. The smell of whiskey was strong.

I drifted inside, nodded at a stunned-looking Horace Norris, and edged over to the bar, not quite as hungry as I had been. The kid sat on a stool at the bar, so I took a seat around a corner from him, both to keep distance and to observe.

Moon moved over in front of the young man and put his hands on the bar. "Larry, I'm sorry about your brother. He was a good man."

"You sayin' I ain't a good man, Injun? What would you know about it?"

Mooning raised an eyebrow, said, "I liked your brother, that's all. I am sorry he's dead. What can I get for you?"

"Everyone acts like Hugh was some kind of a saint or something, which he wasn't. If you only knew. Now, gimme a pitcher of Bud Light and a glass, and shut up about my brother."

Lunatic looked at the man for a moment, then filled his order. The Ojibwa’s eyes had changed. Somehow blacker, more intense. Almost glittering.

Larry said, "I bet you'd throw a party, drinks on the house, if I got run over by a mower."

"Hugh was a good man. You aren't."

“Mighty good at judging people, aren’tcha? So easy when you’re perfect, right?”

Larry poured his pint glass full and chugged the contents, refilled the glass, looked around. At me. “What are you staring at, Pops?”

I wondered about “Pops,” first time ever I’ve been called that, but I just said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that I might have seen you before. Recently,” I said, thinking more about his silver Corvette than its driver. Someone had had to be behind the wheel the day before.

“I doubt it. I ain’t never seen you. You’re new around here, am I right?”

“Yes,” I said, “I am. Too bad about your brother. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Ain’t no big deal, dude,” he said. He drank down half his beer and looked around the bar. His gaze came back to rest on the big Indian. He jerked his head at me and said to Lunatic, “See, the man over there has some manners. Common decency. But you gotta go judging people.”

Lunatic Mooning said, “A great writer once wrote that the truth doesn’t change according to one’s ability to stomach it.”

Larry glared at Moon and then threw the half-empty glass at the Ojibwa bartender, who dodged. The glass shattered on the bar behind him, breaking several glasses, beer and foam spraying. When I looked back from the damage, Larry had a stiletto in his hand.

When Lunatic came up from his crouch, he was holding a pistol grip, pump action, sawed-off shotgun. He chambered a round, and pointed it with one big hand at Larry’s chest. Larry froze, his eyes spitting hatred. At that point my appetite was completely forgotten, but I was suddenly very thirsty.

Mooning said, “Larry, most people I shoot don’t begin to smell until after they’re dead, but you’re clearly the exception. One more step and you’ll be the latest addition to my compost pile. Now get out and go on and don’t ever come back in here again. You can do your drinking at Shlop’s. I am sorry about your brother, but as for you, well, you're just plain sorry. Now go, and stay gone."

A stream of curses spewed from Larry's mouth. Lunatic said, "If you throw that pigsticker, I'm pulling the trigger. Swear to God. I'll survive. You won't. I said leave and don't ever come back. You may leave the knife here on the bar."

Larry looked around, his eyes bloodshot and mean. He looked at me. "What you lookin' at, jerk?"

"I think you have supplied the operant word," I said.

Larry looked confused. "Don't mess with me, man. You'll be sorry. I’ll take you out in a heartbeat. I’ll remember you."

“Same here,” I said, my heartbeat jacking up.

There was more invective from Larry, who stabbed the stiletto into the bar, spun off his barstool, and strode out the door. No one said anything until a big engine roared to life outside, tires squealed on parking lot blacktop, and sound receded.

Moon put the shotgun back out of sight, carefully wiggled the stiletto loose from the bar, then stashed it out of sight. He ran his fingertips over the place where Larry had planted the knife.

"You have now met Larry Soderstrom, the brother from the dark side. Sorry I could not introduce you two formally. A social faux pas I will forever regret."

"He appears to have issues."

“He is a stinking mass of putrescence. And that’s on his good days. The wrong brother died.”

"You knew Hugh, I guess."

"He put to the test my theory on the ultimate distastefulness of man. An anomaly."

"What about his wife, Wendy?"

"Jury's still out. How did you know her name? Oh, you must have seen it on the news."

"I met her, sort of."

Mooning's eyes locked onto me with serious interest, and I wasn't sure I could be comfortable for very long with that look. He said, "How?"

"There you go with that Ojibwa talk again."

He cocked his head and did not smile.

"I was there. Just before EMS pulled in. And Molly something, a preacher's wife."

"Molly Heisler."

I nodded. "I saw Hugh on the ground. The tractor had run off into a ditch. The engine was still running."

Moon said nothing for a full minute. Then he said, "Larry was out there too?"

"I met a silver Corvette on the road just before I rounded a bend before the Soderstrom farm. I was admiring the mailbox when I saw Wendy running down the lane, blood-soaked. I tried to help. Too late. How many silver Corvettes do you have around here?"

The big Ojibwa bartender looked at me, tilted his head toward the front door. "Just that one." Then he turned to the mess and began cleaning up.

