by Eric Wilson
Clay Ryker would never forget. Above all, he could never tell.
“You having a pity party?”
“A what?”
A boy wearing jeans tucked into stubby boots crawled into the seat beside Clay, stared up with big blue eyes. “Pity party. That’s what my grandpa calls it when I put my head against the window and pout. Am I bugging you? Grandpa said not to bug anyone.” The kid looked back at a snoozing elderly man.
“You’re fine,” Clay said.
“Nothing to do on this bus. I hope we stop soon. You’re tall, aren’t you?”
“For a grownup.”
The kid smiled. “Over six feet?”
“Six three. Hundred and ninety-nine pounds.”
“Wow! Two hundred pounds.”
“One ninety-nine,” Clay underscored. Occasional drinks had softened his washboard stomach, but it was nothing he couldn’t remedy in the gym. Ripped abs, corded arms, legs like tree trunks—he was only weeks from regaining his former glory.
“Maybe one ninety-eight,” he heard himself say.
“I’m big, too,” the kid boasted. “I’m seven and a half. My name’s Bobby.”
“Hi, I’m Clay.”
Bobby kicked at the metal footrest. “Are you married? My mom and dad’re divorced, but Grandpa says it’s not my fault. Says grownups get confused and make mistakes.”
“You have a smart grandpa.”
“Grandpa’s divorced too.”
“Oh.” Clay looked down at Bobby. “I can see why you’d be upset.”
“I’m not upset.” The kid sniffed, then punched his fist into the seat between his legs. “Don’t you know anything? Boys aren’t s’posed to cry.” With eyebrows knotted, he moved down the aisle and flopped from sight at the back of the Greyhound.
Clay stayed put, ears ringing with his own son’s words from four months ago: Why’d you make Mommy cry?
Jason and Jenni now lived in a two-bedroom condo on the outskirts of Cheyenne, supported by Jenni’s new job as a sports massage therapist. She’d been screening calls, ignoring Clay’s messages. A few weeks ago when a male picked up, Clay had stared at the receiver before slowly setting it down. After a stint at the bar, he’d found himself on Jenni’s doorstep, belligerent and unsteady. The intensity of his voice had brought neighbors to their windows. City police converged on the scene. Corralled into a patrol car, Clay festered with rage.
He realized in that moment he was capable of things he’d regret—things against his wife, against himself. Hadn’t he studied and worked hard? For what? He’d put almost ten years into his marriage. A decade.
Sounded too much like decayed.
Since that night a judge had granted temporary orders to Jenni’s attorney, restricting Clay’s time with his son and requiring monthly support payments.
Now, with the bus humming along Highway 99, Clay told himself this change of location would do him good. Better to get away, to shut down and succumb to the numbness. He let his forehead hit the window, then gave a laconic laugh.
I feel no pain.
Thud.
I feel nothing at all.
Asgoth knew he was homely and misjudged. Even feared. Outfitted in tan trousers, a pale yellow shirt, an argyle vest and matching socks, he skulked across Holly Street toward Founder’s Park. With a stiff finger, he scratched at his head.
Looks are deceiving, he consoled himself.
At least he no longer wore the plain black robes and that golden cross.
Along the park’s perimeter, Asgoth found leafy refuge behind a tree and watched two tall women stroll along a path in hip-hugging jeans and belly shirts.
Mylisha and Summer. Black and white versions of one another. They spent their waking hours oblivious to his existence in their small community.
This town. Junction City …
Like it or not, there was no getting rid of him. For twelve years, its citizens had avoided, teased, and toyed with him. They’d foiled his plans and brought him low in the eyes of the Consortium. Quaint churches marred every other block, and Scandinavian families worked the land. Despite its name, this place was but a dot on the map. A dead end.
Junction City sorely needed new blood. Spilled blood.
Asgoth crept back across the street, climbed uneven steps to his second-story apartment. A neighbor, descending, looked right through him. They all did. He’d learned to live with it, to let it fuel his determination.
