The Big Seven

by Jim Harrison

  He didn’t so much like the idea but his state police boss and a favorite professor in criminology had insisted that he was a fine detective because he could think like a criminal—he was totally opportunistic and understood the preferences of the local element. Any criminal with ill-gotten gains wanted to spend some money. It was burning up his pants pockets and the choices were limited for free spending. Several times he had found them broke and sober in Sault Ste. Marie. The local criminal element had thought that blacks might murder them in Detroit which was anyway a full day’s drive. Chicago was also too far. Milwaukee was an occasional choice for those stupid enough to think they were safe in another state. Minneapolis was unknowable and huge and thought to be boring by the criminal population though it would have been smarter to go where they could get lost.

  When he was growing up Marquette people thought the strip clubs of Escanaba a hotbed of evil which made Sunderson desperately want to go to them. He announced to his parents that he and his friends were going fishing and camping, but they headed straight for Escanaba to see mysteries revealed. Later in life after a Tigers ball game he had gone to one in Detroit that was far better and more stimulating than anything the Great North offered. There were actually beautiful strippers in Detroit, not tired hags that looked as if they were going to drop dead from drugs and fatigue. The best ever, though, was an amateur night with a good prize in Escanaba where at his very feet a pretty girl had struggled and writhed to get out of her tight jeans. She was a bit classy which increased the lust. He was happy when she won the fifty-dollar prize and tried to imagine her in his sleeping bag beside the Ford River.

  Sault Ste. Marie had the advantage of being close, an attractive town with some cheap flophouses and motels. You need only drive across the river to be in the Canadian Soo which featured an absolutely major league strip club where you could exhaust your wallet. There were many girls of startling beauty, nearly all French-Canadian from Montreal. Sunderson had been thrilled the first time he went there when he heard them speaking French together as if he was in a foreign country. Which he supposed he was. He bought a lap dance with money earned at a buck an hour. He was only eighteen at the time. The girl was the best-looking and couldn’t have been more than eighteen herself. She got on his chair nude, straddling his legs on the chair with her back to him. She bent way over placing her entire article on his nose. He was thrilled nearly to the point of fainting. In general he disliked strip clubs but this was an exception. The girls were fresh and in fine shape. Unfortunately one of his friends lipped off to the bouncer, a huge Native American, or in Canada they are called First Citizens, and got thrown about thirty yards into the parking lot where he was knocked out colliding with a pickup. The story naturally got inflated to a fistfight but the friend never would go to the strip club again. He admitted calling the bouncer “Tonto” and Sunderson quipped, “Must be he didn’t like the name” to everyone’s laughter.

  Chapter 16

  Monica came home and threw herself on him in the bed. He carefully explained he wasn’t feeling well because he had eaten three pasties very fast. She was disappointed especially when she noticed that two people had had dinner and he admitted to Delphine’s company.

  “That big slut is after you,” Monica shrieked.

  “Monica, take that back. She’s a married woman.” He wasn’t ready to level with her.

  “Everyone in town but you knows that she would fuck a rock pile if there was a snake in it,” she said, a witticism from the north.

  To calm things down they took a long stroll down to a beach on Lake Superior. It was a warmish evening and the lake was placid as it rarely is. The last time he had been there, there were still frozen mounds of snow on the shoulder and huge mounds of plowed snow piled up in beach parking lots. Sunderson recalled as a child digging in a sand dune near Grand Marais and coming upon a huge trove of snow and ice in July. Sunderson loved the little harbor village of Grand Marais where sometimes they had enough money to rent a cabin for a week or two when he was a kid. It was crowded and he always slept on the floor in his sleeping bag. They swam and fished for a weekend with him helping out his brother who was missing a leg.

  Monica sat down on a bench and whispered, “I have to tell you something. I think I’m pregnant,” and Sunderson thought he would vomit. She said she thought she had gotten pregnant before she moved to Marquette with him, probably with Lemuel. Her ready admission startled him. Lemuel knew and had offered to take care of her in his big home. It would be pleasant as long as she could avoid everyone else. She felt stupid and careless for getting pregnant with her uncle of all people and wished it had been Sunderson. He couldn’t say how happy and relieved he felt that it wasn’t, which would have been a disaster at his age. He had to assume that she was being honest about the matter. Lemuel had told him that the buyers’ estate had called in the sheriff’s office when Bert wouldn’t surrender the land. They were on the way and would seize the other two houses but not his.

