The Other Oregon

by Steve Anderson

  Greg choked down another swig of his dry-hopped triple IPA. The window was open and he heard bicycles whizzing by, clattering away from lots of good fun usage. Laughter echoed as they passed, probably hitting the next cheap bar. Emily should be out there with the twenty-somethings, he thought, not in here with me and my thirty-seven years.

  He heard a puff he recognized as her iron—one last shot of steam. “Here I come,” she said from the workroom.

  “Okay-ee,” he said.

  Emily pranced out swaying her small hips to help hide the blouse she was holding behind her back. She was a waif with big blue eyes and short hair that only a waif could pull off, but she didn’t look skinny. She had curves. Her smile stretched wide.

  “Organic cotton, all local. Carbon footprint of like, a hummingbird,” she said.

  The blouse had both lacy details and shiny fabric, both cute and elegant, just different enough from the ones her friends and peers were wearing. On them it might look like an old woman’s blouse but on her it looked like, well, Emily. Emily was into clothes, yes, but it was like a science and an art to her. It flowed from her personality, from the way she approached any subject, often with a raised eyebrow. She wasn’t materialistic but did like “pleasant” things, she said—an odd word choice, but that was Emily. She’d say a word like that and soon people would be trying it out themselves. She had told him there was a difference between acquisitive and appreciative, and she was definitely the latter. If anyone could make a trendy nerd girl in her late twenties appealing, it was she. She was grinning. Her teeth were a little crooked in two spots like a stereotypical country girl’s, which, she had joked with Greg, should in itself give away that she was part of the constant migration to Portland from the Midwest. She was from the rural Iowa contingent. Yet most assumed she had switched coasts straight from Brooklyn.

  She kept grinning. He grinned back. This time she was going to need a better reaction from him.

  “That’s great. They’ll want it for sure,” he said—they being the small fashion line that sometimes contracted her for designs.

  Emily hopped up and down. “They already do. They called.”

  “I’m so proud of you, Em. Everyone talks. You just go and do it.”

  She came close and wrapped her arms around him, swathing him with the heat of the sewing machine and work light that was still in her hair and skin and sweater. She kissed him. He kissed her. She pulled back showing damp eyes.

  What was she tearing up about?

  “Hey, what is it?” he muttered. “You should be happy.”

  She went into the kitchen and fetched a beer for herself, one of his IPAs. She drank wine normally, so this made him feel a tad territorial, and her eyebrow raised at him. She toasted him. He toasted her. They drank. Greg had to look away. Thoughts of Donny and his past, of Torres and his mocking of Cascadia, made him feel heavy, weary. Torpid. Sinking. It was weighing on him like sandbags on his shoulders and this, his sixth hoppy beer, was not helping.

  “How was the conference?” Emily said.

  “Good. It will be fine.”

  “Something happen?” Emily said.

  “No. It’s okay,” Greg said, though he’d slurred it a little.

  Emily gave him a little rub on his knee. She drank, eyeing him. Her damp eyes had dried up. She stayed on the sofa with him, knees tucked under her, watching him. Her eyes had a different shine now. A sharpness, like glass.

  “So, I was thinking,” she said. “Ready?”

  “Yup. Sure.”

  “What if we … had a kid?”

  Greg did not flinch, not even inside. He turned to her. He showed an open and supportive smile that hinted at surprise in the way his mouth curled on one end. It was the same face he used whenever he was doing an interview and the interviewee was gushing that they had something truly important for the story, but Greg doubted he could use it. He wasn’t proud of the face. It had belonged to his old self before he had left Portland. It was one of his few fake faces left. The problem was, he couldn’t find words to match. He said:

  “Honey. We don’t even sleep in the same bed half the time.”

  “Says the guy who wanted his own room.” She glanced away, took a chug of her beer, and set it down.

  “You thought it was a good idea, too. The way I am.”

