by Dave Balcom
“Pam,” Jan said. “This is Jim, a new friend to me, but he was telling me he can remember stopping here with his dad en route to their cabin in Kalkaska when your grandpa and grandma were running this place.”
“Well, we’ve come a ways since then, but we like to think all the important stuff they started is still going on here. You don’t have to go clean up from a day on the river or in the woods to find a warm meal here, and we’ll still cook your trout or your venison if you give us a bit of warning.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Pam, would you cook my morels, too?”
“That might be a bit dicey.”
“How’s that?”
“Chef Howie always insists that the cook gets first bite of all wild things… he’s been known to eat a lot of ’roons in one bite.”
Jan piped up, the laughter welling in her as well as Pam, “Jim is having his way with the morels this trip. He brought a big bag yesterday and another tonight. I didn’t think to bring them along. I guess Chef Howie misses out.”
“Another time. I’ll be your waitress tonight. We don’t have much staff on hand on Wednesdays. Want a drink?”
After we had ordered, we sat silently, looking at the river, just taking in the moment until the drinks arrived. After we ordered food, Jan resumed her story of how she had come to be in that place at that time.
She had been a music student most of her life, the accompanist for the high school singing groups, organist in her church, all the usual stuff.
At her home, however, all the music she heard growing up was big band, swing and jazz. While her friends were going gaga over Janice Joplin and Mick Jagger, she was groovin’ to Nat King Cole. While she played intricate classical pieces at school and church, she was making intricate improvisations on old standards while she practiced alone at the church.
“The organ at the church offers a unique sound when you’re riffin’ on something like “Straighten Up and Fly Right,” she said with an impish grin.
She started performing in taverns the summer after she graduated from high school. She started college that first fall, “Lookin’ for the M.R.S. degree, most likely,” and while she was a declared journalism major, she was uninspired for anything but music classes.
The summer of her junior year, at twenty-one, she spent another summer playing and singing in resort lounges as her “summer job,” but that year, when school resumed, she was still playing for the “fall season.”
She was making music and building a reputation for reliable performance and behavior. “Owners love a musician that won’t throw them curves by showing up stoned or not showing up. I didn’t drink at all then, so I was just perfect.”
She played the northern Michigan resort circuit for eight years but found the winter seasons too long to go without work. The ski crowd was younger; her old standards were better served to a more staid, upper class, summer resort clientele.
“So, I took a job in the ad department up in Traverse to carry me through the winter. Started as a seasonal outside sales rep, and then caught on in the composing department. Finally landed a full time sales territory which had me down here weekly, getting to know people. I came to understand that big newspapers with corporate owners don’t always meet the needs of smaller, closely knit communities.
“I can’t tell you how often I heard my customers tell me that if there were any alternative to my newspaper they’d buy it.”
By this time, the smoke-filled nights of summer were taking a toll on her singing voice, and the general pace was getting old. She went back to school. This time, she had vision and a dream. She was motivated.
“I finished in just eighteen months. Worked in bars and clubs down state while going to school, but as soon as I had my degree, I came up here, marched into the grocery store, and said, “Let’s put up or shut up.” I was ready to provide them the alternative they were claiming they wanted.
“The Record was, after six years of intense work and struggle, what they call an overnight success.”
I was paying the tab at the bar when I heard something familiar, and saw Ray Means on the other end of the long bar. Standing next to him was Ron White. They were both leaning on the bar on either side of a woman who I didn’t recognize.
I settled up with Pam, and then asked if she’d serve a round to the three at the end of the bar. A weird look of distaste flickered across her face. “They’re not alone. There are five or six of them all together.”
I recognized her drift, and nodded and headed that way. I caught Means’ eye before invading their conversation.
“Holy shit, look what you see when you don’t have a gun,” Means said in his laid back drawl. A big smile lit up his face. “They’ll let just about anybody in some places.”
“Howdy, Raymond. How you doin’?” I patted Ron on the back. “Hi, Ron, remember me?”
There was a brief pause, then his salesman’s eyes lit up with recognition and a smile followed, “Sure, Mr. Stanton. It’s good to see you again.”
I took the opportunity to study the woman seated between them. She had raven black hair, cut off her shoulder, framing a roundish face that was just about pure white in contrast. Her eyes were so blue as to be almost black in that bar lighting. She didn’t appear to wear any makeup. I guessed her age at 40-something. She was beautiful.
“Hello,” she said in a quiet and somewhat cold tone as she offered her hand for a firm, business like shake. “I’m Charlotte Buchanan. Mickey told me many times about what a good friend you were back in the day. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I said. “I hadn’t even thought that you might be up here and we might meet. It just hadn’t occurred to me.”
“Oh, I’m just up for some business meetings, and then I’m going back to Lansing. She graced both Ray and Ron with a warm but somewhat sardonic smile. “Then I run into these characters.
“What brings you here? Asking more of your famous questions? Mickey always told me that nobody asks questions like you. He said it was your best and worst trait.”
