My grandfather, with my grandmother in tow, had a circuit he made every year between Colorado, California, Minnesota and Texas stopping at gas stations, car dealerships, saw mills and just about anywhere else he could think that might need a cleaning. “Broom man,” he would say walking through the front door with a smile, and he made a living at it too. Nothing to build kingdoms with, but enough to keep his little family fed.
When I was little I would go out once in a while with my grandfather, and I can still remember him whistling as we drove down the road in his blue, bus-sized econoline van filled to the front seats with his brooms. I didn’t just sit outside while he went in either, he wouldn’t have that. Instead I would follow right alongside him, one time right into the office of the owner of Tilt-a-Whirl, one of his regular clients.
They would shake hands and laugh and sit and talk about their kids and grandkids before my grandfather would pull out his lined notepad, list off what they had bought the year before and see if they needed any restocking.
I remember looking around that office and seeing photos hanging on the walls of dozens of carnival rides I had ridden. Spin-the-Apple, Monkey Mayhem, the Spider and of course, the classic red and blue Tilt-a-Whirl itself. As a kid I had never actually stopped to think that people actually built these things. I guess I just thought they were like unicorns or something that magically wandered out of the mist in the form of a carnival or fair, and then they would just wander back until the next child needed to be twisted and spun until they begged sweet Jesus to let them off before bursting into tears.
“I can set my watch by your grand dad,” the man would say as we left his office.
Since my grandfather had died, my mother started selling brooms to some of his old customers. She didn’t have the range he did and the chemistry was never the same, but she was able to pay for our summer and take a little extra home at the end.
I had now started going out with her, to help her sell but more to help assemble the brooms and do the heavy lifting, and I made a percentage of what was sold.
At night I would write to Jo, and every few days we would call and tell each other how much we missed each other and talk about how our summers were going.
About a week after arriving, Nathan asked me if I could show him where some decent fishing spots were, so we went out and I introduced him to Stella and Doc. His tackle box was still in the wrapper, but I showed him the basics of tying a blood knot, a dropper loop and an improved clinch. I showed him how to cast and what to do if he got a bite. He appreciated the help and caught a walleye and a carp our first night out. I was mostly grateful to have someone to talk to, and we started fishing together regularly.
Then one Saturday afternoon I stopped by the library to pick up a copy of ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’ that I had requested, and took it with me to Blue Mondays for a few hours of reading. I walked into the coffee shop and saw Kris sitting at a side table listening to a CD player and sketching something in a leather-bound notebook. She looked up at me as I walked in and smiled. Then she took off her headphones.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
“What are you up to?”
“I just got a book in from the library, and I was planning on doing some reading for a while. But it doesn’t look like there are any tables.”
“You can sit with me,” and she picked her bag up off of the chair across from her.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.”
“You’re not bothering me. I’m kinda bored actually. I can’t figure out what there is to do in this town.”
I nodded.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Hey, can I get you something? They have a killer Mexican hot chocolate.”
“Actually, that’s what I’m drinking, but I could use another if that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
I walked up to the bar and ordered two Mexican hot chocolates.
“One hot chocolate from south of the border,” I said sitting down across from her.
South of the border? Really?
“Thanks. So, ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’ huh?” She said with a quizzical look on her face.
“It’s been on the New York Times bestseller list for over a year now.”
“So has Stephen King.”
“What are you drawing?” I asked ready to change the topic.
She slid her notebook over to me.
The outer edge of a bald man wearing Buddhist beads and reading a book was drawn with black scratches on the linen pages lying in front of me. I turned and sitting in front of the large coffee house window was the very same man.
“How did you make him feel so real?”
“I don’t know. It kind of just flows out of me.”
I started to turn the page. “Can I–”
“NO! Sorry, no,” she said grabbing the book.
“I didn’t mean to–”
“It’s okay, I just don’t like showing people my stuff.”
“Nate said you’ve been showing him how to fish.” Now she was the one changing the subject.
“Just the basics, but he doesn’t need much help. Yesterday he caught more than I did.”
“God I’d love to get out of this town for a little bit. Do you think I could go out with you two the next time you go? It would be nice to get out and see the lake.”
“We could go tomorrow if you want. Nate wants to try fishing some of the reeds across the river, see if he can catch some bass.”
“Yeah, that would be good.”
That night, just after mom and I finished an amazing dinner of chicken alfredo with garlic bread and creamy Caesar salad, the phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Hey.”
“Jo! Hey, how are you?”
“Oh, I’m good. I miss you. How are you?”
“Ah babe, I miss you too. I’m doing pretty good. Mom and I just finished dinner. How about you?”
“Yeah, we just got back from Texas Roadhouse. I can’t believe how much steak my dad can eat. What have you been up to the past few days?”
“Oh, not a whole lot. I may or may not have gotten back another pack of photos for somebody today.”