  “A place just for you—I get it. I do. If we’re going to live together. I’m the same way. We like doing our stuff alone. Look. I know what you’re thinking. I don’t mean marriage, silly. I just mean, it might give us sort of a structure. Some focus or something.”

  At some point, Greg wasn’t sure when, Emily had untwisted her legs out from under her and was sitting upright, her back straight like a contestant on a reality show waiting to hear the judges’ decision. She kept her chin up. She’d given it her best shot.

  He reached out for her narrow yet soft hand and held this rare piece of art in both of his hands, cradling it. “It could be a good idea, Em,” he said. “We’ll see. We’ll talk about it.”

  The next morning, as Emily nestled back into her workspace, Greg pedaled off to another long day at the Cascadia Congress. At the end of the block, he turned a corner, stopped, and called a number. It rang once, and he heard: “You’ve reached Special Agent Richard Torres of the FBI. Please leave a detailed message.”

  After the beep, Greg announced himself and said: “Thanks for contacting me, Agent Torres, but, I have to decline your proposal. It’s just not my thing. I don’t feel comfortable with it. Oh, also, I appreciate your coming to our event and offering your thoughts. Best of luck to you.”

  6

  In one photo, Greg saw a kid of about eighteen, his chin up and one corner of his mouth curled in a smirk, his eyes glaring as if daring the shooter to take another, and another—he’ll just keep doing this shit till you run out of film. This kid was Greg. Others could laugh at themselves after so many years. Seeing himself like that still made Greg wince.

  He had pulled out three old photos from twenty-plus years ago. They were so well hidden and for so long that it took him a few long minutes to find them—inside a fading manila envelope buried deep within his compact box of childhood drawings and stories, with school awards for both, and report cards, and certificates.

  In another photo, Greg was posing with another kid of eighteen, a wide-eyed young man who had the kind of open, happy smile that came from the heart and was not put on for the shot. This kid held his wiry frame rigid for the shooter and didn’t blink as if he were so courteous he wanted to help avoid any blurring, any eyes shut. This kid was Donny Wilkie. Donny was still the new arrival in Portland when the photo was taken. He had on a western shirt that Greg had been horrified to be seen anywhere near in those days—today Greg had at least six shirts like that. In the third photo (from about six months later, Greg guessed), they shared the same smirky smile. Both were dressed in an awkward, post-preppie style that made them look like a cross between private-school frat boy and what most kids were already ridiculing as “grunge” by then. Thrift store flannel and stocking caps mixed with cuffed chinos and plaid ties and collars up was not a good combo. It could have been called “dick wear” and been right on, because Greg just wanted to be contrary. He didn’t give a shit, not back then. He was smoking in the photo. His other hand flipped off the camera.

  In the same photo was a girl wearing a black leather jacket and smoking, doing her best impersonation of Joan Jett. Deep eye sockets highlighted with thick mascara, cheekbones like river stones, and a full mouth with plump lips. This was Leeann Holt. She must have been seventeen still. She looked older than her age, and the way she often dated older guys helped keep that going. Leeann Holt was the one who told Greg about some artist guy who did a fake ID for her and would do one for them. Leeann was able to get Greg and Donny coke. Leeann had that rare mix of tough, sexy, and innocent—but how long could it have lasted? Looking back, Greg was never certain why Leeann bothered to hang out with him or Donny. She had prefer
red older guys, especially the ones who seemed darkly enigmatic. She must have found that same quality in Donny. Greg had started out seeing her, but he had dumped her. After, when it all fell apart between them, Donny was all too happy to step in. For a long time, Greg used to wonder if Leeann was able to find her way. Surely, it didn’t last with Donny? She could not have still been with him there at the end, could she? He had Googled and Facebooked her once or twice, but nothing had come up.

  It was the following night. Greg had gone late at the Cascadia Congress that day, after he’d declined FBI Agent Torres’ offer first thing in the morning, and he just wanted to be alone in his room like he sometimes did. His oversized bedroom was also his office. It connected to the main hall that led to Emily’s bedroom and her separate workspace, close and yet livable. Greg couldn’t help himself. His need for space had come with his effort to shed his young self and had never left him. Emily had always said she respected his needs.

