by Steve Amick
“I know it’s great here and all . . .” she said. “Weneshkeen’s great . . .”
“Great?” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“But . . . don’t you ever wish things would change a little? At least some of it?”
“Never,” he said. “None of it. And plenty of it is changing.” He raised his hand, gesturing toward the world behind her left shoulder, which she took to mean Noah’s Ark back behind her up on the ridge.
She said, “I guess we’re opposites, you and me.”
“No we’re not. You’re just . . . looking at things lately. Making decisions, not just taking it as it comes. That’s good. That’s healthy. But David Letterman . . . ?”
“It’s dumb, I know. He’d never in a million years . . .”
“Well, have you seen him around?”
She bit her lip. “That doesn’t mean anything. I’ve been hearing things. A lot of things. He’s just a very private person. Anyway . . .”
There was a long pause between them, injected by a burst of chatter from up at the house. Roy Kunk, she bet—she’d heard him drunk enough times to know that voice.
“So,” she said finally, “. . . what do you think of all that, what I just said?”
He didn’t answer but stepped away, facing the darkening lake. “That depends. You want my response as your friend and former coach or as someone maybe trying to get in your pants?”
She couldn’t believe he’d just said that. She had to bite her lip again to keep from grinning. “The former.” There was a flicker of something on his face—disappointment, maybe—so she added, “Which is probably an easier way to get in my pants—being straight with me.”
He took a deep breath. “Let me ask you this first: who’s the best swimmer you know around here?”
“Well, you definitely would be one of them. Obviously.”
“Okay. Did I tell you I’m thinking about training for the next Olympics, going to the tryouts?”
“How old are you?”
He didn’t answer. “See what I’m saying? I don’t like being the bubble-burster here, Janey, but . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t have to. She was pretty sure she knew what he meant: sure, she was funny, but moving-to-New-York funny, that was a whole different level of funny. And you had to be a kid, a fetus, to write for TV. That’s what he was saying.
“Besides,” he said, “the fact is, Janey Struska, you would be a great disappointment to this town if you left. You would.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “I serve the community . . .”
He sounded a little impatient. “Yeah. You do. In ways that Hatchetface doesn’t begin to understand. And if you want to write or be funny, great—tell Glenn Meeker you want to do a humor column or something.”
The second he said it, she knew it wasn’t a bad idea. Glenn would welcome having a little less space to fill in the Identifier every week.
“You get in there . . . you hone your skills . . .” He sounded like the coach again, preaching practice, practice, practice and doing it the hard-earned way. “Only, be sure he runs your picture next to your byline. That’s key.”
“Why is that key?” She was starting to giggle—with the excitement of the idea; at her old swim coach using the term byline like he was Jimmy Olsen, cub reporter.
She could hear in his voice the sly smile he was now fighting to contain. “Free publicity, Struska. For the next election, maybe?”
It really made sense. It would certainly make for an amusing hobby for a while—she could have a ball poking fun at whatever local issues were bugging her, maybe even give her boss Hatchert a gentle crack in the ass every once in a while . . . And then she would have more options, too: she’d gain a little real-world experience writing humor, at least semi-professionally, and if she then decided not to pursue that any further, if she decided to run against him, she’d have a public forum in the paper on a regular basis. Who’d stand a chance against that?
Roger kept checking his watch and squinting out at the darkness over the lake. “People here know you, Janey, and they like you.”
“Well,” she said. “That’s definitely a lot to think about.” Which it was, but she wanted to put it aside and think about it later. It was a lot of tough love and straight-shooting and coachlike mentoring and she would much rather get back to the part about his maybe trying to get in her pants.
66
HE TOOK HER TO DINNER out at the Log Jam and wore a blazer he didn’t recall owning—a telltale sign, he thought, that this was now officially a date. Then they went to this thing she’d been invited to out at Noah’s Ark—some sort of presentation and tasting party for potential investors in a new soft drink. The house and the people were horrible, but it was kind of interesting—he couldn’t imagine ever having another reason to set foot in the place. Plus, it gave him a crowd of witnesses to his alibi. But as soon as it was clear that some person Janey was looking for wasn’t showing, she seemed less interested in the whole thing and suggested they go for a walk down along the billionaire’s beach. Roger was glad enough to get out of there but it made him a little nervous, abandoning all these witnesses.