He had barely passed through his door when cold fingers locked on to his neck and thrust him against the wall. He resisted. Ineffectively. Brute strength had never been his to claim, but with the intellect at his disposal he deduced that this threat was nothing of a permanent nature; bare hands rarely served as premeditated murder weapons.
Plus, these hands were unusual. He knew their odor of incense and sweat.
He stopped struggling. “Why’re you here?” he gasped.
“This is my last visit.” A set of eyes floated into view, gray pupils matching the calm strength in the intruder’s voice. “The Consortium’s tired of you, A.G. We’ve tried to sustain you here, but you’ve given back so little.”
“I’ve had some bad luck. You know that.”
“Luck? Success comes to the ones who work the hardest on the smartest schemes. You and Mr. Clay Ryker’ve got some history between you, which I suggest you clear up. Otherwise, your presence in this town becomes a liability.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Be persuasive but discreet. He needs to remove himself from the picture.”
“A self-sacrifice?”
“Either him or you,” the intruder concurred. “And we’d like a down payment, to prove you’re serious about your efforts here. The free ride’s over.”
“I’ve been trying.”
“Forget it. This town’s barely worth the effort.”
“Tonight”—Asgoth forced the words from his strangled throat—“it’ll change.”
The intruder snickered. “Sorry, A.G. You’re dead in the water.”
“One more chance. Please.”
“Cold hard cash. We’ll take one hundred thousand dollars, nothing less.”
“Okay. I can get it.”
“By when? We need a date.”
“The second weekend in August.”
“During the Scandinavian Festival?” The color in the intruder’s eyes seemed to coil like smoke. “This time it’d better work, or you’re gone. We can’t let you keep stumbling around town, raising questions that’re better left unanswered.”
The fingers snapped free from Asgoth’s neck. Before he’d dropped to the carpet, the intruder was gone—a vapor woven into the shadows.
Asgoth dragged himself to the apartment’s window. He pulled himself up and peered through a gap in the curtains at the ladies still pacing the park. Shortly, Clay Ryker would arrive on the Greyhound, and one of these women would trigger the necessary chain of events.
Yes. The one with the strawberry blond hair: Summer Svenson.
Asgoth would save Mylisha for later.
2
A Part to Play
“Junction City, next stop.” The driver closed the door behind the late arrivals.
Clay watched as a thin woman used a sandaled foot to scoot her carpetbag down the aisle. She passed up the empty seat in row seven, stopped at nine.
“Taken?”
“Nope, all yours,” Clay said. What would it hurt? He had only one more stop.
Bracelets jangled on the woman’s sun-dried arms as she raised her bag into the overhead storage. A fringed maroon shawl wafted about her shoulders.
“Here, let me help …”
“Too late,” she said, punctuating the words with a grunt. “Or maybe you intended it that way.” She curtailed his explanation with a wave of the hand and folded herself into the aisle seat.
Okaaay then. Clay found diversion reading road signs.
“Signs, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re reading signs,” she said. “What’s your sign?”
“Uh, as in astrology? Capricorn, I think. Born in early January. But I don’t really go for all that.”
The woman took hold of his hand. He stiffened in astonishment as she uncurled his fist and traced fingertips along his palm. A shiver ran up his arm; it’d been months since a woman had touched him in any intimate fashion. Her scent of oregano was a refreshing touch of individuality, and her hair was loose and long. One of her bleached strands clung to the fabric of his University of Oregon sweatshirt.
He pulled his hand away.
“Forgive my forwardness. My name,” she said, “is Henna.”
“Hannah?”
“Henna. As in the plant.”
“Oh, my bad.” He had no intention of offering his name in return.
She withdrew her ring-adorned fingers, twined them in her shawl, and considered him with wide eyes. “You … you are a man with many burdens.”
He shrugged. “Aren’t we all?”
“Men? No, not all of us.”
“What I meant was—”
“Don’t worry, I understood.”