  He hauled out a box of old papers and research. He fished out specific wire service and computer printouts from ten years before and piled them on his desk. Small local news items and database queries mostly that had chronicled Donny’s descent into sordid crimes, from misdemeanor to felony.

  He heard Emily come home. She passed down the hall and into her workroom. She was working on a new leggings sample and could be a while, but who knew? He placed the photos under the printouts. He got an Oregon map open, covering the pile. He stared at the Cascade Mountains between the Willamette Valley and Central Oregon. The Cascades region was the darkest on the map, the topographer making little color distinction between dense coniferous forest and the dim, rain-soaked earth and rocks beneath the branches. The valley and coast had a friendly light green, while expansive Central and Eastern Oregon were all browns and reds—there, in the remote center-right of Oregon, stood the town of Pineburg. Here was where young Donny Wilkie had lived longest before Portland.

  Emily was coming down the hall. She cracked his door open and peeked in.

  “You could say hi-ee,” Greg said, raising the last syllable to show he was joking.

  “You could be dead,” she said—their other joke. She was smiling until she saw the pile of docs and map on his desk.

  “Remember that one loser guy I told you about one time?” he said. “We were friends end of high school. Newcomer.”

  “Danny something?” she said. “That the one who died?”

  Greg nodded. He always did this somberly, slowly. He showed it on his face. A sad story. “Donny,” he said.

  “He wasn’t a loser then,” Emily said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was hanging out with you.”

  “Right. Funny. I don’t mean loser. Bad word choice. I just meant, it’s weird how people end up. It kinda sucked for him here in Portland. He didn’t really fit in.”

  “Kinda like Footloose, but backwards. It’s not your fault. It wasn’t like you went and enrolled him in the state pen.”

  “No. You’re right. That’s true,” Greg said, looking her in the eye, showing her that somber mood he had always employed when Donny had come up. It had been years and he’d used it for other situations, but it was always a little creepy to Greg how easily it came back.

  Emily left the doorway and drifted into the middle of the room without even stepping, it seemed—as if carried along by the power of her curiosity. She peered at the map.

  “So, I might be working on a new project,” Greg said. “This Donny guy is one angle. It’s a follow-up to the Cascadia book.” It wasn’t a bad book idea, he told himself. He could cover the influence of the Posse Comitatus movement and go beyond militias to include the Rajneeshees and Jefferson Staters. Separating itself from the bad strains was something any Cascadian society would have to deal with, so why not get started on it? “Past-Overcoming,” the Germans called it. Differentiating, marketing people called it. Show how Cascadia was the opposite, wasn’t all about the will to power over people. Besides, Donny was dead. They couldn’t threaten each other anymore. “I’m thinking of it as the threat-to-Cascadia book,” he added.

  “It’s about the brown part of the map.”

  “More or less. Green parts can be a threat too.”

  “Huh,” Emily said and walked out, her hands on her hips.

  Once Emily had removed herself to her workspace, Greg spread out the photos and printouts in front of him.

  His phone rang. The screen read Unknown Caller. He answered.

  “Mr. Simmons, Rich Torres here.”

  “Hello there. Look, thank you again, you really got me thinking, but—”

  “We should meet,” Torres said.

  “Now? I … I’m in bed.”

  “You really can’t meet? You’ve made up your mind. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes. I thought I did.”

  “So you think.”

  “No, I know.”

  Torres sighed, deep enough to crackle in Greg’s tiny speaker. Then Torres paused, and Greg imagined him looking around so that no one could hear him. Greg waited for him. Torres said:

  “I have some news for you. We have reason to believe, that Donny Wilkie is still alive.”