He watched as she slipped off her dressy white sandals to negotiate the winding stairway—not a very well-practiced maneuver, it seemed, but it was still nice to see her attempting something so feminine. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so dolled up. She looked great. He wasn’t sure he made that clear, but she did. Womanly. Not like a little breakable girl, like you saw on TV, but strong and soft, like the women he’d known growing up on his side of the lake.
It made it a tough balance: he wanted to be focused and connect with her, but he also had to keep his wits about him; stay aware of the other thing that was happening that night.
He decided that maybe this beach stroll hadn’t been such a bad move. It would firmly establish his presence on Lake Michigan, which was clearly not Meenigeesis. In the company of a member of the police force who would vouch for him. Still, it would have been better to be either inside, up at the party, or back at the Log Jam, surrounded by diners.
She was barefoot now, walking beside him in the sand. It felt odd, strolling along the beach with no real purpose, but he supposed this kind of thing was expected, in order for their evening to qualify as a date. Besides, he still had another hour to kill, just to be safe.
The key, he thought, is the leisurely shuffle. He really didn’t have that hands-in-the-pockets shuffle down. Which is maybe why he didn’t normally go on a lot of dates.
He checked his dive watch—2230. Ten-thirty. If it was going down, it was going down soon. He wished he could be there for that one, but he would have to settle for imagining it: the initial weirdness of the wind, then the chocka-chocka, the treetops dancing, the spot cutting on suddenly, a beam of light from on high as they drop the harness and one man rappels and secures the grab, cinches the harness, and then the pull-away, the slight reluctant give of the rope, the chopper straining slightly but pulling, and the lake releasing it finally, the jet-ski up and streaming water, spinning slowly in the white light like a goddamn disco ball. Probably by then, the owners would be up and outside, deck doors thrown wide, hands held against the blinding light, squinting as it all goes bye-bye. Probably, they’d swear it was a UFO.
He tried to act normal, do the date talk. When he asked why this party, she told him this whole spiel about some crazy idea she had that David Letterman was in town and how she wanted to run off to New York and become some sort of literary wit or maybe more like Sally Rogers from The Dick Van Dyke Show and let the new guy, the interim sheriff, just do whatever the hell he wanted. He tried to give her his honest reaction to all that and he let something crude slip about wanting to jump her bones or something. That seemed really inappropriate, plus he felt like he was picking on her a little, and so he changed the subject, pointing out at the now dark horizon of Lake Michigan, in the safe direction, to the southwest, the compass point that
would not include the flight path of Colonel Landry’s boys. “Hey,” he said, “was that a meteor?”
“Now you’re seeing lights in the sky?” she teased, but looked and then he looked again, higher, tipping his head back further. It seemed so empty up there and yet so full at the same time and he wondered if he had in fact seen something. Maybe there was something to see if he just let down his guard a little.
He thought of his old girlfriend Crystal again and resisted the urge to slide his hand up and protect his jugular. “Hey,” he said. “Your turn to pick me apart: honestly, is crusted a word you’d use to describe me?” He felt genuine surprise at the dumb words gushing forth. He really was awfully poor at this whole social conversation thing.
She tipped her head down suddenly, as if shy, and pulled at something in her hair. “You’re not that crusty. No. You’re really holding up for— I mean, you’re not that old. Jeez. Come on.”
It wasn’t what he meant. He meant hardened, not old. But he let it lie there. Her version suited things better. Did he really want to get into a whole discussion of vulnerability with Janey Struska, for Christ’s sake? She punched him lightly on the shoulder, palsy, recovering from some stumble he didn’t quite understand, and turned as if to continue.