I waved dismissively and shrugged. “Oh, I just decided to revisit some old haunts, hunt some mushrooms and see what’s changed inn the last thirty years before I go back to Oregon.”
Jan approached us with a, “Oh, there you are.”
I introduced her and the temperature dropped noticeably as I explained to Charlotte and the boys who Jan was and how I had met her.
“Oh, I’m aware of Miss Coldwell,” Charlotte said. “We have different opinions of what’s best for Mineral Valley.”
At that moment, three men came in off the deck overlooking the river and joined the group. The older of the three, a thin man whose gray-streaked, ebony hair went with his olive skin, was clearly in charge. The two younger men, one of whom looked to be Ron’s age and who appeared to be related to the older man, stood with hands crossed in front of them, a posture I recognized immediately from covering heads of state and candidates who travel with security.
“Señor Santiago,” Ray spoke up. “Meet an old friend of mine and Mickey’s from our Lake Lucy days, Jim Stanton. Jim’s a famous journalist and author.”
He met my outstretched hand with a perfunctory shake and an old world nod. He smiled, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes, “It’s nice to meet you. Being a journalist is a dangerous occupation in many places; all those questions make some people nervous.”
“Well, I’m mostly retired now,” I answered with a smile. I introduced Jan, and he was even more formal with her.
“It is my pleasure to meet you both,” he said evenly. There was no trace of accent in his voice but there was the formality of tone that resonated of a second language.
“I’m afraid I have to leave, Charlotte, my dear. This call,” he nodded to the cell phone in his hand, “changes my plans a bit. Some more business I must address this evening.”
“It has been a pleasure seeing you both again,” he said to Ray and Ron. And then to me, “It
is nice to have a face with a name, Señor Stanton.” And again that nod, almost military.
With that he was gone, one young man six paces ahead of him. When they reached the door, the other man held it, then, with a last look back at us, followed him outside.
“Where are you staying?” Charlotte asked me.
“At the River Inn. Perhaps you and I could meet tomorrow for some coffee or lunch? It would be nice to know you better.”
“I don’t think that will be possible.” The tone of dismissal was evident.
“In that case, I’ll just say goodbye rather than good night.” I turned to Means. “See ya, Raymond. Ron, say hi to your mom for me.”
I reached for Jan’s elbow to escort her away. “Good night, folks,” she said in her throaty voice that just barely contained a chuckle.
As we cleared the door and headed for our car, she batted her yes at me, “Oh, thank you, Mr. Stanton. That was too bizarre for words.”
12
My mornings were falling into ritual. A long walk, working my forms as the light worked its way into the cedars, a quick shower, then coffee and breakfast with Big Mike. Then it was off to the mushroom woods.
On Thursday morning, Mike agreed to go with me. “I want to see where these early morels are coming from,” he said with mock severity. “I’m convinced you’ve somehow pirated my secret haunts.”
“You’ll find that I’m just a superior mushroom hunter,” I countered with similar mock sincerity. “I just go into the woods and morels grow in my foot steps. I walk in, and then backtrack, picking my fill.”
“I’ll want to check on that, too.”
I drove, and Mike kept a running narrative describing who and what went with every house and driveway we passed. At Copper Creek I turned onto the narrow, winding road that shadowed the creek into the woods. I glanced down every driveway until finally Mike said, “This driveway goes into your friend Buchanan’s home.”
“Really? And how did you know that Mickey and I were friends?”
“You told Janice Coldwell and Mrs. Rathers who in turn told Miss McGee who of course told Rhonda who then immediately told Mrs. Benton at the grocery store who called me with that information.”
“But I told that only night before last…”
“And they mentioned it to Miss McGee at six yesterday morning, and I heard it while you were walking, about seven.”
“Does this newspaper ever have news that surprises you readers? Do they ever scoop your grapevine?”
“No, but they do confirm with credibility,” he said with a sniff. “That’s a necessary service. Is this the way to your mushroom woods?”
“No, actually, I just wanted to see if I could see Mickey’s house from here. I met his widow last night.”
“I know. I’m told she was less than charming.”
“Probably doesn’t need reminders of her loss.”
“Mmmm, you are generous.”
I pulled into a two-track that was neither barricaded nor posted. “Let’s see what’s back here?”
“The creek and yellow pine, as you know full well. There will be no morels here.”
“You’re probably right, but let’s take a look.”
I drove back to the creek where the track dead ended in a turn around complete with the requisite trash that some people always leave at such places. They can’t seem to ever pack out empty what they carried in full.
“I hate that,” Mike said with a scowl, waving at the discarded bait containers, beer cans and paper coffee cups. “We hold a cleanup day every spring on Memorial weekend, but we only do public land. These private places never seem to be cleaned.”
“Maybe,” I said, “that’ll change when there’s a million dollar estate on this site.”
“Merely a different form of litter, I’m afraid.”
I parked the car and we sat silently, as if by some unspoken agreement. The stream burbled and sighed as it swept through a little riffle that tailed out of a dark hole next to the bank.