  7

  Greg’s blood quickened, his heart thumping. He felt like his feet were spiked to the floor and his hands drained of blood. All of him drained of blood. He didn’t speak for what seemed like minutes, almost forgot he was on the phone. Torres let him dangle like that.

  “What are you saying?” Greg muttered at one point.

  “Just what I said.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” Greg said.

  “Maybe we’re just now finding out. Everything all right there?”

  “Yes. I’m okay.”

  “Well, does this change your mind?”

  “Where is he?”

  “Last seen in Central Oregon. We’re guessing Pineburg area. You know it?”

  “No. I mean, I’ve heard of it.”

  “Well? Interested?”

  Greg could have filled Torres’ tiny speaker with his own groaning sigh, but he didn’t let himself. He raised his voice in gratitude, adding a hint of levity: “You know what? It doesn’t. I’m still not. I appreciate your telling me, I do, it’s definitely a weird scenario, but if anything it makes me want to do this even less.”

  “I see. Too uncomfortable? Dredging up the past and all.”

  “Yes. That’s part of it.”

  The rest of the call had been a blur because Greg started to spin ever faster inside, from the panic, from the anxiety rattling and squeezing him. Torres offered the few details he had, hoping to convince Greg, but it wasn’t much. Greg held firm. He wanted no part of it, he restated. He thanked Torres again, promised to be in touch should anything come his way, and hung up. It had seemed too easy. But he told himself Torres was used to rejection. It had to be one tough gig getting a private citizen to inform, especially without ample leverage, which Torres luckily didn’t seem to have. This is what Greg told himself. He hoped he hadn’t missed any hint of a threat.

  Two hours later, around midnight, Greg had a packed bag out in the middle of his bedroom floor. The next morning at the Cascadia Congress, before it opened, he found his handlebar-mustachioed-fan-fellow, who was also the assistant organizer of the conference. Fellow was checking on this and that, opening boxes, and restocking flyers, the tips of his mustache threatening to brush everything.

  “I have a favor to ask,” Greg told him. “I’m going to cancel.”

  “Cancel? There’s two days left. What about your booth?”

  “It’s just a table.” Greg added a smile and hoped it didn’t look like the sober and urgent rictus of determination it had become. “I’m sorry. I hope it’s not a problem.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nope,” Greg said, making sure not to raise his voice, keeping it light. “Just going to cancel.”

  “We can’t give you a refund,” assistant organ
izer snapped.

  “I know. It’s okay.”

  Assistant organizer eyed him. Fingertips found sharp end of mustache.

  “Everything was great, really,” Greg said. “I’m not switching to that other convention, I promise. I mean, this one was my idea in the first place.”

  “Okay. That’s good to know.”

  “Thanks for everything. You can give my spot to someone else,” Greg added as if that were possible.

  “Fine, okay,” assistant organizer said, but Greg was already marching off. He could feel assistant organizer watching him all the way, those tentacles still probing him.

  Outside, two teens walked up to face him—they were the two anarchist street boys who had been coming to his table and listening to his talks each day. One was a girl, Greg now noticed. Hoodies and black denim and leather covered with paint and patches can hide a lot.

  “You’re that Cascadia guy. We like what you’re saying,” said the boy one.

  “Your book sounds good,” said the girl one.

  “Thanks,” Greg said, truly touched. He had expected them to ask him for money, or at least snicker at him as he passed on by. He reached in his bag, and handed them one of his books. He gave them a second book, one for each of them, like a religious canvasser might do with pamphlets. “Happy reading,” he said and headed off.

  “We will, thanks!” he heard them say.

  That afternoon, back in his apartment, he heard Emily coming down the hall. She pushed open his door, stepped in, and saw his bag.

  “You weren’t there today?” Emily said. “You quit going?”

  Of course, she would have found out. Portland was still that small, though most of her friends would no sooner attend the congress than visit a suburban mall.

  “I skipped out on it,” Greg said.

  “But, that’s the only thing you care about,” Emily said. “I mean—you know what I mean.”