A Living Grave

by Robert E. Dunn

  Ten seconds later I was at the sheriff’s door. He wasn’t alone. There were a couple of suits there along with two of our detectives taking up the chairs, and Billy and two other deputies were standing to the side. I realized then that Billy must have been the one surveilling the lab. That was what he had been doing before he found me this morning. And that explained why he didn’t just come right out and tell me where he had been. He saw me at the same time as the sheriff. Billy was the only one in the room who looked pleased to see me.

  Sheriff Benson held up his finger at me, then went on talking to the suits. Once he finished his point, he stood slowly, excused himself and then came to me out in the hall, closing the door behind him.

  “Because it’s not your case,” he said.

  I opened my mouth to speak and he put up his finger again.

  “And—you are not invited because you already put one of the suspects in the hospital. And. And—I know you want to be involved. I know it overlaps. And I know you got the initial information. But. This is a big deal, for the department and the county. It requires coordination with federal authorities who have asked that you not be involved.”

  “What? Why?”

  “They weren’t real specific. It might be that you have a reputation. Do you want to ask what kind of reputation?”

  I didn’t.

  “Or it might be that your friend the major got to them. One of the feds mentioned ‘past history.’ ”

  My finger was tracing the shape of the scar on my face as my mind was filling in blanks with hard-edged expletives. There wasn’t time to curse or even snarl, otherwise the suits in the other room would have gotten a firsthand experience of my reputation. Before I could dig my grave any deeper, Darlene was at my side, reaching between me and the sheriff to hand him a note. Without a word she was off again.

  Sheriff Benson read the short lines on the little pink memo page then looked up at me and said, “Cotton Lambert’s dead. He was shot in his hospital room.”

  The sheriff turned away from me to stick his head into the office and cut his meeting off. He told Billy to “Stop sucking that damn soda pop and get on the job.” Then he turned back to me and said, “Stay away from this.”

  I needed to tell him that I had been there. It was important to be clear about timelines and what I had seen. But that was when the two feds came filing out of the office. They had both heard the sheriff telling me to stay away. They were smirking like they had read my name and number on the wall of a gas station bathroom.

  Reach had gotten to them.

  It is amazing how small the law-enforcement community can be. You encounter the same people when jurisdictions cross and agencies overlap. Like a small town—or worse, like a small high school—it only takes a few words to mark you in certain ways. And like the big, alpha, macho men they were, the feds were more than willing to believe the worst about a woman. Especially when that worst comes packaged in sneering innuendo and delivered by another male authority figure. I was suddenly thinking of what Billy had said to me that morning: people talk, things get around. Yeah, I was the poster child for that.

  I opened my mouth to say something. Before that I hadn’t bothered to think what I would say, so no telling what would have come out if Billy had not rattled the ice in his big soda cup. The feds walked out without the benefit of the piece of my mind they needed.

  Billy stopped in the hall beside me. He looked one way to see the sheriff headed for his car. He looked the other way to watch the feds going off to the visitors’ lot. With the cup in his hand he gestured at the backs of the suit jackets. “You know,” he said, “some people are jerks. They don’t mean to be, they just are. But they aren’t enemies till you make them that way.”

  “What’re you trying to say, Billy?” I left the edge in my voice so he would know that friends only goes so far.

  “I’m trying to say that sometimes we have power we don’t even realize.”

  “I want to chew nails and you’re talking in riddles.”

  “The power to make enemies. And not to make them.”

  There is a lot to be said about having friends. Unfortunately, there is so much more to be said about being your own worst enemy that sucks the power out of so much self-understanding and New Age in-touch Zen bullshit or whatever Billy was finding in his soda.

  “Don’t you have to take a leak and get a refill?” I asked him. As I walked away I could feel him watching me and I wondered what he was thinking.

  The real question was: What was I thinking? I wasn’t. I was acting on my impulse to get the two feds out in the parking lot and—what? Nothing good. It was habit or it was a get-them-before-they-get-me instinct. Anyway I could look at it, confrontation was my first goal.

  My only goal?

  Maybe I’m learning. Maybe I’m growing. For once in my life I did the better thing and walked away. Both of the men were staring at me.

  They expected me to make a scene.

  “Good luck with everything,” I said with a smile as I walked past their car. Then I waved and I smiled again as I went the long way around the building to my truck. I felt proud of myself.

  * * *

  A sane woman would have gone to Nelson’s place and had a talk, maybe got herself proposed to again. If not that, then at least engaged in some joyous physicality. It’d been a long time since I was accused of sanity.

  I went looking for Clare Bolin. I didn’t find him by phone or by driving to the usual places. His usual places, that is. I found him at one of mine. His truck was in the lot in front of Uncle Orson’s dock.

  Being Saturday and a perfect day for fishing, the shop and dock slips were busy. Men were tinkering with their boats, pulling out or pulling in. Two men were cleaning their catch at the sinks mounted right on the railing. They used the hand pumps to bring lake water up and carry the scales and guts right back down with it. Unheeding of all the activity, Orson and Clare were sitting at the table eating chicken just off the grill and drinking clear whiskey from mason jars.

