Return to Appleton

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Why is it so important?”

  “Because when I talk with this guy I want to know if I’m being conned. Harry might not give it to me straight, but he’ll be straight with you.”

  “I can’t afford to take time off from work.”

  “So set it up for the weekend. I’ll drive, pay all expenses, even buy you lunch, dinner, whatever.”

  Again, Gloria shook her head.

  “I don’t want to say you owe me, because it wouldn’t be true. But it would go a long way in making me believe your apology was sincere yesterday.”

  “I thought I already proved that with the flyers.”

  “Flyers are nice—so crisp and neat and impersonal. Just the way you like things, Gloria. But it’s a little different, isn’t it, when someone asks you to stick your neck out?”

  Gloria couldn’t believe she was sitting in Cutter’s black Saab heading for Eckerd City. She stared out the window at the rows and rows of maples and poplars lining the sides of I-80 and thought about how in a few weeks they would begin turning color. Things were always changing … turning. What was that song? About one season following the other? Life was whirling along, dipping and turning so fast—just like the Tornado, the ride the Chamber of Commerce put up annually at the picnic grounds during the Apple Festival. Only a year ago she had traveled this same route by bus, on the way to a new city and a new life. It was an experience she’d never forget.

  But how unlike this trip it was. She had been full of excitement and, yes, trepidation. Full of the promise of starting over and all that entailed. This time, she was bored and angry. Bored because she couldn’t find one thing of interest to talk to Cutter about, and angry at herself for allowing him to pressure her into coming.

  He had gotten his way. As usual.

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He wore jeans and a tan cardigan over a white polo. Wind, whipping through the open window, made his hair whirl around his head like angry wasps. For some reason he almost seemed handsome, and Gloria had to restrain herself from laughing at the thought. She just wasn’t used to seeing him so casual. Or out of the office setting.

  She shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable. She avoided looking at the little laminated photo of a woman in a bikini dangling from Cutter’s mirror. On the back was the Playboy logo. The woman was curvaceous and top-heavy, like all the Playboy pinups. In some ways the photo reminded her of Sadie Bellows. It swayed with the car, almost hypnotic in its movements, and as if by some strange power, kept drawing Gloria’s eye to it.

  It seemed rather infantile, hanging up a picture of a woman you didn’t even know just because she had a great shape and was sexy looking. But then, Gloria had never understood the male psyche.

  Oh, why had she agreed to come?

  They still had an hour to go. That was sixty minutes—3,600 agonizingly long seconds. How would she fill them? Conversation? A glance at Cutter told her his mouth was shut tighter than a clam. If any pleasantries were going to be exchanged between them at all, she would have to initiate it.

  With a sigh, she began talking about the first thing that popped into her mind—her and Harry’s next issue of C&C, Conservation & Common Sense. And for the next thirty minutes, she rattled on about how wealthy foundations use the environmental movement for their own agenda.

  From the look on his face, Gloria was sure Cutter would be fast asleep if he hadn’t had to drive.

  Gloria was surprised Cutter was actually heading down the bumpy dirt road instead of parking his car along the highway and walking the rest of the way like she and Perth had done the first time they came to see The Lakes. The way the car bounced over the ruts, jerking and lurching along like a malfunctioning carnival ride, made Gloria’s teeth ache. She couldn’t imagine what it was doing to Cutter’s shocks and undercarriage. When she saw Cutter’s jaw tighten, she figured he was having second thoughts about the whole thing too.

  “I suppose it’s been a while since you’ve been here. I guess you’ve forgotten how awful the road is.”

  “You could have picked a better place to meet,” he growled, ignoring her remark. As if it were her fault that Hugo Pratt, the former owner of The Lakes, had failed to maintain the dirt road before he died.

  “I didn’t pick it. The informant did. And Harry agreed. Besides, you asked for someplace private.”

  “Yeah … well …” The vein along Cutter’s right temple zigzagged in a blue bulge. “Does this informant have a name?”

  “He said to call him Santa Claus.”