“You caught me off guard, grabbing my hand like that.”
“Do I look like I bite?” She clicked her tongue. “You sure know how to make a lady feel good about herself, don’t you?”
“Guess it’s just a gift.”
Henna’s voice lost its warmth. “Every gift comes at a price.”
What was this lady’s deal? Clay scanned the bus where passengers dozed, read paperbacks, or dipped with rhythmic monotony into noisy potato-chip bags. Bobby was curled up with his head on his grandfather’s lap. Ahead, the setting sun fixed the driver in silhouette.
“My stop’s coming up,” Clay told Henna. “Window’s all yours when I go.”
“I’ve already seen all I need to see, but you don’t—”
“My stuff’s up there,” he went on, rising to his feet.
“But you don’t want to hear it, do you? Not into palm reading, I suppose.”
“Don’t see much use for it, that’s all. Nothing personal. I was raised with your basic teachings from the Bible. Guess that means I’m narrow minded, right?”
“Would it be narrow minded of me to agree?”
He gave a laugh. Dropped back into his seat.
Henna said, “Do you want to know why things are falling apart for you?”
“I’m dying to know.”
“Why you lost your grandfather’s money? Why your business collapsed?”
“Hold on! How do you know about that?”
“Why your wife left you? Why your son rarely speaks with you?”
Clay’s hands began shaking. He touched his wedding band, then clamped fingers into his knees. He turned to face Henna. Why was she pestering him? What else did she know about his life? Although he wished she could be swept away in an undertow of her own superstition and navel gazing, he was snared by her words. She seemed to be onto something. Maybe she could help.
“Okay, I’ve got a few minutes. What’re you trying to tell me?”
She clutched his hand again, and this time he opened it to her tracing finger.
“Perhaps,” she said, “I’ve been sent to put things right, back to the way they should’ve been. God works in many different ways, you know.”
“Go on.”
“You’re a man with high expectations,” she said. “You’re disappointed in yourself, yet you’re only human. A man. A child of the earth … Clay.”
He cut his eyes to hers. Did she know his name? Or was it coincidence?
“Clay’s a beautiful thing, malleable and full of possibility. If it gets hard, though, it easily breaks.” Transfixed by the contours of his palm, Henna’s face twitched. Her fingernail came to a stop. Dug into his skin. A tic started at the corner of her lips, and she dropped his hand into his lap.
“What?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
“My apologies.” She looked away. “But I believe this is your stop.”
The bus was slowing, turning left from Highway 99 onto a side street. He surveyed the familiar backdrop … the sidewalks where he’d learned to skate, the old water tower, the fire station. This was his past; he needed a glimpse of the future.
“Tell me, Henna. Was it something good or bad?”
“These things are meant to be discovered on their own.”
“I admit I mocked you at first, but I’d really like to know what you … felt.”
She nodded out the window. “This is your stop.”
“I’m serious. I need to know.”
She seized his hand a final time. “You’re sure you’re ready to embrace it?”
With her skin hot against his own, Clay glanced at the other passengers. Embrace what? What’d she have in mind? He heard himself say, “I’m sure.”
“It will come,” she said. “You’ll begin to know things. You’ll feel them.”
“Excuse me?”
“Remember, though. In the Garden of Eden, knowledge was the first seduction.”
Seduction … Delivered in a whisper, the word seemed to reverberate through the shell of the bus, and Clay felt glances shift his way. Beside him, Henna laid her head back with eyes closed.
He cleared his throat. “Thanks for the advice, but, uh, I need to be going.”
Henna said nothing. When he tried to pass into the aisle, her legs resisted him with the stubbornness of a rusty gate.
Summer Svenson sensed movement to her right. Was she being watched? She peered through the trees of Founder’s Park, saw nothing, shrugged away her uneasiness. She and Mylisha continued pacing the walkway. Within minutes the bus would bring Clay Ryker back into their lives.
“You seem nervous.”