He stepped forward to follow and, somehow, they were kissing. It just happened. He’d thought they were moving on, but she’d stopped to add something, turning, and he tasted her black hair as it brushed across his lips and they were kissing. As soon as he realized what was happening, he stopped.
“Coach . . .” she said, still very close, a muttering against his mouth, and kissed him again.
They stood there kissing, very gently, his fingers tentative at her sides, cautious, as he listened for sounds in the distance. Maybe he was imagining it, but he thought he heard some kind of whumpa-whumpa-whumpa over to the east, toward the other lake. It had to be to the east, inland. It couldn’t possibly be his pulse, his heartbeat. Not him.
67
THE “SECOND DEBUT” of Noah’s new soft drink was equally disappointing yet came with its own special flavor of disappointment. Whereas last time, his guests seemed to be ignoring the purpose of the gathering, acting as if less was going on than announced, that it was just a friendly party, this time, his guests seemed to be waiting for something more to happen. He couldn’t help but notice the way several of them glanced up expectantly at the clang of the spiral staircase whenever one of the girls from the caterer appeared on it with a replenished tray of “aps,” which they took and ate looking disappointed.
At one point, things turned ugly. The hardware store guy—Roy Kunk, he later found out the guy’s name was, not even the one he’d invited, the owner of McCreery’s, but the guy’s brother-in-law in his stead—seemed at first to be hitting on Deery Lime, leaning against the wall next to her, trying to monopolize her, and Noah did notice the way Tony squinted and scowled and moved serpentine through the crowd, trying to get to her. Deery was more than capable, of course, and must have inserted something to set the conversation back on track, toward the subject of investment, because Kunk pulled back dramatically, shaking his head, mouth open as if slapped, grinning pumpkinishly, and it was clear now that he was pretty drunk. “You want us to give him money for this stuff? Really? You got some balls, lady. What’s so wrong with the kid billionaire’s money, he needs ours? You gotta be shitting me, Dolly or whatever the hell your name is . . .” And the room seemed to darken and those around him turned in annoyance and it felt to Noah as if they weren’t just annoyed with the drunk but maybe with the matter he had bellowed. And he wondered if maybe this evening wasn’t one more horrible mistake in an ever-spiraling string.
By now, his financial adviser had reached the man and had a hand on his elbow. Deery turned immediately, beaming, to the nearest guest on her other side, clearly relieved. Kunk yanked back, starting to leave but resistant to being led. Tony tailed him as he reeled toward the nearest open glass door. Noah glanced around for the deputy sheriff, but she must have been outside or something. Perhaps she’d left already. She seemed to be on a date. He’d only put her on the list as a nice gesture because he’d first heard of sumac lemonade from her, not because she would have any money to invest, and she’d dragged someone else along to mooch up the snacks.
Here this was supposed to be for people who would invest and it had turned instead into a spectacle to be crashed, into Sodapoplooza, with all the wrong people attending, invitations being borrowed or ignored or passed around. Last time, his guests made him feel like they were just there to see him, that they didn’t care about the pop. Now they made him feel like they didn’t even care if he was there.
As Kunk passed the bar, almost to the door, he either accidentally or intentionally—it wasn’t clear from where Noah stood, Gatsby-like, midway up the nearest spiral staircase—knocked over the photo of David Letterman displayed on the bar, and the glass frame broke on the floor.
After that, the crowd pretty much thinned out.
As soon as the last guest left, Deery pawed through the response cards, separating them into two stacks. Where it said Would you be interested in investing in Sumac Lemonade? half the cards had the No box checked, but they’d scrawled in an addendum: No thank you, but it was very nice, and the other half wrote No thank you, but we’d love to have you over to our place sometime for something out on the grill. Don’t be a stranger. Nobody marked yes.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “This is the local drink.” He knew it wasn’t truly the local drink—it was merely a traditional novelty, tolerated once a year—but still. “Don’t they have any civic pride? What the hell’s wrong with them?”
“Do you know what circus people call local townspeople?” Tony asked. He sounded a little drunk. “Clems. Like they’re all named Clem.”