  Cutter frowned. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “Don’t look at me. I didn’t pick that either.”

  “How will we know him?”

  Before Gloria could stop herself, she laughed. “You mean in case the place suddenly becomes overrun with people?” When she saw Cutter work his jaw, she stopped laughing. “He said he has a mole on his right cheek.”

  Cutter pulled the Saab off the road and parked under a clump of trees next to another car. Gloria recognized Harry Grizwald’s vacant blue Plymouth. She scanned the area. It was hard to see between the thick clumps of oaks and evergreens, assorted pampas grasses and wildflowers, but finally she spotted him about eighty yards away, standing near the edge of the lake.

  She got out of the car and shouted, then waved. Cutter got out too and scanned the area, obviously looking for Santa Claus.

  “Where’s the informant?” Cutter looked like he had swallowed a dozen limes.

  “Maybe Harry knows something,” she said, happy for an excuse to sprint away. Somewhere between their car and the lake bank, her friend met her with a big bear hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You’re a welcome sight, let me tell you.”

  “Oh, it’s soooo good to see you too,” she said, pressing her cheek against Harry’s soft, curly white beard and inhaling the familiar scent of Old Spice. The sight of him made the three miserable hours she had spent with Cutter suddenly worth it.

  “So where’s Santa Claus?” Cutter said, making no attempt to be cordial.

  “He said he’d meet us here at noon,” Harry answered.

  Cutter checked his watch. “It’s ten after.”

  Though Gloria felt it was a bit anticlimactic, she introduced the men to each other, then laced her arm through Harry’s. “If we have to wait, let’s at least enjoy ourselves and sit by the lake.” The two walked toward the water’s edge and didn’t even stop when they heard Cutter’s disagreeable voice say, “We didn’t come here to enjoy ourselves.”

  When they reached a small clearing near the bank, Gloria flattened a section of tall rye grass with her foot and sat down. Harry followed suit. Then both of them watched Cutter trudge off in another direction without a word.

  Gloria watched the sun skating across the lake like a shimmering fairy; watched oak leaves flutter in the breeze; watched the tall grasses, which looked more like sheaves of wheat, sway and bow to the sun; marveled at the colorful wildflowers covering much of the clearing like a tapestry. It suddenly seemed incredible that a person like Cutter, who lacked the capacity to enjoy such beauty, could own this place.

  A gentle breeze fluttered around Gloria like a monarch butterfly. She breathed deeply of the fresh, sweet air, feeling at once the familiar invisible hand move her heart and remind her she was neither judge nor jury.

  When was she ever going to be all that Jesus wanted her to be?

  An hour later, Santa Claus still hadn’t shown up, and even Gloria was getting antsy. She had passed the time listening to Harry talk about Perth’s college ups and downs, all the papers she had due, her lack of a love life; and about Dorie’s “babies,” Mark and Cleo—her two Shih Tzus—and how Harry wasn’t all that crazy about either one of them, but, if pressed, thought Cleo was okay and suspected that was because she was a female and females generally had better dispositions—and that supposition about females, according to Harry, cut across the full spectrum of the animal kingdom.

  But now Gloria was fin
ding it difficult to sit still. Cutter had returned from his wanderings long ago and sat alone, off to the side. Those times when Gloria ventured a glance his way, she saw his face streaked with impatience and ill will.

  If Santa didn’t show, Cutter would be impossible going home. She could just hear him now, telling her what a colossal waste of time it had been, and how next time a crackpot calls, she should leave him out of it. And the scowl on his face would punctuate the whole dissertation like a big black period.

  Oh, it was going to be fun.

  “You want to go?” she finally asked. When he nodded without a word, they all got up and walked silently back to their cars.

  That’s when Gloria noticed the flock of crows overhead. Noticed them dip and swoop down into the grass several yards to the right of the trees where their cars were parked.

  “What’s going on?” She pointed to the crows.

  “Probably a dead animal,” Harry said.

  By the sheer number of crows flying back and forth, Gloria knew it had to be a large one. She didn’t know why, but she felt a sudden urge to investigate. “Let’s take a look.”