“Do you ever find morels in these tag alders along the stream?”
“Never,” Mike said with arch distaste. “But you’re not looking for mushrooms now, anyway. I believe Buchanan’s property line is just around that bend. I don’t know if you can see the house from there or not. I’ll wait here.”
There was a well-worn path along the bank of the stream, and I remembered adding my weight to that project years ago. If not this stretch of path, one of the many all along this little stream just the same.
Around the bend, I came to a fence. The sign was simple. No trespassing. I retreated and found Big Mike piling trash. I kept walking up the stream until I came to a log across the water. I was fairly certain that the land on the other side of the river would be federal ground all the way to the Big Manistee.
I crossed on the log and then headed downstream. I passed the fence and sign across the river, and then, about 100 yards further, I saw the home of my old friend.
It was a simple brick ranch design with a raised deck coming off the kitchen next to the river. There was the usual patio furniture and grill and a table with an umbrella. I had taken a few more steps before I realized there was someone lying on a chaise lounge on the deck, and it was Ray Means, all six-foot-eight-or-so of him. I couldn’t tell if he was awake and watching me or asleep.
As I stood there, I saw Ron White walk out of what I guessed would be the kitchen onto the deck in his bare feet. I stepped back into the shadow of a giant cedar.
I was frankly surprised to see them there. Charlotte had made it sound like she’d casually run into them, perhaps at the restaurant.
Then I saw Charlotte herself, wearing some kind of house dress or poolside garment, come out of the house carrying a cup of coffee. They all seemed quite natural with each other, but not overly friendly, more like a woman and her servants.
As Charlotte sat down she said something I couldn’t hear, and Ray roused himself and went away, around the end of the building. I might have gaped a bit. He was carrying a rifle.
That sight fueled my curiosity even more, but I decided it was time to back out of there until I had alders between me and the house.
Big Mike was using a broom-like branch from the towering yellow pine to gather up the last of the junk that had so violated his senses.
“I don’t suppose you have any garbage bags in that vehicle.”
“Let’s take a look at my survival kit.”
I had for decades compiled a box or a bag that contained a change of clothes, rain gear, flash light, gloves for tire changing, etc., and other “essentials” whenever I was venturing into the woods.
The practice had become so second nature while exploring Oregon’s mountain wilderness that I had gotten into the habit of packing a lunch, as well. My kit for this trip had come in a small satchel inside my suitcase. It had been packed so long I couldn’t be sure if there was a trash bag or two.
There were three. Two kitchen-sized white bags and one lawn-sized black bag.
“You’re a marvel,” he said, examining the kit. “Even a small first aid kit?”
“You never know, Mike. You just never know.”
“So, did you find the Buchanan manse?”
“I did. It’s a pretty nice layout.”
“And the widow?”
“She was there. And she has guests.”
“Really? Anyone you know?”
“Actually, yes. And I find that curious, very curious.”
Mike put the trash into the bag, and then we loaded that into the back of the jeep before we went to the real mushroom woods.
We hunted for about an hour, until we found ourselves in the middle of a nice mess of morels. Big Mike was very impressed.
“I must admit, one of the mushrooms I picked appeared to be growing in your boot track.”
13
When we returned to the Inn, a young woman was waiting on the back porch. Big Mike greeted her warmly, and introduced us. “James, this
is Patty Patterson of the Record. She’s undoubtedly been sent here to finish the half-done mission of her mentor and employer.”
Patterson was a bear of a woman. Pushing six-feet and more than 180 pounds; she was big but not fat. An athlete by every look of her, her smile was warm and her face was animated by good cheer. Her brown eyes danced in her tanned face – a woman undoubtedly comfortable in her skin and liking her life.
“Nice to meet you. How long have you been at the Record?”
“Mr. Stanton, with all due respect, Jan warned me that the first step in interviewing you was to not let you interview me. I’m flattered that you even sound like you care about my career, training, and all that, but can you let me ask you a few questions about your background, training, and career so I can go fishing before dark?” All this was offered slowly, in good spirits, punctuated with a disarming friendliness that I realized she wielded like a club.
“Sure, let’s sit here on the porch and I’ll try to answer your questions, but I’m sure you understand how reluctant I am to be the subject of a newspaper article.”
“Oh, and why’s that?”
“You don’t know? Let me use your camera for a second, and I’ll pose you by this lilac bush; we’ll capture you poised over your notebook in what would appear to be rapt attention to my interview, and we can print that photo along with the story as part of your by-line, whaddaya think?”
She was nodding her head and smiling, “You don’t mind being the interviewer, but not the interviewee.”
“I don’t think any journalist wants to be the subject of a story. It is a fear that has kept many of my colleagues sober between work and home for years.”
“Well, I’ll try to make this as painless as possible.”
She asked the requisite questions and I could tell she’d been prepared by Rathers and Coldwell. I don’t think she asked even three questions she didn’t know the answer to until she said, “What do you think of the Record as a newspaper?”