  Sunderson reflected that the rest of this family bumbled and mumbled their way through life while Lemuel pinned it down. It was amazing how many men were slovenly fuckups. Diane had always taken care of all details in regard to insurance, taxes, etc., for him and he was sure Lemuel was good at these, too, while the rest of the family was out to lunch. He himself had needed Marion’s advice with some of his own paperwork. The world, of course, was full of needless details. When a questionnaire asks for your mother-in-law’s maiden name you should look for the dynamite.

  His thoughts were confused about Monica’s pregnancy. Losing her made him forget his vow, but when he made love to her now he was soft and gentle. In the moment before she dropped the Lemuel bomb he had readily assumed he was the father. It didn’t seem all that bad but then he had never fathered a child much to the disgust of his mother who thought all marriages should be breeding factories. Now there was a certain melancholy in the fact that he probably wasn’t the father doomed to a hundred years of child support. He could see himself holding the baby and giving a bottle as he had seen men do at the grocery store. There would be a newspaper headline reading “Older Father Completes Spawning Run.” What was the source of the melancholy? He reminded himself again not to want things except fishing and maybe his neighbor’s gorgeous ass. He could imagine that after a lifelong affair how Lemuel’s years in prison hurt Monica, sitting around reading about Mexico and cooking for mongrels, waiting for him to come home.

  He received a call from Smolens who sounded delighted that Bert had just received sentences totaling thirty years. Wow. He thought of a childhood song, “If I had the wings of an angel, over these prison walls I would fly.” When Bert got out he would be over ninety, too old to shoot. He felt as happy as he had about Mona’s drummer being locked up in France. He called Lemuel to suggest that he take Monica to Mexico on a honeymoon of sorts. Lemuel reminded him that he was the sort of convicted felon that didn’t have a passport. Could Sunderson do it? With the baby coming it might be Monica’s last chance. Lemuel also said he’d be glad to finance the trip but he’d rather they go to Toronto and see museums. Sunderson felt a little deflated after having his bright idea rejected out of necessity.

  A few days later Mexico was resolved. Berenice called to say that their mother had had a severe stroke and was in Tucson Heart Hospital and wanted to see him. He doubted the latter not having got along well with her since he was a teen and especially since the little incident with the dancing girl at his retirement party, but he considered that visiting her would put him practically in Mexico anyway.

  Late at night a few days later Sunderson was awoken by useless and absurd memories of the past, such as his puzzlement at seven or eight years old over the song “I’d Like to Get You on a Slow Boat to China.” While they were fooling around who was going to run the boat? Were they just turning around and coming back? You couldn’t fish on these big boats. It was too far to the water. What would they eat? Did songwri
ters know what confusion they caused among children? His whole class would sing “The Spanish Cavalier” and nobody had any idea what a cavalier was. How many of these kids would ever leave the country? In high school civics they spent an entire month on the United Nations, a real snoozer. The teacher had seen the actual United Nations in New York but couldn’t manage to get any of his excitement across. He loved to say “Dag Hammarskjöld” in a heavy Scandinavian accent. He must have sensed the utter futility of what he was doing.

  Drifting back and forth in the incoherence of his mind he had the alarming realization that Lemuel had mentioned to him in passing that he had had his tubes tied, a vasectomy, to avoid paternity suits. Sunderson had thought it paranoid at the time, but now it struck him, how could he have made Monica pregnant? Had he had the medical procedure reversed or had he only wanted to raise a child? He had also mentioned that any child of his would be a good bird-watcher by age five. Suddenly Sunderson was wide awake in the middle of the night and felt the need for a whiskey and a Motrin, a magic combination for sleep. His thought, of course, was that maybe it was his child but they wanted it. Maybe that was okay because how was he going to raise a baby at his age? Lemuel was at least ten years younger. He imagined his nights broken by a crying baby. Time to heat the bottle. This was a matter he wouldn’t look into very far. If he really cared he could always have a DNA done from baby spit or something.