H
orace Norris piped up from across the room, “That’s the most fun I’ve had since the Hawks beat the Heels in the Dean Dome. Now, that’s entertainment!” he said, laughing and shaking his head. He took a long slug from his beer, smacked his lips in deep satisfaction, grinned and said, “When I can enjoy a cold beer and good food and watch Moon face down a second-rate hoodlum, there’s nothing more I can ask for in the day. So I say to you, Mr. O’Shea, the top o’ the mornin’.”

“And the rest o’ the day to you, Squire Norris.”

Horace was wired. "It is sooo satisfying to see good triumphing over evil, experience prevailing over sickening youth, and all that. So rare these days.” Horace lifted his beverage high in a wobbly salute, spilled a little down the outside of the pint and onto his hand, ignored it, and said, “My compliments, gentlemen.”

Moon rolled his eyes. I nodded in Horace's general direction.

“You know,” Horace said, “if he’d taken Moon out and got by you, I would have finished him off myself. You need to know I got your back.”

“I know you do,” I said, “and that’s a comfort.”

Horace nodded and reached for his food. Then he looked up and said, “Moon, great quote from Flannery O’Connor.” He turned back to his food and I turned back to the bar, impressed.

I said to Lunatic, “That pigsticker was a surprise."

“He keeps the stiletto in his boot. It wouldn’t have surprised you if you were from around here.”

“So tell me about Larry.”

“He is not Evil personified. He’s not as intimidating as I think Evil in the flesh would be. He’s about two or three notches below that due to his physical and mental shortcomings,” Lunatic said. “I am not, as you may have noticed, a talkative man, and to tell you about Larry is not a quick thing,” he said, his baritone radio announcer’s voice somber.

“Good thing you’re Ojibwa and not laconic.”

Mooning looked like he was about to smile, fought it off. “Larry Soderstrom is what you palefaces call, in the precision of your rich therapeutic professional vocabulary, a ‘wacko.’ He’s rich, lazy, corrupt, and an embarrassment to his family.”

“He is Hugh Soderstrom’s brother, though, isn’t he?”

“Larry is that. Hungry yet?"

"I am. Two Loony Burgers and a Diet Coke."

“Going on the wagon?"

“Good question. Come to think of it, the answer is no. Switch out the Diet Coke for a Samuel Adams Boston Lager if you have any, please.”

"If I have any? There you go again with that. You should know better by now," Mooning said.

I like to tweak Mooning, implying his inventory of beer is insufficient for my sophisticated palate. He set the burgers on the grill and started the fries, then poured and placed a dark pint of Sam Adams on the bar in front of me.

I said, “Moon—may I call you ‘Moon’?” The big Indian paused, nodded. An inroad extended. I took it. “Moon, I was the first person on the scene. I came upon Wendy, screaming and covered in blood and running down their lane. She had called EMS but they weren’t there yet. I stopped.”

“The news on the radio did not mention you,” Moon said.

I shrugged. “So tell me more about the family.”

“Hugh and Larry’s parents died ten, eleven years ago, but even then I think they knew the younger son would turn out badly. But nothing like he is today, a nearly perfected piece of crap. Inherited half of Soderstrom Farms, which is slightly less acreage than Connecticut. Rents out his half so he won’t have to work, spends the proceeds on wine, cheap; women, also cheap; and song, mostly Heavy Metal. Nothing from him would surprise me.”

I tasted the beer and asked, “And Hugh got the other half.”

“Yes. Hugh Soderstrom loved the land and worked it well and smart, revered the Christian version of The Great Spirit, seemed to delight in his wife, hoped for children. Always bailing Larry out of what we in Rockbluff euphemistically call ‘scrapes’.”

“Did Hugh come in here?”

“Regularly. Brought Wendy in after a day of shopping, or for random lunch breaks. Treated her well. Adoration is the word that fits.”

“What about her toward him?”

“Love, I think, but not as fervent. Many marriages consist of one person loving the other and the other allowing it. That’s the feeling I had about them, and that’s not to put her down. She was very nice, very polite, witty.”

“So when did Larry start screwing up?”

“Right after his parents died, he started to drift, then ran completely off the tracks. I hate to show leniency toward his behavior, Thomas, but having a brother like Hugh was impossible to live up to. So he just gave up and didn’t try. Decided to be his own person, you might say. Followed the line of least resistance. He had the added benefit of wealth to cushion his fall.”

Moon moved away, put my lunch together, brought it to me. I finished my beer and another appeared. Moon said, "Sheriff might want to know about the silver Corvette."

"Deputy Doltch told me it was an accident. Couldn't be anything else."

"Probably was, but I have trouble with Hugh falling off his tractor. It doesn’t make sense."

"What's the sheriff like?" I asked, digging into my food.

“Nice guy, tough, but a little too willing to discuss situations instead of bringing a forearm up under the chin,” Moon replied. “Sees himself as part of the new wave of law enforcement professionals who get to the root causes of crime while invoking minimal reminders to the lawbreakers which, in my opinion, encourages them. Prides himself on a low crime rate, but that’s not much to hang his hat on. This is a nice town with people who respect the law. If it were up to me, there’d only be one report to make if Larry came for me, and that would be from the Rockbluff County Coroner.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not, and Larry knows it.”