“Me?” Summer pursed her lips. “Little edgy, that’s all. What about you? It’s been years since you’ve seen Clay. You think he’ll still look the same?”
“I sure hope so, girl.”
“Aha, you do have feelings for him.”
“Some.”
“Teenage romances die hard. Better watch out,” Summer kidded, “or I might steal him away. You know you’re no match for my long legs.” She pretended to model, stretching first one leg, then the other.
“Put those things away before you blind someone.”
Summer laughed, turning to examine her friend. They’d met almost thirteen years ago while playing high school basketball. On the court, they’d been aggressive and unstoppable; off court, giggly and girlish. Things had changed for them, in early ’92. Human nature had shown its darker side.
Summer nudged her friend’s leg with her own. “Don’t try to deny it, Mylisha.”
“Deny what?”
“I know you. You’ve been missing Clay since the day he left for college.”
“Maybe. But,” Mylisha clarified, “I’ve no intention of stirring things up again. He’s a married man.”
“Ah-ah-ah. Correction. A man going through a breakup.”
“So we’ve been told, but you know the kind of stories that spin through this place.” Mylisha stood and moved toward the park’s fenced display.
“I say he’s all yours for the taking, Mylisha.”
“A man on the rebound? No thank you. Last thing I need’s sloppy seconds.”
Again Summer felt a predatory heat—as though some lecherous old man were watching her from the shadows. She thought of mentioning it, then joined her friend in perusing the bronze plate’s description of the freshly painted train before them.
The 1904 Finnish locomotive was a throwback to the railroad’s glory days. Sent to Oregon as a gift between countries, she’d found a place of honor in Junction City. A survivor of four separate wars, and one of only two such remaining engines, this beast of burden had played its role in the Bolshevik Revolution.
The Bolshe-what?
Summer reached through the fence to touch the machinery, realized it was as cold as the history it represented.<
br />
So what if she didn’t know world events? She knew things about good ol’ JC, things that’d make your hair stand on end. Five thousand people, give or take, and she had dirt on a fair percentage of them.
Secrets were her cash in the bank. A little blackmail could go a long way.
Mylisha seemed fascinated by the train. She said, “We studied the revolution in one of my college courses. Did you know the word tsar comes from the Latin word Caesar? You think about it, Summer, and it’s kinda crazy. Lenin escaped from Russia on an engine like this.”
“Hellooo? Since when have I cared?”
“Don’t you think it’s … mysterious? Lenin could’ve been on this very engine.”
“I thought Lennon was from England. From Liverpool.”
“Girl. Tell me you’re not that stupid.”
“Just messin’ with you.” Summer shrugged. “But I mean, honestly, you’re talking about some Russian dude who lived, what, seventy, eighty years ago. Why should I care?”
“Because history’s full of lessons. My people’ve taught me that.”
“What’s the lesson here? I guess I am stupid.”
Mylisha checked her watch. “The lesson is that an air of mystery is a good thing. I say we head home and forget surprising Clay. No use in seeming desperate.”
“Hey, let’s face it. We’re not getting any younger.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m desperate.” Mylisha set a hand on her hip. “Oh no you didn’t … I know you didn’t just roll your eyes at me. Anyway, I say we let Clay make the first move.”
“You’re just scared.”
“Since when?”
Summer wanted to say: since you broke up with Clay, since your younger sister got the UCLA athletic scholarship you wanted and then squandered it on drugs and no-good losers, since you got promoted into Safeway management and stopped dating.
“Mylisha.” She brushed a coil of hair from her friend’s face. “Years ago I lost my sister and my parents, so I know what it’s like to feel alone and afraid. Please, though, tell me you’re not just trying to avoid the past.”
“I’m not scared,” Mylisha insisted. “Come on, let’s jet.”
Asgoth paced the apartment, alone with the old plumbing’s creaks. It’d been like drawing blood to get a place of his own, even one this humble. Dank and mildewed, the space was stained by ceiling leaks and the former occupant’s splatters on the kitchen walls.