  He was pleased by how quickly the trip had come together. Monica was excited, and her boss at the hotel restaurant was agreeable as there were few tourists in spring when you can get a surprise blizzard. Diane thought it was wonderful that he truly got out of town. He went to a travel agent to book tickets for Tucson for him and Monica to see his mother in Green Valley that wasn’t green, a stay at the Arizona Inn in Tucson for the nights, and going on to Mérida in the Yucatán via Veracruz so Monica could see the water. He got checks for a thousand dollars apiece from both Lemuel and Diane which was kind of them and not needed because his simple life had not managed to use his retirement checks. He had one more go-round with Delphine in the garage where he kept a cot for the odd very hot night because the garage was under an enormous maple. The mating was fast and uncomfortable as the cot was small and neither of them was an elf. He feared the cot might break and even though it didn’t afterward he continued to worry, worrying being habitual behavior.

  Lemuel’s apparent lack of jealousy was curious. After watching countless nature videos it was easy to see that most of the conflict between animals came from sex. He was particularly horrified by a fight between two bull giraffes over a female. He had never realized that giraffes fought with their heads, swinging them hard on their long whipping necks, knocking each other down with stomach blows. Throughout most of the programs there was the wonderful calming voice of David Attenborough. In “Birds of the Gods” which was filmed in hospitable New Guinea, birds of paradise danced with a beauty that would make anyone in Detroit or Harlem jealous. Why not go to some of these places now that he was retired? At least he was headed for Mexico tomorrow with a stop to see Mother in Tucson. Finally Sunderson slept.

  Chapter 17

  Monica naturally was in a dither having dreamed of Mexico so long and spent a restless evening packing and repacking. He had told her that experienced travelers travel light, besides he didn’t want to haul multiple bags around in the sure to be hot weather, or so Mona advised him after laughing that he hadn’t even checked the Internet for Mexican weather. He had booked the long way around so that after visiting his mother they would fly to Veracruz only because he had always liked the name and had read that Veracruz was the place where cattle were first unloaded in North America, an act of enormous consequences for the future. Sunderson was also enough of a romantic to appreciate that it was on the water.

  Lemuel called very late to say that Bert’s house had burned to the ground. It was the house closest to Sunderson’s cabin. The bank authorities had been there all day to take possession of the house. Lemuel was sure that the burning was on Bert’s instructions, and he had doubtless moved his gunnysack of pistols and other arms including the illegal fully automatic M15 with a banana clip. Someone had left strategic pans of gasoline in each room and the big boxy wooden house burned into an inferno. Lemuel had read Bert’s mail for him before he was incarcerated and pointed out that an estate intended to repossess their property as assets that had been lost in Simon’s swindle. “If I can’t have it, burn it,” was Bert’s attitude. Lemuel had said that all of the land was also being seized except the plot his own house sat on. “That land is mine,” Bert said. “Not according to the judgment,” Lemuel responded.

  In the morning Lemuel called again while Sunderson and Monica were having breakfast before the airport. He said the second house burned in the night from obvious arson. The estate was now furious as they had an investor on the string who wanted to form a trout fishing club using one of the houses as a lodge. This prospect frightened Sunderson for a moment as he had been around rich fishermen from the city several times. They tended to be piggish about what they thought were “their” stretches of river and also absurdly overequipped somewhat like golfers who bought the most expensive clubs thinking they were guaranteed success. Selfishly Sunderson was a little bit grateful to Bert.

  When they boarded the plane Monica seemed frightened and he found out she had never flown on a jet before. Sunderson soothed her by assuring her that no one wanted to live more than the pilots which made them quite careful. She slept against his shoulder all the way to Chicago and then most of the way between Chicago and Tucson. When she finally awoke about a half hour from landing she said, “Jesus Christ, we’re up too high and we’re starting to fall.” “We’re getting ready to land,” he said.