  Harry shook his head. “Nothing we can do now.”

  “I’m not interested in wasting any more time here,” Cutter said, his voice heavy with irritation.

  But Gloria was already sprinting in the direction of the activity. The snapping of twigs told her Harry followed closely behind. When she glanced back, Cutter had already disappeared from her line of vision, but she pictured him scowling and standing with his arms stiffly at his side, like one of those old Civil War generals cast in bronze. He was sure to be put out by all this, but it didn’t matter. She was a woman on a mission. And she couldn’t explain it, either, this sudden need to see the spot for herself.

  The closer to the flock of cawing birds, the thicker and more inhospitable the vegetation. Briarlike growth scratched and clawed Gloria’s ankles, tearing at her socks and jeans and sinking sharp thorns into her flesh. She was about to tell Harry that she had changed her mind and that they should turn around when something in the underbrush caught her eye. She pushed through the thicket, ignoring the throbbing pain in her ankles. There it was. Only a few inches more—something shiny, reflecting the sun. She stooped to reach for it, then gasped and pulled away. A silver watch sparkled on the ground only inches from her foot.

  Attached to a hand.

  She heard Cutter call impatiently, heard Harry’s labored breathing coming up behind her. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t answer. The hand was almost obscured by the underbrush and looked like one of those fake rubber things you find at a freaky curio shop. She was afraid to look further, afraid to follow with her eyes where the hand would lead. But she did, all the way up to the face—the face of a middle-aged man, poorly dressed, with a mole on his right cheek and one bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

  Oh, faithful Jesus.

  “What is it? What do you see?” Harry shouted, struggling with the underbrush, trying to reach her.

  Then she heard Cutter’s voice and his footsteps breaking the vegetation behind her. “What’s going on? What is it?” He passed Harry and reached her first.

  Gloria pointed down at the body. “I think we’ve just found Santa Claus.”

  Chapter Three

  THE DEATH OF SANTA CLAUS still haunted Gloria. At night, whenever she closed her eyes, she saw his body lying faceup in the underbrush, covered with briars and blood. And this vision finally forced Gloria to acknowledge there was danger associated with the flyers in general and with investigating The Lakes in particular. Back in Eckerd, she had received a threatening phone call from someone who didn’t like the flyers. Harry had received one too. But this was a far cry from a troublesome phone call.

  Someone was dead.

  She had spent a long time with Jesus explaining all this, then asked if He didn’t think it was best for her to back off from this radical environmental stuff. He did not.

  And there was the dilemma. She had lost her stomach for it. And she suspected, by the look on Harry’s face after they’d spent the better part of Saturday with the EPD trying to explain Santa Claus, that he had as well.

  So … now what?

  It took Gloria almost three full days to decide that she’d simply wait on the Lord, put the flyers on hold until she got some direction. No point in running ahead. That never worked anyway. And that face, that rubbery blank face in the underbrush, was a constant reminder of why her decision was a good one.

  Gloria closed her Bible and listened to Tiger purr next to her ear, felt him rub his head against her shoulder trying to get her attention. She stroked the soft, velvety patch of his nose, then around his ears, and watched his paws curl as he closed his eyes in ecstasy. The calico fur felt coarse between her fingers, and she wondered if that was because he had spent the first ten months of his life in McGreedy’s barn.

  She glanced at the cat bed in the corner of the living room. A big green pillow bulged inside a rattan oval shell on the floor. Next to it were half a dozen cat toys. She couldn’t believe she had had Tiger for less than two weeks. Already he was a big part of her life, providing companionship and love, and asking so little in return. He still liked going out, but most of his days were spent indoors, content with his new, soft life.

  Soft life.

  Was that what she was after? Having everything easy? To stay in the sheltered cocoon of her small world and not brave the dangers of the larger one?

  No. If that were the case, then she never would have left Appleton. Or returned.