Deery glanced at Tony before speaking. She looked like someone trying to get her story straight. “They were mostly very polite on the cards, but frankly, I think a lot of them were kind of irked that he wasn’t here? Maybe even came just to meet him.”
“What? Who him?”
“Letterman.”
Oh God, he thought. “David Letterman? They thought he was going to be here here? At my house?”
Tony jerked his thumb in an easterly direction. “That Mrs. Self told me in the driveway just now. Very disappointed. Said she even had a stupid pet trick she wanted to show him. Something with an enlarged sinus cavity or something. I did not pursue.”
“Did you tell them David Letterman would be here?”
“Absolutely not. They didn’t hear it from me.” Tony was prying off his shoes, getting comfortable on the couch across from the bar, a solid chrome couch in the shape of a bear, padded with only small paw-shaped pillows in a few key spots, made of actual grizzly bear fur. It cost, if he remembered right, probably ten times the cost of an actual live bear. “But there’s been stuff going around. People say he’s buying some big place out here, so I guess it made sense. Hell, I even heard something myself. About him attending, I mean.”
“You thought David Letterman was going to be here.” Even as Noah said it, a small part of him had to admit he’d seen this glitch as a possibility and knew he himself was to blame. “Here tonight. That he was interested in investing in sumac lemonade?”
Tony shrugged. “I thought maybe you had something last-minute up your sleeve. A surprise, maybe.” He shrugged again, as if to say, Don’t look at me like I’m a moron, and said, “I heard rumors. I didn’t start them, I just—” With his shoe, he gestured toward the bar. Specifically, the smashed Letterman photo, now lying flat in a pinkish puddle—probably the prototype pop. “You have an autographed photo of the guy, Yo. It’s out where everyone can see! Come on!”
Still . . . Noah thought. Couldn’t people ever get anything right? The Letterman rumor was meant, of course, to help him possibly sell the house, not the sumac lemonade. Idiots! What was the point of bothering trying to deceive the public when they didn’t even
listen?
“It wasn’t just Letterman not being here,” Deery said quietly, clearing her throat, raising her chin. “I picked up another vibe from the guests? There seems to be a pre-existing resentment toward you and your wealth and this house, building it here? Yes? Well, the sense I got, the talk I overheard, for some, that resentment was somewhat exacerbated tonight. There was a perception that you were rubbing your wealth in their faces—‘flaunting’ it, was the word I heard—and then asking them to help finance your new product. And then also, not producing Letterman. That didn’t help. For some, this was the takeway—the wealth-flaunting thing. I don’t know how the numbers break down. But that angry drunk asshole who called me Dolly? He wasn’t exactly alone.”
This was terrible. After he spent all this money on entertaining, he’d at least expected it would raise his standing with the locals; spread the goodwill. “They hate me even more now.”
“We don’t really have hard data on that yet,” she said, moving over to join Tony and sitting on the edge of the bear couch.
“So this whole get-together—pretty much the opposite of the desired result, you’re telling me?”
Tony shrugged. “You’re disappointed, sure, but—”
“More like I’m nervous. Worried. Shouldn’t I be?”
“But this isn’t really your kind of thing anyway, is it? This pop thing, scraping up backers . . .” Tony said it like he was talking about losing one small softball game; like a guy who had other things on his mind that night, like getting laid.
“Something’s got to be my thing again, soon, or . . .” He didn’t need to spell it out. Tony knew more about that fact than he did. This wasn’t some whim he’d tried just for kicks but didn’t have a knack for. This wasn’t Malcolm Forbes fiddling with Harleys and hot air balloons. He was in a goddamn financial tailspin here.
“It’s just this economy,” Tony said. “Things have got to bounce back, Yo. You watch: fourth quarter of 2001’s gonna be great. We’ll just have to ride it out.” Tony was shifting lengthwise, actually getting comfortable, his stockinged feet pressing, playfully, against Deery’s hip. They both seemed so relaxed, like they genuinely enjoyed lounging on that awkward piece of furniture.