  When the cab took them to the Arizona Inn she was shy and remote but became wildly enthused about the green grass and profusion of flower beds. Sunderson was diverted when checking in by the idea that evil people don’t seem to mind doing evil to themselves. It must be a matter of pure anger, he thought, and damn the consequences. Bert must have known he’d get in serious trouble by standing behind the oak and firing away at Sunderson’s car. Still, he did it. Sunderson’s insurance wouldn’t pay for bullet holes which had set Sunderson back more than a thousand dollars so he had a small hopeless lien on Bert for the money. But Bert would be going directly to prison from the hospital where doctors were trying to mend his shattered hip from Sunderson’s passing pistol shot. Lucky he hadn’t missed or Bert would have had a shot at the vulnerable back window. Monica knew about the first house going up in flames but he hadn’t told her about the second. Spite figured large in all of it. Also a big shot detective in Detroit had once told him, “We catch most criminals because they’re stupid.” He reflected again about children growing up and the old cognitive problem. A lot of people don’t get it because they never learned better. Like his neighbors. He imagined growing up in that rabbit warren of fear and horror. “Your mom is tied to a stake out by the doghouse.” What did that do to the mind of a child?

  He followed the bellhop out into the big flowered yard and didn’t see Monica at first, but there she was in the distance stooped by a large flower bed. When he reached her she practically began to babble saying she had tried to grow flowers “back home” but the dogs or the other kids destroyed the beds. In their room which she thought was “fancy” he called room service and they split a club sandwich with a Coca-Cola for her and red wine for him. He regretted telling Berenice that they would come straight from the airport just to get her off the phone when he wanted a snooze and to see Monica nude on the fancy sheets. He read the map while Monica drove them to the Tucson Heart Hospital. She stayed in the waiting room downstairs reading magazines while he went up to the room. Mother was on oxygen and had IV tubes coming out of her arm. Berenice said she couldn’t talk but could write notes on a tablet. Berenice looked old and gray and tired and for the first time it occurred to Sunderson that she was
closer to seventy than sixty.

  The first question after he kissed his mother’s forehead was that he had been seen at the Marquette airport by a friend of hers with a girl. Who was she? He reflected that this was the phone tom-tom again. He decided to blow the situation sky high and said that the girl was his pregnant girlfriend. It certainly worked. They were utterly dumbfounded. His mother quickly wrote a note, “I hope to live to see my first grandchild!” and Berenice kept shrieking, “You’re too old!” This dither lasted his entire visit with his mother outraged when she realized that Sunderson hadn’t married her yet. Still she was very happy because her most long-standing complaint was that she had no grandchildren and all her friends had many. Berenice had never told her that her husband was sterile because Mother would have said “Get rid of him.” “Who is going to carry on the Sunderson name?” she would ask, as if a Sunderson were like a Rockefeller or a Kennedy. His mother had looked into the genealogy of both sides of the family but quit when all she could find was “trash and scoundrels.” One grandfather was even half Indian which she rejected because she didn’t want to be part Indian like a great share of the people in the Upper Peninsula. Genealogy seemed to be popular among people making the largely vain effort to find someone noteworthy or noble in their pasts. Sunderson never cared. What was wrong, he had asked his mother, with loggers and commercial fishermen? Even if they ended up in prison for a fatal fight they were hardworking people. Sunderson had been addicted to history long enough to like being a peasant. All of the problems on earth were caused by men who wore suits.

  Out in the car in a predictable cold sweat he didn’t remember ever so desperately needing a drink. His younger sister Roberta was coming into town in an hour or so but she was always soothing and had been so since childhood. Unlike Mother and Berenice she had a soft voice and when he had his first hangovers in high school she pretended to be a nurse and would bring him aspirin or Alka-Seltzer which she preferred as it was more dramatic. Meanwhile work had never presented any difficulties that could compete with his mother and drawing a pistol never equaled the anxiety she could cause. Anyway, his mother demanded to meet “the pregnant girl” in the morning. He said it would have to be early as they were flying to Mexico in the early afternoon on a kind of honeymoon. His mother took umbrage at that saying, “Honeymoons are for married people.” And then, “Can’t you do anything normal?” She had liked Diane a great deal despite her childless condition but had thought that Diane was too refined for her son whom she ultimately thought to be a lout.