  “Have a drink,” Clare said, sliding one of half-a-dozen sealed jars across the table.

  I don’t know how my face looked at the moment but it must have been saying something. Uncle Orson reached out and slid the jar back with the others, then said, “I think Katrina is keeping a better eye on what she drinks these days.” He grabbed an orange soda from the cooler and opened it with a rusty church key that had been dangling from the same string for longer than I’d been alive. “Isn’t that right,” he said, sliding the bottle across the tabletop.

  “Close enough to right,” I answered. I took a long drink.

  “So are you going to marry him?” Uncle Orson asked while I had the bottle tilted up and my head back.

  When I lowered the soda from my mouth I turned the bottle away and touched the back of my hand to my lips.

  “So?”

  “That’s good,” I said in the way of pointedly not answering. Then I looked to Clare. “I’ve been looking for you,” I said.

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “I’m out of the business.”

  “That’s why I was looking.”

  “Did you know that Clare isn’t just another bootlegger?” Orson chimed in. “He’s certified.”

  “Certified?” I asked and I’m sure my eyebrow made a Vulcan arch as I did.

  “Told you I was a teacher. Gotta do something with those summers off. I took classes in distilling and brewing. Lotta good they did me.”

  “Have you found out anything more about what’s been going on?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. Only thing I hear is about that restaurant place and I already told you what I think about it.”

  “What have you been hearing?” I asked.

  “They’re making over quota. That’s all I know. I talked to Gabe Hoener. He was the master distiller there before he got fired.”

  “Over quota? Wouldn’t that be a good thing? Why’d he get fired?”

  “Not like tha
t,” Clare said. “Over state quotas. For in-house, they’re only licensed to produce so much for onsite sales and enough to keep a gift shop going. They can distribute locally to wholesalers but the agreements say the distribution has to be less than fifty percent of total production. Gabe got fired for pointing that out.”

  “How much more are they making?”

  “He said they could do a thousand gallons a month if they wanted to.”

  “That sounds like a lot.”

  “That place is lucky to sell one gallon a month,” he said before taking a sip from his jar.

  I took a drink from my soda, then asked, “So where’s it all go?”

  Clare shrugged. The motion seemed both an answer and a resignation. I finished my orange soda.

  Uncle Orson tilted his head toward the screen door and followed the motion. I went with him outside to stand beside the grill. He picked up a pair of tongs and poked around at the chicken and brats. To the side was a pile of burgers keeping warm in a foil pan.

  “So? You’re not answering my question?” He added the brats and a couple of chicken breasts to the warming tray.

  “Would you wrap up a couple of those burgers for me? I’ll take them home to Nelson.”

  “Home?” he asked.

  “Burgers,” I said.

  “You know, not answering is a kind of answer.”

  “You know what’s an even better answer?”

  “What?”

  “Hamburgers. With cheese. And a frosty mug of shut-the-hell-up.”

  “I tell you,” he said. “There’s no love to be had around here.”

  “That’s not true,” I told him and put my hand on his arm and waited for him to look me in the eyes. “I love your burgers.”

  “You get your sense of humor from your father. He was never funny, either.”

  “I called him early this morning. I kind of thought he might be here.”

  “Nope. Not today. He’s busy with work. Like it would kill him to retire.”

  I reached to the overhead shelf and lifted the brick that kept the stack of paper plates from blowing away. I pulled a couple out and reset the brick. “How busy can he be?”

  On his side of the shelf Orson pulled down buns and put them on the plates. “Who knows with him? He went to Washington, I think. He wasn’t very clear. There’s a mess between Homeland Security and DoD involving an investigation into stolen weapons. For some reason they need an old man to take care of it. Must have been important. He sounded worried.”

  “He doesn’t get worried,” I said, opening and laying out the buns while Orson slipped the dripping patties onto them.

  “No. He just never lets you see him worried.” He hung the tongs on their hook and closed the lid on the grill before turning to face me straight on. “You know, we’re not going to be around forever,” he said.

  I covered the plates with plastic wrap and concentrated on what I was doing.

  “You understand what I’m saying?” he asked.

  “I know what you’re saying but I don’t really want to think about it right now.”

  “There’s never a good time for those thoughts. But maybe you need to spare some for the idea that someday you might have to take care of your dad instead of the other way around.”

  “Not him,” I said, finally looking up. “And not you. Both of you are like rocks. You’re always going to be here.”

  “Rocks used to be mountains,” he said. “All of us pass.”

  “Is there something you’re trying to tell me?” I asked. “Something specific?”

  “Just that time has a way of running away with us all and maybe your daddy would retire, take things easier, if he felt a little more secure about you.”

  “That’s a vote of confidence. Are you wanting me to marry Nelson so I’ll be secure?”

  “No. That’s just so you’ll be happy. I want you to be secure so your father can get on to his happiness.”

  I stacked the plates up and gestured with them. “Well, I’ll be sure and let you know. Thanks for the burgers.”

  “Don’t go away mad,” he said. “And tell Nelson, hey.”