“How does he know that?” I asked.

The big Indian leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar in front of me, the muscles of his chest rolling and merging into thick biceps and shoulders and brawny forearms. “Because I told him a long time ago I would kill him if he ever started with me.” Moon’s eyes looked darker somehow. "He knows Chief Justice appears only when the intent is to be used."

"Chief Justice?"

"My shotgun."

“Wouldn’t a forearm up under the chin be an effective deterrent to Larry?”

“For most guys, yes, but with Larry, it would only persuade him to retaliate in some gutless way. That knife is a good example, and he usually has a box cutter in his other boot. My Mossberg,” Mooning nodded in the general direction of under the counter, “is not a prop.”

“Well,” I said, picking up my beer and lifting it toward the bartender, “I don’t want to get too emotional about it, but I was glad you cooled him off.”

“Emotions are deceptive, unreliable,” Moon said. “I just want to keep my business enterprise under control, and Larry was way over the line.”

“It’s a relief to know you run a tight ship.” I studied the vintage electric Hamm’s sign on the far wall, a classic depiction of a northern waterfall in the woods, the bright blue water looking as if it were actually tumbling over the rocks. The sign had to be at least forty years old. I finished off my Sam Adams and held up my glass again. “The possibility of violence always makes me thirsty. Dehydration from sweat breaking out all over my body in anticipation of my becoming an injured bystander,” I said. “Plus peeing my pants. Two more Sam Adams will facilitate my recovery from emotional trauma.”

Moon straightened, strode partway down the bar, reached into a cooler underneath, and pulled out two bottles. He popped the caps and set them up, pouring one into my empty pint glass.

“You didn’t piss your pants, Thomas. And I doubt you broke out in a sweat. You did not appear to be concerned.”

“But I was a little more focused than usual when Larry pulled out his knife.”

Lunatic just shook his head. “Food okay?”

With both hands, I picked up my first Loony Burger and bit into it. My taste buds had a dancing party in my mouth as I chewed and swallowed. I drained half of my third beer. Moon watched me, amused.

I said, “The food’s okay. By the way, may I just call you ‘Loon Moon’ for short?”

“No.”

I savored more of the Loony Burger as Moon studied the nick in the bar, running his finger back and forth on the blemish. He was scowling. I finished my beer and poured the next one, and on impulse I told Moon about the pair of bald eagles, and how one had been diving and rolling for several minutes, and then the other had joined and the two huge raptors had locked talons and plunged together.

Moon’s eyes took on a deeper interest. He stared to the point of my discomfort, but I did not look away. I was afraid if I broke eye contact, it would be an insult to the Ojibwa, and Moon would put down his head and charge. The mission oak bar would be only a brief barrier.

Finally, he spoke. “You have lost loved ones.”

I flinched. I had never mentioned Karen or Annie or Michelle. And even though I had mentioned my loss to Liv Olson, and this was a small town, I didn’t get the feeling that Lunatic knew yet.

He said, “The bald eagle, my people call him ‘
Mi-Ge-Zi
,’ is sacred. Everything about him is sacred. He went, on his own, as an emissary to The Great Spirit long ago, flying to The Creator’s world beyond the sun, because he had heard The Creator was going to destroy my people for doing that which insults the universal harmony established by The Great Spirit.

“Mi-Ge-Zi intervened for my people, who were then known as the Anishinabe, and asked The Creator to send teachers to show us how to live respectful lives. They were called Elders, and helped restore the Anishinabe, also called Chippewa, to harmony in the universe. My people believe what you saw are the spirits of those you have lost, communicating to you that all is well with them in the world of The Great Spirit. It is a rare thing to see, and a most rare thing for you—a white man—to see.”

I heard the faint, soft tumble of the Whitetail River outside, behind and below the building. I heard a car go by. Moon’s narrative, although based upon a belief system other than my own, was to me a confirmation of what I felt to be true. A comfort, and I held onto it. Every little bit, you know.

“Who did you lose?” he asked, his voice soft. There was keen interest in his eyes.

“My wife, Karen. Both daughters, Annie and Michelle. Killed in an auto accident in Atlanta. A year ago last December. Annie was sixteen, Michelle twelve.”

Moon nodded. “I am sorry,” he said. “It is a sad thing to lose one’s woman and children. You have no other children?”

“No.”

“Why are you in Iowa?”

“Born here. Raised here. No reason to stay in Georgia. Just wanted to get back and regroup in the peace and quiet of small-town Iowa, home of suspicious farm deaths and nutbergers who fake death in their front yard. That kind of thing.”

“You met Arvid.”

“Strange bird. Yeah, Iowa’s been pretty swell to me since I got back here, just a few days ago, actually. Just super peaceful.”

“It is a good place,” Lunatic said. “A beautiful land.”