“Oooohh, really? Well if I’m the lucky girl, I’ll look forward to getting them. Did you get my last letter?”
“Yeah, it’s sitting on the table. I haven’t opened it yet. ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’ came in today.”
“Nice. How much of it have you read?”
“Not much actually. I was going to but I got distracted.”
“By what?”
By what? By whom? How much do I say? Will she even care that I sat for almost two hours this afternoon talking to a blonde wearing shorts much too small for her who happens to be living in the apartment beneath me?
“I just got caught up talking to someone at the coffee shop,” I said squeezing my eyes shut and rubbing my forehead.
The next morning I went down and knocked on Nate’s door. Kris answered.
“Hey.”
“Morning. You two ready?”
“Yeah. Can we stop by Blue Monday’s on the way?”
“Heck yeah!” I said stepping into the front room.
Nate had his gear ready and lying out on the front table.
“Let me just get my bag,” Kris said walking to the back of the apartment.
She was wearing sandals, white shorts rolled up just about as high as they could go, a loose fitting black tank top, and the colorful strings of a bikini rose out of the tank top and tied around her neck.
“You do know we’re going fishing?” I asked as she walked past me out to the car.
“I know you’re going fishing. I never said I was going fishing,” she said looking at me over the top of her sunglasses.
We made our stop at Blue Monday’s loading up on coffee and pastries, grabbed some sandwiches at Hogan Brothers for lunch and headed out of town.
Kris brought some music and we all laughed while we tried to fig
ure out how we ended up so far north for the summer.
We pulled up to Doc’s Doc and Doc was sitting out front cleaning some fish he had caught earlier that morning.
You could tell by Doc’s hands that he was a hardworking man. He had a large belly and a face full of long whiskers that were scattered and sparse, not full like what you would imagine on a man in his sixties growing out his beard. He was missing several teeth, and he always wore the same hat that had “Pete’s Bait Shop” embroidered in red letters against what I imagine used to be a blue background but now looked more like a light grey with brown and yellow stains highlighting its edges.
“Hey Doc,” I said as the three of us walked up to the bar door.
“Mornin’,” he replied slicing a fish’s belly and around the back of its head. Then he put his finger in the fish’s mouth and with a single motion pulled its head off and its entrails out so they hung from his finger like a bloody Christmas ornament. “Who’s yer friends?”
“This is Nate. He’s been here a couple of times with me, and this is Kris.”
Kris, with her hand over her mouth, looked like she was watching someone gut a kitten.
I smiled and shook my head.
“Well, happy to meetcha,” he said dropping the two parts of the fish into two separate buckets and reaching for another.
We walked in and found Stella behind the bar wiping dry some glasses.
“Morning Stella. I just wanted to come in and pay for two of us to do some fishing.”
Stella looked Kris up and down.
“Are yall goin to be out on them docks?”
“Yeah.”
“Then yall need a mark.”
“Okay, no problem,” and I laid three dollars on the counter.
One by one we held out our hands. Then we left the bar and walked down to the water. Once we were far enough away to be sure we weren’t heard, we all burst into laughter, mostly for the sake of Kris’ response to the whole situation.
The three of us started out on the same dock, but after about five minutes Nate crossed the bridge near us and started fishing the reeds for small-mouth bass. Kris just let her feet hang down into the water while she watched me for a while and then started drawing.
“So what do you do back home?” She asked me.
“I’m a photographer for the yearbook at my school.”
“Really? I haven’t seen you taking any photos.”
“Yeah, I know. I think I just needed a break from it.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“What do you do back home?”
“School and sports, school and sports. Nothing but school and sports. Dad’s pretty sure I’ll get a scholarship in track.”
“Are you any good?”
“Yeah, I took first place in state last year. How about you? Any plans for college?”
“Not really. I’ve thought about the military, but I’m really getting into the photography. I know I can be a photographer in the army, but I’m pretty sure that whatever I shoot for them will be controlled by them and I don’t want that. I just really want to get out and see the world with my camera. Rome. Japan. Tel Aviv. I’m thinking maybe of trying to work for a newspaper. ”
“That’d be cool. Alex Douglas Photojournalist. I could see that.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, you seem like the kind of person that goes after what they want. Are you any good?”
“Not as good as I want to be,” I replied then my rod jerked. “Oh, here we go.”
She put her pen in her book and watched me as I reeled the fish in. I could tell by the pull on the line that it wasn’t very big. I reached into the water and lifted out a fairly small walleye.
“Are you going to keep it?”
“Nah,” I said carefully pulling the hook out of its lip. “I toss most stuff back. Back home I’ll keep a trout once in a while because they are pretty good to eat.”
“Why fish if you don’t keep them?”
“I guess it gives me something mildly challenging to do while I sit out by the lake on a sunny day.”
She laughed. “Well, there’s more to do at a lake on a sunny day, than just catch some nasty fish you know.”