  I did kind of want to be mad but it wasn’t in me. It had drained out through the day. He was right, anyway. Not that being right had ever stopped my anger. I had realized, though, that I wanted to talk to Nelson; I wanted to share the thoughts I was having with him.

  When I went back into the shop, Clare was no longer at the table. He was behind the counter, helping a bemused-looking man decide between mealworms and salmon eggs. At the same time he was discreetly slipping a jar of whiskey into a bag. It looked like having Clare around would help Uncle Orson’s sales, if nothing else.

  * * *

  Nelson had been at the inside of the house like a tornado in a trailer park. There were boxes everywhere. Most were stout cardboard from the supermarket, but many were crates, wooden structures strong enough to carry gold bars. They held paintings in twos and threes. On the table were stacks of paper laid out in ordered rows, each pile bearing red tabs poking out every which way. They were all legal documents and the tabs were those little sticker things that point out the places one needs to sign.

  Remaining untouched in the corner was the big easel and a work in progress. Beside that was the little stand with the single drawer. It was open and empty. I looked around through the jumble for the case with the revolver.

  Packed away?

  The sliding door to the deck stood open, letting fresh air and an equally welcome break from the heat into the room. Thinking I’d find Nelson out there, I followed the breeze. He wasn’t there but he’d left something behind. A cigar butt and a Zippo lighter engraved with the Marine Corps globe and anchor.

  A cigar? Is he kidding?

  From behind me I heard the wet spit of a pull tab being opened. Nelson was standing there in old desert camo pants and no shirt. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat that had just won the lottery.

  “Are you crazy?” I asked, pointing at the cigar stub, then to the beer in his hand.

  His answer was to reach out his free hand and pull me into a kiss. I didn’t want a kiss. I wanted an answer, but . . .

  He tasted of beer and faintly of cigar. His skin was wet with sweat and smelled musky. He’d tried to cover it with—was that Old Spice? Altogether it was about as manly and wonderful a mixture as I could imagine. I kissed him back—hard.

  When the kiss broke, I pulled back and looked at him. I knew I wanted to be angry with him for abusing himself but I couldn’t. He really did look better than I had ever seen him. The bones that had shown through were maybe slightly less defined. On his head was a definite and prickly shadow of new growth. The real change was in his eyes. There was a lively fire to them that made me think of joys I’d never imagined.

  “Crazy about you,” he said.

  There’s something about a man with a stupid line when he doesn’t know it’s stupid. I kissed him again and decided not to nag about the cigar.

  “You brought hamburgers,” he said, pointing at them on the table as he led me back inside.

  “And you brought lawyers.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nelson said after turning to wink at me. “It’s not a prenup.”

  “Like you have anything I want,” I teased.

  “That’s not true,” he hit back earnestly. “You like that painting.” He pointed to one securely crated away.

  “I’ve already got that one on a coffee cup.”

  “You’re breaking my heart.”

  “And who said I was going to marry you?”

  “Like you have options.” He grabbed up one of the burgers and pulled the plastic wrap away before burying his teeth in, chomping away almost half.

  “You’re in good spirits,” I said. “Mean. But good.”

  “I feel good.” He spoke and smiled while chewing. Then he used the beer to wash down the food. “I mean it. Good. Like I haven’t felt in a long time, good.”

  “And all this?
” I pointed to the piles and mess around us.

  He’d taken another bite and was smiling around it. When he forced it down he said, “I’m making room.”

  “For what?”

  He sat the remainder of the burger down right on top of a stack of papers. The look in his eyes was not as happy as it had been.

  “I’ve been going through them too. Thinking and remembering. They need to be someplace more suited to long-term storage.”

  Nelson hadn’t answered my question, but I didn’t push. I was caught up in what he did say. It was easy for me to think of the thoughts and memories he spoke of as physical objects. They were boxes, some wrapped and secret, some worn from opening so many times. The contents were all treasures, even if some were sad. They were sitting, piled around us; the accumulation of a life. It was how I felt often. Like I lived with boxes labeled Never Forget or Never Remember. Things That Were. Things That Might Have Been.

  “I know you think you’re getting better—”

  “I am better,” he said.

  After a long, thoughtful time I said, “I can’t watch you die.”

  “That’s not what I want. I want you to watch me live.”

  “What if these are just a few good days?”

  “What if?” he said like it was a curse. “You can’t live a life worried about all the what-ifs, because that’s all there are. What if something good happens? What if something bad happens? News flash, Katrina Williams: They will happen. They have happened and will continue happening. I can make you a promise, though.”

  “What?”

  “No matter what if—I promise that cancer won’t kill me.”

  “How can you promise that?”

  “Because this is my life—this is our life—and I’m bigger than cancer.”

  He smiled. It was so warm and confident it could not be doubted, but still . . . I flashed on an earlier thought I’d had on the deck: There’s something about a man who believes his own foolish lines.

  “I don’t know . . . I don’t know if I’m capable . . . I’m afraid I can’t be here with you. For you.”

  “It’s not for me, Katrina.” He smiled like he had a secret thought, then he said, “Katrina. My own hurricane. You are a wild bluster. You blew into my life and changed everything.”