  Oh, Jesus, I know You’re able to keep me in the palm of Your hand. Safe. Secure. And You’ve removed my timid nature, made me strong—a lot stronger than I was before. You’ve done so much, only … can we slow it down a bit?

  There was Santa Claus again. Looming large in her mind’s eye.

  She rose from the couch, suddenly detesting the thought of spending another night locked in her apartment in front of the TV. She had to get over this. It had been a while since anything had frightened her. She hated to keep calling that guy at The Lakes, Santa Claus. Maybe if she knew his name, she could bury him, bury his memory once and for all.

  “Enough of this, Gloria. You’re going out, out, out.” She headed for the tiny bedroom to freshen up. But where? Maybe she’d ride her old Schwinn—the one Sam Hidel sold her for ten dollars—to church. Hook up with the Wednesday night prayer group. On Sunday, Ivy Gordon had reminded her they were still meeting at the usual time and had asked her to join them. But Gloria had made some excuse about still settling in and being too busy. The truth was she didn’t want to ride home in the dark.

  And wasn’t that silly? This was Appleton. Not Eckerd City. People could ride a bike alone at night. She’d wear her new jeans—the ones with straight legs so she didn’t have to worry about her pants getting caught in the chain. The chain guard had fallen off days ago.

  Okay, so jeans it was. Gloria stopped halfway to the bedroom. In Appleton, news traveled fast. It would be only a matter of time before her mother found out she had worn Levi’s to church. That prospect, and her mother’s subsequent reaction, was almost as scary as riding her bike in the dark. “Get over it, Gloria,” she said, racing for the bedroom—if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late. “Just get over it.”

  Cutter Press stared at the notes in his hand and fumed. What was his mother up to now? If she thought these messages from her doctor were going to carry any weight with him … He crumpled the purple-lined notepapers, tossed them, and watched them bounce against the rim of the tall kitchen garbage pail and land on the floor. Then he stomped out, not bothering to pick them up.

  Sadie Bellows had handed him two messages from Dr. Grant before he left the office. Both said “Please call.” He had been down this road before. Had gotten numerous messages like this over the years from Dr. Grant. Every time his mother felt she was losing her grip over him or the business, she thought a trip to Dr. Grant’s would solve it. The scar
e-everyone-into-submission ploy. Leave it to Virginia. Didn’t she realize he had enough pressure? Especially now, after the death of that guy … Santa Claus. The police were still calling Cutter, asking questions. Didn’t Virginia know when to back off? Why did she have to be so shameless in the lengths she’d go to manipulate others? The only person coming close to her tactics was Geri Bickford. Close. But not surpassing. Not even equal.

  Still … the last time he saw Virginia she did seem listless, pale even. Suppose something was really wrong this time? Cutter stripped off his tie, flung it over one shoulder, then carefully removed the oval gold-plated cuff links. He stared at them for a moment, then cupped them in his hand. He unbuttoned his shirt as he walked through the posh, spacious house he was renting from a friend.

  All right … he’d call Dr. Grant tomorrow … just to make sure. But if Virginia thought for one second that he was going to move back home, she was in for a rude awakening. Dr. Grant could call every day, three times a day, seven days a week for all the good it would do him … or Virginia.

  Gloria felt ashamed and wondered what Jesus was thinking. The prayer meeting had gone on a little longer than usual, on account of all the ladies making a fuss over her and telling her, each one in turn, how happy they were she was back. After that great reception, Gloria had suddenly felt a need to justify their validation that she was a person of worth, show them she was especially important to the prayer group. That’s when she purposely let her Bible flip to one of the heavily highlighted pages, and instantly felt an immodest satisfaction that her page was more heavily marked than the one Ivy Gordon had opened.

  Everything quickly went downhill after that. As each of the ladies took turns lifting up prayer requests, Gloria barely listened. Instead, she spent the time mentally composing a prayer in her head, playing with the words, arranging them just so, then rearranging them. She desperately wanted it to flow like theirs so they could see how much she had grown. When her turn came her prayer was flawless, like she had read it off a script, which she had. She could see that everyone was impressed. But inside, her spirit wept.