“Oh, like what?”
Then she stood, pulled down her white shorts reveling bikini bottoms that matched her colorful straps, pulled off her tank top and laid her sunglasses on her newly formed pile of clothes. Then she dove into the lake. I will admit that I wasn’t expecting that for an answer.
I set my rod down on the dock next to me, crossed my arms and watched her swim up to me- her form lengthened under the ripples of the lake. Then she lifted her head out of the water and crossed her arms, resting them on the edge of the dock.
“Well?” She asked.
“Well what?”
“Are you tired of fishing yet?”
“I’m at least distracted.”
She drank that reply in and smiled up at me.
“You should get in. You can swim can’t you?”
I chuckled. “Yes, I can swim. I’m just not wearing swim shorts.”
“So.”
“So? I’m not getting in that water without a bathing suit.”
She turned and looked across the lake to where Nate had been fishing. He had moved further along the bank to a spot back in some trees where I could barely see his bright orange shirt. Then she turned back to me and slid her arm down into the water. When they came back up, they were holding her bikini bottoms, and she hung them on the wooden dock post.
My eyes grew as what she was suggesting sank in. Then I turned around and started walking away.
“Oh come on. I’m just kidding,” she said laughing. “I just wanted to see what you would do.” Then I turned back around as she was lifting herself out of the water and onto the dock. She was wearing both pieces of her swimsuit.
She walked over to her bag, pulled out a towel and dried herself off. Then she put the rest of her clothes back on.
“Next time we come, you and Nate should bring your swimsuits. The water’s great. Are you hungry? I think we should have lunch.”
“Yeah, I could eat,” I replied not knowing what else to say.
We called Nate and ate lunch.
For the rest of the afternoon my mind kept playing with what would have happened if I had gotten in that water.
In the weeks that followed, the three of us hung out often, but Kris and I never spoke again about what had happened.
Fourteen
Summer was going well. I could tell by my mother’s mood, and the way that she carried herself, that much of the weight of our daily life back home was peeling away, one day at a time. We had even had a pretty good start to the summer with sales since there was a new car dealership that had opened up just outside of Faribault that ordered several thousands dollars worth of product.
“How has Jo been?” she asked one night over some home-made pizza.
“She’s been good. She got a part-time job at a photo gallery downtown called Camera Obscura.”
“Oh, yeah? That’s good. I think I’ve heard of that place. Isn’t it just a block or two from the art museum?”
“Yeah. She seems to be enjoying it. She said that during the week they’re not real busy so she spends most of her time looking at all the photos they have stacked in books and stored in drawers, and I guess they have original Edward Weston’s and stuff from Sebastio Salgado. Last week they even got in an original print of the Afghan Girl by Steve McCurry that was on the front of National Geographic.”
She nodded and took another bite of her pizza.
“She said the photo is so much more beautiful than anything you see in print. I guess she, the owner and the curator just stood around staring at it for like twenty minutes after they unpacked it.”
“Oh I bet. Originals of stuff like that are always better than how they look in magazines. I see she’s been writing you just about every day.”
“Yeah.”
> “Have you talked to her recently?”
“Not since last week. I missed her call Wednesday, and I’ve been meaning to call her back. I just haven’t gotten around to it.”
“How about writing her, how’s that coming along?”
I could see where she was going with this, and I don’t think she was prying, just lightly drawing attention to something that I might not have thought about.
I shook my head and pushed my pizza crust back and forth across my plate.
“Fine when we first got here, but the last few weeks I guess I’ve just been caught up with other stuff.”
“You know I’m not trying to tell you what to do honey, but just remember, when you left Colorado things between you two were pretty good, and she probably thinks that is how they still are,” and she shrugged her shoulders and looked down. “If you want to spend time with Kris…”
“Mom, nothing is going on between me and…”
She held up her hand. “I understand. I’m just saying. If you did…”
Then there was a knock at the door.
She laid her napkin down on her plate and stood up from her seat. “You should be honest with her. That’s all I’m saying.”
She opened the front door, and standing in front of her was Peter Simons.
The last time I saw Pete was back in Colorado, nearly two years earlier, when I helped him unload a truck full of his personal garbage onto our front porch that he was supposed to come back for. Instead he stole a good chunk of our lives, my mom’s business and left town. My mother cried herself to sleep for over a month after that happened, and now this asshole had the nerve to be standing on our front porch.
I rose from my seat, but my mother held out her hand to stop me from approaching.
“Let me see what he wants,” was the look on her face. Then she went outside and started talking to him.
I sat back down and watched them talk and smoke through three cigarettes before she smiled and started laughing. This was not going the way I wanted it or expected it to. Pete was the smoothest talker I had ever met in my life, and I knew that if my mother did anything other than tell him to get lost, things could get dicey. After another two cigarettes she came walking back inside.
If I Lose Her Page 8
